Halliday went out chuckling.
‘Terry,’ said Joyce. ‘Lick me—lick hard—all over my face and my neck—particularly my neck.’
And as Terry obeyed, she murmured reflectively:
‘Thinking of something else very hard—that’s the only way. You’d never guess what I thought of—jam—jam in a grocer’s shop. I said it over to myself. Strawberry, blackcurrant, raspberry, damson. And perhaps, Terry, he’ll get tired of me fairly soon. I hope so, don’t you? They say men do when they’re married to you. But Michael wouldn’t have tired of me—never—never—never—Oh! Michael …’
Joyce rose the next morning with a heart like lead. She gave a deep sigh and immediately Terry, who slept on her bed, had moved up and was kissing her affectionately.
‘Oh, darling—darling! We’ve got to go through with it. But if only something would happen. Terry darling, can’t you help Missus? You would if you could, I know.’
Mrs Barnes brought up some tea and bread and butter and was heartily congratulatory.
‘There now, ma’am, to think of you going to marry that gentleman. It was a Rolls he came in. It was indeed. It quite sobered Barnes up to think of one of them Rolls standing outside our door. Why, I declare that dog’s sitting out on the window sill.’
‘He likes the sun,’ said Joyce. ‘But it’s rather dangerous. Terry, come in.’
‘I’d have the poor dear put out of his misery if I was you,’ said Mrs Barnes, ‘and get your gentleman to buy you one of them plumy dogs as ladies carry in their muffs.’
Joyce smiled and called again to Terry. The dog rose awkwardly and just at that moment the noise of a dog fight rose from the street below. Terry craned his neck forward and added some brisk barking. The window sill was old and rotten. It tilted and Terry, too old and stiff to regain his balance, fell.
With a wild cry, Joyce ran down the stairs and out of the front door. In a few seconds she was kneeling by Terry’s side. He was whining pitifully and his position showed her that he was badly hurt. She bent over him.
‘Terry—Terry darling—darling, darling, darling—’
Very feebly, he tried to wag his tail.
‘Terry boy—Missus will make you better—darling boy—’
A crowd, mainly composed of small boys, was pushing round.
‘Fell from the window, ’e did.’
‘My, ’e looks bad.’
‘Broke ’is back as likely as not.’
Joyce paid no heed.
‘Mrs Barnes, where’s the nearest vet?’
‘There’s Jobling—round in Mere Street—if you could get him there.’
‘A taxi.’
‘Allow me.’
It was the pleasant voice of an elderly man who had just alighted from a taxi. He knelt down by Terry and lifted the upper lip, then passed his hand down the dog’s body.
‘I’m afraid he may be bleeding internally,’ he said. ‘There don’t seem to be any bones broken. We’d better get him along to the vet’s.’
Between them, he and Joyce lifted the dog. Terry gave a yelp of pain. His teeth met in Joyce’s arm.
‘Terry—it’s all right—all right, old man.’
They got him into the taxi and drove off. Joyce wrapped a handkerchief round her arm in an absentminded way. Terry, distressed, tried to lick it.
‘I know, darling; I know. You didn’t mean to hurt me. It’s all right. It’s all right, Terry.’
She stroked his head. The man opposite watched her but said nothing.
They arrived at the vet’s fairly quickly and found him in. He was a red-faced man with an unsympathetic manner.
He handled Terry none too gently while Joyce stood by, agonized. The tears were running down her face. She kept on talking in a low, reassuring voice.
‘It’s all right, darling. It’s all right …’
The vet straightened himself.
‘Impossible to say exactly. I must make a proper examination. You must leave him here.’
‘Oh! I can’t.’
‘I’m afraid you must. I must take him below. I’ll telephone you in—say—half an hour.’
Sick at heart, Joyce gave in. She kissed Terry on his nose. Blind with tears, she stumbled down the steps. The man who had helped her was still there. She had forgotten him.
‘The taxi’s still here. I’ll take you back.’ She shook her head.
‘I’d rather walk.’
‘I’ll walk with you.’
He paid off the taxi. She was hardly conscious of him as he walked quietly by her side without speaking. When they arrived at Mrs Barnes’, he spoke.
‘Your wrist. You must see to it.’
She looked down at it.
‘Oh! That’s all right.’
‘It wants properly washing and tying up. I’ll come in with you.’
He went with her up the stairs. She let him wash the place and bind it up with a clean handkerchief. She only said one thing.
‘Terry didn’t mean to do it. He would never, never mean to do it. He just didn’t realize it was me. He must have been in dreadful pain.’
‘I’m afraid so, yes.’
‘And perhaps they’re hurting him dreadfully now?’
‘I’m sure that everything that can be done for him is being done. When the vet rings up, you can go and get him and nurse him here.’
‘Yes, of course.’
The man paused, then moved towards the door.
‘I hope it will be all right,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
Two or three minutes later it occurred to her that he had been kind and that she had never thanked him.
Mrs Barnes appeared, cup in hand.
‘Now, my poor lamb, a cup of hot tea. You’re all to pieces, I can see that.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Barnes, but I don’t want any tea.’
‘It would do you good, dearie. Don’t take on so now. The doggie will be all right and even if he isn’t that gentleman of yours will give you a pretty new dog—’
‘Don’t, Mrs Barnes. Don’t. Please, if you don’t mind, I’d rather be left alone.’
‘Well, I never—there’s the telephone.’
Joyce sped down to it like an arrow. She lifted the receiver. Mrs Barnes panted down after her. She heard Joyce say, ‘Yes—speaking. What? Oh! Oh! Yes. Yes, thank you.’
She put back the receiver. The face she turned to Mrs Barnes startled that good woman. It seemed devoid of any life or expression.
‘Terry’s dead, Mrs Barnes,’ she said. ‘He died alone there without me.’
She went upstairs and, going into her room, shut the door very decisively.
‘Well, I never,’ said Mrs Barnes to the hall wallpaper.
Five minutes later she poked her head into the room. Joyce was sitting bolt upright in a chair. She was not crying.
‘It’s your gentleman, miss. Shall I send him up?’
A sudden light came into Joyce’s eyes.
‘Yes, please. I’d like to see him.’
Halliday came in boisterously.
‘Well, here we are. I haven’t lost much time, have I? I’m prepared to carry you off from this dreadful place here and now. You can’t stay here. Come on, get your things on.’
‘There’s no need, Arthur.’
‘No need? What do you mean?’
‘Terry’s dead. I don’t need to marry you now.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘My dog—Terry. He’s dead. I was only marrying you so that we could be together.’
Halliday stared at her, his face growing redder and redder. ‘You’re mad.’
‘I dare say. People who love dogs are.’
‘You seriously tell me that you were only marrying me because—Oh, it’s absurd!’
‘Why did you think I was marrying you? You knew I hated you.’
‘You were marrying me because I could give you a jolly good time—and so I can.’
‘To m
y mind,’ said Joyce, ‘that is a much more revolting motive than mine. Anyway, it’s off. I’m not marrying you!’
‘Do you realize that you are treating me damned badly?’
She looked at him coolly but with such a blaze in her eyes that he drew back before it.
‘I don’t think so. I’ve heard you talk about getting a kick out of life. That’s what you got out of me—and my dislike of you heightened it. You knew I hated you and you enjoyed it. When I let you kiss me yesterday, you were disappointed because I didn’t flinch or wince. There’s something brutal in you, Arthur, something cruel—something that likes hurting … Nobody could treat you as badly as you deserve. And now do you mind getting out of my room? I want it to myself.’
He spluttered a little.
‘Wh—what are you going to do? You’ve no money.’
‘That’s my business. Please go.’
‘You little devil. You absolutely maddening little devil. You haven’t done with me yet.’
Joyce laughed.
The laugh routed him as nothing else had done. It was so unexpected. He went awkwardly down the stairs and drove away.
Joyce heaved a sigh. She pulled on her shabby black felt hat and in her turn went out. She walked along the streets mechanically, neither thinking nor feeling. Somewhere at the back of her mind there was pain—pain that she would presently feel, but for the moment everything was mercifully dulled.
She passed the Registry Office and hesitated.
‘I must do something. There’s the river, of course. I’ve often thought of that. Just finish everything. But it’s so cold and wet. I don’t think I’m brave enough. I’m not brave really.’
She turned into the Registry Office.
‘Good morning, Mrs Lambert. I’m afraid we’ve no daily post.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Joyce. ‘I can take any kind of post now. My friend, whom I lived with, has—gone away.’
‘Then you’d consider going abroad?’
Joyce nodded.
‘Yes, as far away as possible.’
‘Mr Allaby is here now, as it happens, interviewing candidates. I’ll send you in to him.’
In another minute Joyce was sitting in a cubicle answering questions. Something about her interlocutor seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she could not place him. And then suddenly her mind awoke a little, aware that the last question was faintly out of the ordinary.
‘Do you get on well with old ladies?’ Mr Allaby was asking.
Joyce smiled in spite of herself.
‘I think so.’
‘You see my aunt, who lives with me, is rather difficult. She is very fond of me and she is a great dear really, but I fancy that a young woman might find her rather difficult sometimes.’
‘I think I’m patient and good-tempered,’ said Joyce, ‘and I have always got on with elderly people very well.’
‘You would have to do certain things for my aunt and otherwise you would have the charge of my little boy, who is three. His mother died a year ago.’
‘I see.’
There was a pause.
‘Then if you think you would like the post, we will consider that settled. We travel out next week. I will let you know the exact date, and I expect you would like a small advance of salary to fit yourself out.’
‘Thank you very much. That would be very kind of you.’
They had both risen. Suddenly Mr Allaby said awkwardly:
‘I—hate to butt in—I mean I wish—I would like to know—I mean, is your dog all right?’
For the first time Joyce looked at him. The colour came into her face, her blue eyes deepened almost to black. She looked straight at him. She had thought him elderly, but he was not so very old. Hair turning grey, a pleasant weatherbeaten face, rather stooping shoulders, eyes that were brown and something of the shy kindliness of a dog’s. He looked a little like a dog, Joyce thought.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I thought afterwards—I never thanked you.’
‘No need. Didn’t expect it. Knew what you were feeling like. What about the poor old chap?’
The tears came into Joyce’s eyes. They streamed down her cheeks. Nothing on earth could have kept them back.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh!’
He said nothing else, but to Joyce that Oh! was one of the most comforting things she had ever heard. There was everything in it that couldn’t be put into words.
After a minute or two he said jerkily:
‘Matter of fact, I had a dog. Died two years ago. Was with a crowd of people at the time who couldn’t understand making heavy weather about it. Pretty rotten to have to carry on as though nothing had happened.’
Joyce nodded.
‘I know—’ said Mr Allaby.
He took her hand, squeezed it hard and dropped it. He went out of the little cubicle. Joyce followed in a minute or two and fixed up various details with the ladylike person. When she arrived home. Mrs Barnes met her on the doorstep with that relish in gloom typical of her class.
‘They’ve sent the poor little doggie’s body home,’ she announced. ‘It’s up in your room. I was saying to Barnes, and he’s ready to dig a nice little hole in the back garden—’
Magnolia Blossom
Vincent Easton was waiting under the clock at Victoria Station. Now and then he glanced up at it uneasily. He thought to himself: ‘How many other men have waited here for a woman who didn’t come?’
A sharp pang shot through him. Supposing that Theo didn’t come, that she had changed her mind? Women did that sort of thing. Was he sure of her—had he ever been sure of her? Did he really know anything at all about her? Hadn’t she puzzled him from the first? There had seemed to be two women—the lovely, laughing creature who was Richard Darrell’s wife, and the other—silent, mysterious, who had walked by his side in the garden of Haymer’s Close. Like a magnolia flower—that was how he thought of her—perhaps because it was under the magnolia tree that they had tasted their first rapturous, incredulous kiss. The air had been sweet with the scent of magnolia bloom, and one or two petals, velvety-soft and fragrant, had floated down, resting on that upturned face that was as creamy and as soft and as silent as they. Magnolia blossom—exotic, fragrant, mysterious.
That had been a fortnight ago—the second day he had met her. And now he was waiting for her to come to him forever. Again incredulity shot through him. She wouldn’t come. How could he ever have believed it? It would be giving up so much. The beautiful Mrs Darrell couldn’t do this sort of thing quietly. It was bound to be a nine days’ wonder, a far-reaching scandal that would never quite be forgotten. There were better, more expedient ways of doing these things—a discreet divorce, for instance.
But they had never thought of that for a moment—at least he had not. Had she, he wondered? He had never known anything of her thoughts. He had asked her to come away with him almost timorously—for after all, what was he? Nobody in particular—one of a thousand orange growers in the Transvaal. What a life to take her to—after the brilliance of London! And yet, since he wanted her so desperately, he must needs ask.
She had consented very quietly, with no hesitations or protests, as though it were the simplest thing in the world that he was asking her.
‘Tomorrow?’ he had said, amazed, almost unbelieving.
And she had promised in that soft, broken voice that was so different from the laughing brilliance of her social manner. He had compared her to a diamond when he first saw her—a thing of flashing fire, reflecting light from a hundred facets. But at that first touch, that first kiss, she had changed miraculously to the clouded softness of a pearl—a pearl like a magnolia blossom, creamy-pink.
She had promised. And now he was waiting for her to fulfil that promise.
He looked again at the clock. If she did not come soon, they would miss the train.
Sharply a wave of reaction set in. She wouldn’t come! Of course she wouldn’t come. Fool that he had bee
n ever to expect it! What were promises? He would find a letter when he got back to his rooms—explaining, protesting, saying all the things that women do when they are excusing themselves for lack of courage.
He felt anger—anger and the bitterness of frustration.
Then he saw her coming towards him down the platform, a faint smile on her face. She walked slowly, without haste or fluster, as one who had all eternity before her. She was in black—soft black that clung, with a little black hat that framed the wonderful creamy pallor of her face.
He found himself grasping her hand, muttering stupidly:
‘So you’ve come—you have come. After all!’
‘Of course.’
How calm her voice sounded! How calm!
‘I thought you wouldn’t,’ he said, releasing her hand and breathing hard.
Her eyes opened—wide, beautiful eyes. There was wonder in them, the simple wonder of a child.
‘Why?’
He didn’t answer. Instead he turned aside and requisitioned a passing porter. They had not much time. The next few minutes were all bustle and confusion. Then they were sitting in their reserved compartment and the drab houses of southern London were drifting by them.
Theodora Darrell was sitting opposite him. At last she was his. And he knew now how incredulous, up to the very last minute, he had been. He had not dared to let himself believe. That magical, elusive quality about her had frightened him. It had seemed impossible that she should ever belong to him.
Now the suspense was over. The irrevocable step was taken. He looked across at her. She lay back in the corner, quite still. The faint smile lingered on her lips, her eyes were cast down, the long, black lashes swept the creamy curve of her cheek.
He thought: ‘What’s in her mind now? What is she thinking of? Me? Her husband? What does she think about him anyway? Did she care for him once? Or did she never care? Does she hate him, or is she indifferent to him?’ And with a pang the thought swept through him: ‘I don’t know. I never shall know. I love her, and I don’t know anything about her—what she thinks or what she feels.’
His mind circled round the thought of Theodora Darrell’s husband. He had known plenty of married women who were only too ready to talk about their husbands—of how they were misunderstood by them, of how their finer feelings were ignored. Vincent Easton reflected cynically that it was one of the best-known opening gambits.
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