by Sapper
“I’ll bet you did,” laughed Vane. “What made you give it up?”
“A difference of opinion between myself and some of the male diners, which threatened to become chronic,” she returned dreamily. “That’s a thing, my seeker after information, which the war hasn’t changed, anyway.”
For a while he made no answer, but lay back against the cushions, puffing at his pipe. Occasionally she pulled two or three gentle strokes with the oars, but for the most part she sat motionless with her eyes brooding dreamily over the lazy beauty of the water.
“You’re a funny mixture, Joan,” he said at length. “Devilish funny…” And as he spoke a fat old carp rose almost under the boat and took an unwary fly. “The sort of mixture, you know, that drives a man insane…”
She was looking at the widening ripples caused by the fish and she smiled slightly. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “I am what I am… And just as with that fly, fate comes along suddenly, doesn’t it, and pouf…it’s all over! All its little worries settled forever in a carp’s tummy. If only one’s own troubles could be settled quite as expeditiously…”
He looked at her curiously. “It helps sometimes, Joan, to shoot your mouth, as our friends across the water say. I’m here to listen, if it’s any comfort…”
She turned and faced him thoughtfully. “There’s something about you, Derek, that I rather like.” It was the first time that she had called him by his Christian name, and Vane felt a little pleasurable thrill run through him. But outwardly he gave no sign.
“That is not a bad beginning, then,” he said quietly. “If you’re energetic enough let’s get the boat under that weeping willow. I’m thinking we might tie her up, and there’s room for an army corps in the stern here…”
The boat brushed through the drooping branches, and Vane stepped into the bow to make fast. Then he turned round, and stood for a while watching the girl as she made herself comfortable amongst the cushions.
“There was once upon a time,” he prompted “a man…”
“Possessed,” said Joan, “of great wealth. Gold and silver and precious stories were his for the asking…”
“It’s to be assumed that the fortunate maiden who was destined to become his wife would join in the chorus with average success,” commented Vane judicially.
“The assumption is perfectly correct. Is not the leading lady worthy of her hire?” She leaned back in her cushions and looked up at Vane through half-closed eyes. “In the fullness of time,” she went on dreamily, “it came to pass that the man possessed of great wealth began to sit up and take notice. ‘Behold,’ he said to himself, ‘I have all that my heart desireth, saving only one thing. My material possessions grow and increase daily, and, as long as people who ought to know better continue to kill each other, even so long will they continue growing.’ I don’t think I mentioned, did I, that there was a perfectly ’orrible war on round the corner during the period under consideration?”
“These little details – though trifling – should not be omitted,” remarked Vane severely. “It is the duty of all story tellers to get their atmosphere correct...” He sat down facing her and started to refill his pipe… “What was this one thing he lacked?
“Don’t interrupt. It is the duty of all listeners to control their impatience. Only the uninitiated skip.”
“I abase myself,” murmured Vane. “Proceed, I pray you.”
“So the man of great wealth during the rare intervals which be could snatch from amassing more – continued to commune with himself. ‘I will look around,’ he said to himself, ‘and select me a damsel from amongst the daughters of the people. Peradventure, she may be rich – peradventure she may be poor; but since I have enough of the necessary wherewithal to support the entire beauty chorus which appears nightly in the building down the road known as the House of Gaiety – the question of her means is immaterial. Only one thing do I insist upon, that she be passing fair to look upon. Otherwise – nix doing for this child…’
Joan stirred restlessly, and her fingers drummed idly on the side of the boat. And Vane – because he was a man, and because the girl so close to him was more than passing lovely – said things under his breath. The parable was rather too plain.
“And behold one night,” went on Joan after a while, “this man of great wealth partook of his dried rusk and Vichy water – his digestion was not all it might be – at the house of one of the nobility of his tribe. The giver of the feast had permitted his name to be used on the prospectus of some scheme organised by the man of wealth – thereby inspiring confidence in all who read, and incidentally pouching some of the Bradburys. He further considered it possible that by filling his guest with food and much wine, he might continue the good work on other prospectuses, thereby pouching more Bradburys. In the vulgar language in vogue at the period, however, Vichy water put the lid on that venture with a bang… But even with champagne it is doubtful whether there would have been much doing, because – well, because – the man of wealth had his attention for the moment occupied elsewhere. To be exact on the other side of the table…”
“Ah!” said Vane, and his breath came in a sort of sigh. “I’m thinking you had better let me tell this bit. It was just after the slaves had thrown open the doors, and the guests had seated themselves, that the man of great wealth chanced to look up from his rusk. He frequently did look up when consuming these delicacies, otherwise he found they made him excited, and calmness is necessary for the poor digestion. He looked up then, as usual, and suddenly he caught his breath. Over a great silver bowl filled with roses…”
“Carnations sound better,” said Joan.
“Filled with carnations he saw a girl… They were pink and red those carnations – glorious in the shaded light; and the silver and the glass with which this tribe was wont to feed its face glittered and shone on the polished table. But the man of wealth had silver and glass as good, and he had no eyes for that.
For it had come to him, and he was a man who was used to making up his mind quickly, that he had found the damsel he required. She was dressed – ah! how was she dressed, lady? She was dressed in a sort of grey gauzy stuff, and her neck and shoulders gleamed white – gloriously white. A great mass of brown hair which shimmered as if it was alive; a little oval face, with cheeks that seemed as if the sun had kissed them. A mouth quite small, with lips that parted in a mocking smile; a nose – well, just a nose. But crowning everything – dominating everything – a pair of great grey eyes. What eyes they were! They made the man of wealth bolt his rusk. There was one mouthful he only chewed fifteen times instead of the customary thirty-two. They contained all Heaven, and they contained all Hell; in them lay the glory of a God, the devilment of a Siren, and the peace of a woman… And just once she looked at him during dinner – the look of a stranger – cool and self-possessed. Just casually she wondered whether it was worth while to buy money at the cost of a rusk diet; then she turned to the man next her… Let’s see – he was a warrior, snatching a spell of rest from the scrap round the corner. And she didn’t even hear the man of great wealth choke as the half-chewed rusk went down wallop.”
The girl looked at Vane for a moment. “But you are really rather a dear,” she remarked thoughtfully.
“It’s your turn now,” said Vane shortly.
“The donor of the feast,” she resumed at once, “was going a mucker. The possession of extra Bradburys, coupled with a wife who combined a champagne taste with his gin income, had inspired him to give a dance. He hoped that it might help to keep the damn woman quiet for a bit; and, besides everybody was giving dances. It was the thing to do, and warriors fresh from the fierce battle were wont to step lightly on the polished floor. As a matter of historical interest nine out of every ten of the warriors who performed nightly at different houses were fresh from the office stool at the House of War – a large edifice, completely filled
with girl scouts and brain-storms…
“Beautiful,” chuckled Vane; “quite beautiful.”
“You see the actual warriors didn’t get much of a look in. By the time they got to know anybody they had to go back round the corner again and they got tired of propping up the walls and looking on. Besides what made it even more dangerous for them was that kind-hearted women took compassion on them, and their own empty programmes and introduced themselves. And in the vernacular they were the snags. But all these things were hidden from the man of great wealth…”
“Contrary to a lifelong habit,” said Vane, “he remained after dinner and haunted the door. Just every now and then a girl in grey gauzy stuff floated past him – and once, only once, he found himself looking into those big grey eyes when she passed quite close to him going out to get some lemonade. And the rusk did a somersault…”
“But he didn’t haunt the door,” gurgled Joan. “He got roped in. He fell an easy victim to the snag parade – and women fainted and men wept when the man of great possessions and the pointed woman took the floor…”
“Pointed?” murmured Vane.
“All jolts and bumps,” explained the girl. “Her knees were like steel castings. I think that if the girl in grey gauzy stuff had realised that the man of wealth had stopped behind for her, she might, out of pity, have given him one dance. But instead all she did was to shake with laughter as she saw him quivering in a corner held fast in the clutch of the human steam engine. She heard the blows he was receiving; they sounded like a hammer hitting wood; and then later she saw him limping painfully from the room – probably in search of some Elliman’s embrocation. But, as I say, she didn’t realise it… She only thought him a silly old man…”
“Old,” said Vane slowly… “How old?”
“About fifty,” said the girl vaguely. Then she looked at Vane. “She found out later that he was forty-eight, to be exact.”
“Not so very old after all,” remarked Vane, pitching a used match into the water, and stuffing down the tobacco in his pipe with unusual care.
“It was towards the end of the dance,” she resumed, “that the man of great wealth was introduced to the girl in grey, by the donor of the feast. The band had gathered in all the coal-scuttles and pots it could, and was hitting them hard with pokers when the historical meeting took place. You see it was a Jazz band and they always economise by borrowing their instruments in the houses they go to…”
“And did she dance with him?” asked Vane.
“I don’t think he even asked her to,” said Joan. “But even as she went off with a boy in the Flying Corps she realised that she was face to face with a problem.”
“Quick work,” murmured Vane.
“Most of the big problems in life are quick,” returned the girl. “You see the man of great possessions was not accustomed to disguising his feelings; and the girl – though she didn’t show it – was never far removed from the skeleton in her cupboard.”
She fell silent, and for a while they neither of them spoke.
“It developed along the accepted lines, I suppose,” remarked Vane at length.
“Everything quite conventional,” she answered. “A fortnight later he suggested that she should honour him by accepting his name and wealth. He has repeated the suggestions at frequent intervals since…”
“Then she didn’t say ‘Yes’ at once,” said Vane softly.
“Ah! no,” answered the girl. “And as a matter of fact she hasn’t said it yet.”
“But sometimes o’ nights,” said Vane, “she lies awake and wonders. And then she gets out of bed, and perhaps the moon is up, shining cold and white on the water that lies in front of her window. And the trees are throwing black shadows, and somewhere in the depths of an old patriarch an owl is hooting mournfully. For a while she stands in front of her open window. The air is warm, and the faint scent of roses comes to her from outside. A great pride wells up in her – a great pride and a great love, for the sleeping glory in front of her belongs to her; to her and her father and her brother.” The girl’s face was half-turned away, and for a moment Vane watched the lovely profile gravely. “And then,” he went on slowly, “with a sigh she sits down in the big arm chair close to the window, and the black dog comes in and settles on her. In another room in the house she sees her father, worrying, wondering whether anything can be done, or whether the glory that has been theirs for hundreds of years must pass into the hands of a stranger… And after a while the way out comes into her thoughts, and she stirs restlessly in her chair. Because, though the girl in grey is one of the set in her tribe who dance and feed in many public places, and which has nothing in common with those who sit at home doing good works; yet she possesses one or two strange, old-fashioned ideas, which she will hardly ever admit even to herself. Just sometimes o’ night they creep out as she stares through the window, and the weird cries of the wild come softly through the air. ‘Somewhere, there is a Prince Charming,’ they whisper, and with a sigh she lets herself dream. At last she creeps back to bed – and if she is very, very lucky the dreams go on in her sleep.” Vane knocked out his pipe on the side of the boat.
“It’s only when morning comes,” he went on, and there was a hint of sadness in his voice, “that the strange, old-fashioned ideas creep shyly into the corner. Along with the tea have come some of the new smart ones which makes them feel badly dressed and dull. They feel that they are gauche – and yet they know that they are beautiful – wonderfully beautiful in their own badly dressed way. Timidly they watch from their corner – hoping, hoping… And then at last they just disappear. They’re only dream ideas, you see; I suppose they can’t stand daylight and tea with saccharine in it, and reality… It’s as they float towards the window that sometimes they hear the girl talking to herself. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she says angrily, ‘you’ve got to face facts, my dear. And a possible.’ Charming without a bean in the world isn’t a fact – it’s a farce. It simply can’t be done… And three new very smart ideas in their best glad rags make three long noses at the poor little dowdy fellows as they go fluttering away to try to find another home.”
Vane laughed gently, and held out his cigarette case to the girl. And it was as she turned to take one that he saw her eyes were very bright – with the starry brightness of unshed tears. “Sure – but it’s nice to talk rot at times, my lady, isn’t it?” he murmured. “And, incidentally, I’m thinking I didn’t tell the grey girl’s story quite right. Because it wasn’t herself that she was thinking of most; though,” and his eyes twinkled, “I don’t think, from my ideas of her, that she is cut out for love in a cottage, with even the most adorable Prince Charming. But it wasn’t herself that came first; it was pride and love of home and pride and love of family.”
The girl bit her lip and stared at him with a troubled look. “Tell me, oh man of much understanding,” she said softly, “what comes next?”
But Vane shook his head with a laugh. “Cross my palm with silver, pretty lady, and the old gipsy will tell your fortune… I see a girl in grey surrounded by men – servants and maid-servants, and encased in costly furs and sparkling gems. Standing at the door outside is a large and expensive Limousine into which she steps. The door is shut, and the car glides off, threading its way through the London traffic. At last the road becomes clearer, the speed increases, until after an hour’s run the car swings in between some old lodge gates. Without a sound it sweeps up time drive, and the girl sees the first glint of the lake through the trees. There is a weeping willow too, and as her eyes rest on it she smiles a little, and then she sighs. The next moment the car is at the front door, and she is in the arms of a man who has come out to meet her. She calls him ‘Dad,’ and there’s a boy just behind him, with his hands in his pockets, who has eyes for nothing except the car. Because it’s ‘some’ car… She spends the day there, and when she’s leaving, the man she cal
ls ‘Dad’ puts his hand on her arm. He just looks at her – that’s all, and she smiles back at him. For there’s no worry now on his face, no business trouble to cut lines on his brow. But sometimes – he wonders; and then she just smiles at him, and his doubts vanish. They never put it into words those two, and perhaps it is as well… A smile is so easy, it conceals so much. Not that there’s much to hide on her part. With her eyes wide open she made her choice, and assuredly it had been worth while. Her father was happy; the old house was safe and her husband was kind… Only as the car glides away from the door, her grey eyes once again rest on a weeping willow. A fat old carp rises with a splash and she sees the ripples widening… And the smile fades from her lips, because – well, thoughts are capricious things, and the weeping willow and the carp remind her of a certain afternoon, and what a certain foolish weaver of fantasies said to her…once in the long ago. Much has she got – much has she given to others. It may have been worth while – but she has lost the biggest thing in Life. That has passed her by…”
“The biggest thing in Life,” she whispered. “I wonder; oh! I wonder.”
“Maybe she would never have found it,” he went on, “even if she had not married the man of great possessions. And then, indeed, she could have said with reason – ‘I sure have made a damn fool of myself.’ To throw away the chances of costly furs and sparkling gems; to see les papillons noirs fluttering round her father’s head in increasing numbers – and not to find the biggest thing in Life after such a sacrifice – yes, that would be too cruel. So, on balance, perhaps she had chosen wisely…”