Consequences
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Alex still remembered the rebuke with which Mother Gertrude had handed her that letter, bidding her remind her sister that things of the world, worldly, had no place in the life of a nun.
Nevertheless, although she had put the thought from her, she knew that in her heart she had felt a certain gladness that her erstwhile playmate, given over though she might be to the world, the flesh and the Devil, had yet not found those things that she coveted to have failed her.
Queenie, at least, had known what she wanted, and Alex' thoughts of her held no condemnation.
From Queenie, her mind went to the memory of Noel Cardew, and she was faintly surprised at the unvivid presentment of him which was all that she could evoke.
Noel had held no real place in her life at all.
Nothing that would endure had ever passed between him and her. It was years since she had thought of their ill-starred engagement, and then it had always been in connection with Sir Francis and Lady Isabel – their brief pride and pleasure in it, and the sudden downfall of their hopes.
Of Noel himself she had scarcely a recollection. Perhaps her clearest one was that of the earnest young egoist, only made attractive by a certain simplicity, who had taken her to sit in a disused ice-house one hot summer day, and had talked about photography. Of the later Noel, Alex was astounded to find that she retained no impression at all.
She could not even remember whether it was he or his brother Eric who had married red-haired Marie Munroe in the same year that she herself had taken her first vows as a nun.
Perhaps it was Noel.
At all events, he had probably married long ago, and Alex could believe that some corner of land in Devonshire was the better for the earnest supervision that he would accord to it, both in his own person and in that of the generation that would doubtless succeed him.
Mother Gertrude.
At the last and most worshipped of the shrines before which Alex had offered the sad, futile, unmeasured burnt-offerings of her life, her thoughts lingered least.
It had all been a mistake.
She had given recklessly, foolishly, squandering her all because life had cheated her of any outlet for a force of the strength of which she had had no measure given her, and now she had to pay the bitter penalty for a folly which had not even been met by answering human affection.
She wrote no letter to Mother Gertrude, and received no word from her.
As the days crept on, Alex, without volition of her own, found that her journey to England had been arranged for – that money was to be advanced to her for her expenses, that she was expected to supplement with it her utter penury of worldly possessions. One day she went out, frightened and at a loss, and entered some of the first shops she saw, in a street that led down from the Pincio Gates.
They were not large shops, and she had difficulty in making herself understood, but she purchased a ready-made blue-serge skirt, with a coat that she called a jacket, and an ugly black toque, that most resembled in shape those that she remembered seeing in London ten years earlier. She wore these clothes, with a white cotton blouse that fastened at the back and came high up under her chin, for some days before she left Rome, so as to grow accustomed to them, and to lose the sense of awkwardness that they produced in her.
The heavy boots and a pair of black-cotton gloves that she had brought from Belgium, still served her. The day of her departure was fixed, and she wrote to Barbara, but she knew neither by what route she was going nor how long the journey would take.
Her companions, selected by the Superior of the convent, proved to be an old lady and her daughter who were going to Paris. Evidently they knew her story, for they looked at her with scared, curious faces and spoke to her very little. Both were experienced travellers, and on the long, hot journey in the train, when it seemed as though the seats of the railway carriage were made of molten iron, they extended themselves with cushions and little paper fans, and slept most of the way. At Genoa the daughter, timidly, but with kindness, pressed Alex to eat and drink, and after that she spoke to her once or twice, and gave her a friendly invitation to join them at the small pension in Paris to which they were bound, for a night's halt before she proceeded to Boulogne and thence to England. Alex accepted with bewildered thankfulness.
She was weak and exhausted, and the old lady and her daughter were pitiful enough, and saw her into the train next day, and gave her the provision of sandwiches which she had not thought to make for herself.
The train sped through flat, green country, with tall poplars shading the small, narrow French houses that dotted the line on either side. Her eye dilated as she gazed on the sea, when at last Boulogne was reached.
She remembered the same grey expanse of rolling waves tipped with foam on the morning, eight years ago, when the girl Alex Clare had crossed to Belgium, tearful, indeed, and frightened, but believing herself to be making that new beginning which should lead to the eventual goal which life must surely hold in store for her.
Only eight years, and the bitterness of a lifetime's failure encompassed her spirit.
XXIII
N.W
Alex got off the boat at Folkestone, dazed and bewildered. She had been ill all through the crossing, and her head was still swimming. She grasped her heavy, clumsy suit-case and was thankful to have no luggage, when she saw the seething crowd of passengers, running after uniformed porters in search of heavy baggage that was being flung on to trucks to an accompaniment of noise and shouting that frightened her.
She made her way to the train and into a third-class carriage, too much afraid of its starting without her to dare to go in search of the hot tea which she saw the passengers drinking thankfully. It was a raw, grey day, and Alex, in her thin serge coat and skirt, that had been so much too hot in Italy, shivered violently. Her gloves were nearly thread-bare and her hands felt clammy and stiff. She took off her little black-straw toque and leant her head against the back of the seat, wishing that she could sleep.
It seemed to her that the other people in the carriage were looking at her suspiciously, and she closed her eyes so as not to see them.
After a long while the train started.
Alex tried to make plans. In the shabby purse which she had clasped in her hand all the way, for fear of its being stolen, was a piece of paper with Barbara's address. She would not go to Clevedon Square, for fear of Cedric's unknown wife. Cedric with a wife and child! Alex marvelled, and could not believe that she might soon make the acquaintance of these beings who seemed to her so nearly mythical.
The thought of Barbara as a widow living in a little house of her own in Hampstead, seemed far less unfamiliar. Barbara had always written regularly to Alex, and had twice been to see her when she was in the English house and once in her early days in Belgium.
Barbara had often said in her letters that she was very lonely, and that it was terrible having to live so far out of town because of expenses. Ralph, poor dear, had left her very, very badly off, and there had been very little more for her on the death of Sir Francis. Alex supposed that Downshire Hill must be a very unfashionable address, but she did not connect "N.W." with any particular locality.
She was always very stupid at finding her way about, and, anyhow, her bag was heavy. She decided that she would take a cab.
At Charing Cross it was raining, and the noise was deafening. Alex had meant to send Barbara a telegram from Folkestone, but had not known where to find the telegraph office, and she now realized with a pang of dismay that her sister would not be expecting her.
"How stupid I am, and how badly I manage things," she thought. "I hope she won't be out."
The number of taxis at the station bewildered Alex, who had only seen one or two crawling about the streets in Rome, and had heard of them, besides, as ruinously expensive. She found a four-wheeled cab and put her bag on the floor. The man did not get down from his box to open the door for her, as she expected. He leant down and asked hoarsely.
"Where d'you want to go, Miss?"
"Downshire Hill," said Alex. "No. 101."
"Downshire 'Ill? Where's that?"
"I don't know," said Alex, frightened. She wondered if the man was drunk, and prepared to pull her bag out of the cab again.
"'Alf a minute."
He called out something unintelligible to another driver, and received an answer.
"Downshire 'Ill's N.W.," he then informed her. "Out 'Ampstead w'y."
"Yes," said Alex. "Can't you take me there?"
He looked at her shabby clothes and white, frightened face.
"I'd like to see my fare, first, if you please," he said insolently.
Alex was too much afraid of his making a scene to refuse.
"How much will it be?"
"Seven and sixpence, Miss."
She pulled two half-crowns out of her purse. It was all she had left.
"This is all the change I have," she told him in a shaking voice. "They will pay the rest when I get there."
He muttered something dissatisfied, but put the coins into his pocket.
Alex climbed into the cab.
It jolted away very slowly.
The rain was falling fast, and dashing against the windows of the cab. Alex glanced out, but the streets through which they were driving were all unfamiliar to her. It seemed a very long way to Downshire Hill.
She began to wonder very much how Barbara would receive her, and how she could make clear to her the long, restless agony that had led her to obtain release from her vows. Would Barbara understand?
Letters had been very inadequate, and although Barbara had written that Alex had better come to her for a while if she meant to return to England, she had given no hint of any deeper comprehension.
"We must make plans when we meet," she had written at the end of the letter.
Alex wondered with a sense of apprehension what those plans would be. She had for so long become accustomed to being treated as a chattel, without volition of her own, that it did not occur to her that she would have any hand in forming her future life.
Presently she became conscious that the rain had stopped, and that the atmosphere was lighter. She let down the glass of the window nearest her, and saw, with surprise, that there was a rolling expanse of green, with a number of willow-trees, on one side of the road. It did not look like London.
Then the cab turned a corner, and Alex saw "Downshire Hill" on a small board against the wall.
This was where Barbara lived, then.
The little houses were small and compact, but of agreeably varying height and shape, with a tiny enclosure of green in front of each, protected by railings and a little gate. No. 101, before which the cab drew up, had a bush that Alex thought must be lilac, and was covered with ivy. There were red blinds to the windows.
She got out, pulling her heavy bag after her, and timidly pushed open the little gate, glancing up at the windows as she did so.
There was no one to be seen.
Still clutching at her suit-case, Alex pulled the bell faintly.
"There's half my fare owing yet," said the cabman gruffly.
Thus reminded, Alex rang again.
An elderly parlour-maid with iron-grey hair and a hard face opened the door.
"Is – is Mrs. MacAllister at home?" faltered Alex.
"I'll inquire," said the maid, with a lightning glance at the suit-case.
She left the door open, and Alex saw a little flight of stairs. A murmured colloquy took place at the top, and then Barbara, slight and severely black-clad, came down.
"Alex, that's not you?"
"Yes. Oh, Barbara!"
"My dear – I've been expecting to hear from you every day! I've been imagining all sorts of awful things. Why didn't you wire? Do come in – you must be dead, and have you been carrying that huge bag?"
"I came from the station in a cab."
"A cab!" echoed Barbara in rather a dismayed voice. "What a long way to come, when you could have done it so easily by the underground railway but I suppose you didn't know?"
"No," repeated Alex blankly. "I didn't know."
"What's he waiting for? Will he carry your trunk upstairs?"
"That is all the luggage I have, and I can carry it up quite well, and it isn't heavy. But I hadn't quite enough money for the fare – he ought to have another half-crown."
"Oh, dear," said Barbara. "Wait a minute, then, Alex."
She disappeared up the stairs, leaving Alex alone with the severe parlour-maid, who still held open the front door.
She leant against the wall in the tiny passage, wondering what she had expected of her actual arrival, that the reality should give her such a sense of misery.
If only she had telegraphed to Barbara from Folkestone!
"Here's two shillings. Ada, have you got a sixpence, by any chance?"
"There's sixpence in the kitchen, 'm," said Ada, and fetched it.
"There!" said Barbara. "Pay him then, please, Ada. Now, Alex, come upstairs and sit down. You look dreadfully ill and worn-out, my dear."
Alex lifted the suit-case again.
"Oh, Ada will see to that. Your room is all ready, Alex. It's very small, but then the house is a perfect doll's house, as you see. This is my tiny drawing-room."
"It's very pretty," said Alex, sinking into a chair.
"It's not bad – the things are nice enough. Ralph had some exquisite things – but, of course, the house is too hateful, and I hate living all the way out here. No one ever comes near me. Cedric's wife can't get her chauffeur to bring her – he pretends he doesn't know where it is. The only person who ever comes is Pamela."
"I thought she was to live with you?"
"Pam! Oh, she wouldn't bury herself out here, for long. Pam's very much in request, my dear. She's been paying visits all over the place, and can go on indefinitely, I believe. She makes her headquarters with Cedric and Violet in Clevedon Square, you know, but of course she'll marry. Pam's all right."
"Last time I saw Pam she was in short frocks and a pigtail."
"She's come out in the most extraordinary way. Every one says so. Not exactly pretty, but frightfully taking, and most awfully attractive to men. They say she's so full of life. I must say, when we came out, Alex, we didn't have nearly such a good time as she has. Men seem to go down like ninepins before her. She's always bringing them out here to tea, and to look at the view of London from the Heath. One always used to look on Hampstead Heath as a sort of joke – Phil May's drawings, and that kind of thing. I certainly never expected to live here – but lots of artists do, and Ralph had a big studio here. And it's very inexpensive. Besides, if you know you way about, it's quite easy to come in and out from town. Pamela always brings her young men on the top of a 'bus. Girls can do anything now-a-days, of course. Fancy father, if one of us had done such a thing!"
"Who looks after her?" asked Alex, rather awe-struck.
"She looks after herself, my dear, and does it uncommonly effectively. She could marry tomorrow if she liked – and marry well, too. Of course, Cedric is her guardian in a sort of way, I suppose, but he lets her do anything she like – only laughs."
"Cedric!" spoke Alex wistfully. "Do you know, I haven't seen Cedric since – I left Clevedon Square."
"My dear, that's ten years, isn't it? Cedric's grown exactly like father. He's got just his way of standing in front of the fire and shaking his spectacles up and down in his hand – you remember father's way? Of course, he's done extraordinarily well – every one says so – and his marriage was an excellent thing, too."
"Is – Violet – nice?"
Barbara laughed rather drily.
"She's got a lot of money, and – yes, I suppose she is nice. Between ourselves, Alex, she's the sort of person who rather aggravates me. She's always so prosperous and happy, as though nothing had ever gone wrong with her, or ever could. She's very generous, I will say that for her – and extraordinarily good-natured. Most people adore her – she's the sort of woman that other women rave about, but I must say most men like her, too. Her people were rather inclined to think she could have done better for herself than Cedric. Of course, he isn't well off, and she's two years older than he is. But it's answered all right, and they were tremendously in love with one another."
"Is she very pretty?"
"She's inclined to be fat, but, of course, she is pretty, in her own style – very. And the little girl is a perfect darling – little Rosemary.
"But, Alex, here am I talking you to death when you must be dying for tea. What sort of a crossing did you have?"
"Not very bad, but I was ill all the way."
"Oh, no wonder you look so washed out," said Barbara, as though relieved, but she went on eyeing her sister uneasily through the rapidly increasing dusk.
When Ada came in with the tea appointments, Barbara told her to bring the lamp.
"Yes'm. And your bag, 'm – may I have the key?"
Alex looked bewildered, then recollected that the maid was offering to unpack for her, and pulled out the key from her purse.
"Isn't there your trunk still to come?" asked Barbara.
"No. You see, I hadn't much to bring – only just one or two things that I got in Rome."
Alex wondered if Barbara understood that until a few months ago she had been a nun, living the life of a nun. She thought of the apprehension with which she had viewed making an explanation to Barbara, and almost smiled. It appeared that no explanation would be required of her.
But presently Barbara said uneasily:
"It seems extraordinary, your having no luggage like this, Alex. I don't know what Ada will think, I'm sure. I told her that you'd been living abroad for a good many years – I thought that was the best thing to say. But I never thought of your having no luggage."
"I hadn't got anything to bring, you see. I must get some things," repeated Alex forlornly.
"You see," said her sister half apologetically, "Ada's been with me ever since I married. She was Ralph's mother's maid, and perfectly devoted to him. I couldn't ever get that sort of servant to live out here, if it wasn't for that – she waits at meals, and maids me, and does everything, except the actual cooking. I know she's rather disagreeable in her manner, but she's a perfect treasure to me."
When Ada had brought in the lamps and filled the little room with cheerful light, drawing the blinds and curtains, Barbara looked again hard at her sister.
"Good heavens, Alex, how thin you are! and you look as though you hadn't slept for a month."
"Oh, but I have," said Alex eagerly, and then stopped.
She did not feel able to explain to Barbara the insatiable powers of sleep which seemed as though they could never be satisfied, after those ten years of unvarying obedience to a merciless five o'clock bell.
"I am glad to hear it," Barbara replied in a dissatisfied voice. "But I never saw any one so changed. Have you been ill?"
"Rather run down," Alex said hurriedly, with the convent instinct of denying physical ills. "I had two or three very troublesome abscesses in my throat, just before Easter, and that left me rather weak."
"My dear, how awful! You never told me. Did you have an operation? Are you scarred?"
"No. They broke of themselves inside my throat, luckily."
"Oh – don't!" cried Barbara, and shuddered.
The sisters were very silent during tea. Alex saw her sister looking hard at her hands, and became conscious of contrast. Barbara was thin, but her hands were slender and exceedingly white. She wore, besides her wedding-ring, a sapphire one, which Alex thought must have been her engagement-ring. On her wrist was a tiny gold watch, and a gold curb-chain bracelet. Her own hands, Alex now saw, were more than thin. They were almost emaciated, with knuckles that shone white, and a sharp prominence at each wrist-bone. They were not white, but rough and mottled, with broken skin round each finger-nail. She wondered if her whole person was in as striking a contrast to her sister's. When she had put on the serge skirt and white muslin shirt, the sensation had overwhelmed her, accustomed to the heavy religious habit, of being lightly, almost indecently clad. But Barbara's dress was of soft, silky material, with a low, turned-down collar, such as was just beginning to come into fashion. Her hair was piled into a shining knot of little, sausage-shaped curls, and parted in front. Though she was only twenty-eight, the grey in Barbara's hair was plentiful, but her small face looked youthful enough, and had none of the hard lines and shadows that Alex knew to lie round her own eyes and lips. Her little, slight figure was very erect, and she wore black suède shoes with sparkling buckles. Alex looked down at her own clumsy, ill-made boots, which had already begun to hurt her feet, and instinctively put up her hands to the cheap black toque, that felt heavy on her head.
"Why don't you take off your hat?" Barbara asked her kindly. "I am sure it would rest you."
She was too much used to obedience not to comply instantly, pushing back with both hands the weight of untidy hair that instantly fell over her eyes.
"Oh, Alex! Your hair!"
"It's growing very fast. I – I've not been cutting it lately. There's just enough to put it up, Barbara."
"It's much darker than it used to be, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's nearly black now. Do you remember how light the ends used to be? But I think it lost its colour from being always under the veil, you know. The worst of it is that it's not growing evenly, it's all short lengths."
"Yes. That's very awkward," said Barbara dispassionately. "Especially when it's so straight."
Alex reflected that her sister was just as self-contained as ever.
"Wouldn't you like to come to your room and rest till dinner, Alex?"
Alex got up at once.
"You ought to take Plasmon, or something of that sort, and try to get a little fatter. There's simply nothing of you, Alex – you're all eyes, with rings like saucers round them."
After Barbara had left her in the tiny, pretty bedroom, that Alex thought looked wonderfully luxurious, she went straight to her looking-glass.
"Good heavens, how ugly I am!" she said to herself involuntarily.
Her face was sallow, with sunken cheeks, and the Roman sun had powdered her skin all over with little, pale freckles. Her eyes, as Barbara had said, had rings like saucers round them, and looked oddly large and prominent, from the slight puffiness of the under-lids.
Her teeth had, perhaps, suffered most of all. She had had one or two taken out, and the gaps were visible and unsightly. They had never been very good teeth, and she remembered still all that she had suffered at the hands of an unskilled Brussels dentist in Belgium. For the last few years she had endured intermittent toothache, sooner than submit to further torture, and she saw now that a small black patch was spreading between the two front teeth. Barbara, with the grey mingled freely in her light hair, and her severe widow's weeds, might look more than twenty-eight but Alex, at thirty-one, bore the semblance of a woman of forty.
She hid her face in her disfigured hands.
Presently she saw that there was hot water in a little brass can on the washing-stand, and she thankfully made use of it.
Ada had unpacked everything, and Alex saw the brush and comb that she had hastily purchased, on the dressing-table. Beside them was the packet of hair-pins that she had remembered to get at the last moment, and that was all.
"There ought to be something else, but I've forgotten," thought Alex.
She wondered if Barbara would expect her to dress for dinner. The idea had not occurred to her. She had one other blouse, a much better one, made of black net, so transparent as to show glimpses of her coarse, white-cotton underwear, with its high yoke and long sleeves.
Her hair, of course, was impossible. Even if it had not been so short and of such an intractable, limp straightness. Alex had forgotten how to do it. She remembered with dim surprise that at Clevedon Square Lady Isabel's maid had always done her hair for her.