The Doll Part 3

The girl blushed and lowered her eyes. 'I met Tommy first one day last term,' she began in a low tone. 'I was with a friend, we had hired a boat. He must have told you all this already. I was a companion to a Mrs Grey at the time, who lived in Oxford, and she went abroad alone as soon as the University went down for vacation.

'Tommy and the other man spoke to us that day because we were all sheltering under a tree during a heavy shower, and we soon got friendly, and laughed and joked together. We all had tea I remember.

'Then we arranged to meet again, and afterwards I always went out with Tommy whenever I could get away. Very soon he told me that he loved me. I should not have listened to him, I suppose, but I could not help it; and when he kissed me for the first time I knew I loved him better than anything in the world. We used to make plans about all the wonderful things we would do in the vacation, and I thought I didn't understand I thought he meant he wanted to marry me.

'Every day I think I loved him a little more, and then the night on the river I forgot everything when he began to kiss me.

'He told you, I expect I was so ashamed I don't know how it happened,' she faltered.

The Vicar pa.s.sed his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Tame excuse didn't know how it happened! Apparently not, or she would not be sitting there in front of him now.

'Yes,' he murmured, closing his eyes and sighing. 'Yes?'

'A day or two after that Tommy went down. Mrs Grey went abroad, and I stayed with friends in the country. I wrote to him nearly every day, but I never had a reply. I couldn't understand why he didn't write, I was so certain that he meant to marry me. I began to feel wretched and unhappy at the same time, my friends told me I was looking pale.

'Still no news from Tommy, though I knew he was in London, I saw something about his having been to a dance somewhere. Then one day I fainted luckily no one was about but I was frightened at once, and I went up to London in secret and saw a doctor.

'He he told me what was the matter. I know it was wicked of me, but somehow I didn't seem to mind. I knew that Tommy would marry me now. I wrote to him, and went to stay with my sister in St John's Wood. When I saw Tommy he told me that he couldn't possibly marry me.

'I don't understand even now, my mind refuses to take it in. Please, Mr Hollaway, will you tell me what he said to you this morning? You see, I love him so terribly, and I can't do without him now.'

The Vicar saw that she was ready to burst into a flood of helpless tears.

'Now, my dear, don't worry, but try and console yourself. I want you to sit quite quietly while I explain everything to you. I am going to help you, and I understand more than anyone just exactly what you have been through. But, at the same time, you must realise that G.o.d put us into the world so that we should know both joy and sorrow. If our joy has been sinful, then we must pay for it with tears and suffering.

'As we sow, so shall we reap.

'You are paying now for that night in the boat, and even for what occurred before.

'Has it ever struck you that you were guilty in the first place by being so friendly with a young man of whom you knew nothing?'

'I never thought,' stammered the girl.

'Of course not, and you must pay for that forgetfulness. You may not be aware of it, but if the world knew it would say that you had run after Lord Cranleigh, that you had visions of wealth, t.i.tles, and many other things besides.'

'It isn't true, it isn't true!' she gasped.

'Perhaps not, but if you told your story to anyone but me to the boy's family, for instance that's what they would say. They might even suspect that you are a girl of loose morals, and that to save yourself from prost.i.tution you accuse a generous, impulsive young man of being the father of a child that is not really his.'

'No, no! How can you say that?'

'I am only saying what the world would say, who, I am afraid, is a very harsh critic.

'I want you to understand the position in which you will place yourself if you ask for justice at the hands of your lover's family. And then you must remember that Lord Cranleigh will very shortly become the Earl of Haversham. He will be a leading figure in society, he will have many duties and responsibilities, one of which will be to marry into some family as ill.u.s.trious as his own. You say that you love him. Do you wish to wreck his career? Can you not see that the greatest proof of your love will be to go straight out of his life at once, before you can damage it any further?'

The girl was deathly pale now, the Vicar was afraid that she might faint.

'Yes,' she said slowly, 'I understand that I must give him up. What am I going to do?' She seemed quite stunned, and unable to think.

'I will see that you are amply provided for,' replied the Vicar, in deep generous tones. 'I know of two ladies who live in Wimbledon, they are gentle humane creatures, and they will look after you until the trouble is over.

'Your sister need know nothing about it, you can easily tell her you are with friends.

'When you are well again it would be better perhaps if you went abroad. I know of a missionary's wife in India, a charming, sympathetic woman, who will take you as a companion.'

'What about my baby?' asked the girl, with a queer frightened gleam in her eyes.

'That, of course, you must be prepared to give up also. The child shall be brought up in a beautiful Home in Surrey, of which I am one of the governors. Surely you must see the need of this?'

The girl rose from her chair.

'Thank you for all your trouble,' she said quietly. 'I think I had better go now. I will write if I want anything.'

The Vicar shrugged his shoulders. She did not seem particularly grateful to him, what more did she expect, he wondered.

'Good-bye, my child. I shall expect to hear from you in a few days, then.'

The door closed behind her. It had been a difficult interview, but it did not look as if she would bother Cranleigh any more.

The boy was well out of it anyway. He had rung up in the afternoon and left a message that he was going up to Scotland by the night train, and would probably stop there for about six weeks. He would soon forget the whole affair in Scotland. The Vicar glanced at the clock. Jove! he had no idea it was so late. He was due at the d.u.c.h.ess of Attleborough's little dinner-dance at eight-fifteen.

'James, you ought to be ashamed of yourself; how dare you make me laugh at your stories! Go away at once!'

The d.u.c.h.ess pushed the Vicar away from her with what she believed was a roguish gesture.

She was devoted to him, but she adored to pretend that he shocked her. He caught her hand, and would not let her escape.

'Norah,' he said reproachfully, 'how can you be so unkind to me? You place me next you on purpose, and then you complain when I try to amuse you. Perhaps you would rather I went away and sat beside that very charming young lady in pink who is looking at us?'

The girl, whom he had met at dinner for the first time, heard his remark and blushed. She thought the Vicar was terribly attractive.

The d.u.c.h.ess laughed indulgently. 'I won't allow you to say a word to her unless you behave yourself.'

He whispered something in her ear, and she went into peals of laughter. 'No, no; you are quite hopeless, and then you expect me to take you seriously when I come to St Swithin's. What are you going to preach about to-morrow?'

'Haven't decided yet,' he answered carelessly.

It was always a good pose of his that he never prepared his sermons. The d.u.c.h.ess shook her head at him, and very soon after she gave the signal to rise.

'The band has come,' she announced, 'and you men have got to come up and dance. I give you ten minutes down here and no more.'

The men laughed, and rose clumsily from their chairs. As soon as she had left the room, followed by a little crowd of lovely women, they sat down again, leant back comfortably, and began to discuss their hostess. The women whose husbands were not present were picked to pieces, physically and morally, while those who were received just the right amount of flattery and attention.

Someone made a few witty remarks about a scandal that was centring round a prominent society beauty, while another man began to be very boring about old china. At his opening words, however, it was decided to go upstairs and dance, and the bore was cut short in the middle of a sentence.

A few of the women were not dancing, but were sitting about in a corner watching the others. The Vicar at once made his way towards them, and began to keep up his reputation as being one of the most amusing men in London.

He was serious, witty, and intimate in turn, and they would have kept him there all the evening had not the d.u.c.h.ess finally come to the rescue and commanded him to dance.

He did his duty with the few important people, and then his eye wandered in search of the girl in pink. He was a beautiful dancer, and though a keen follower of all the latest steps he knew that he was at his best when waltzing. There was something about the lilting time and the wail of the violin that appealed to him. He knew that all eyes were upon them as they swayed in the centre of the room. He could imagine their remarks: 'What a lovely couple they make.'

Something of the kind was sure to be said. The d.u.c.h.ess was watching them from the doorway. Glorious woman, Norah, quite unique in many ways. She knew life, if anybody did; he could remember conversations with her other things too oh! yes, theirs had been a remarkable friendship. This child was as light as a feather. As they side-stepped in a corner he fancied that she leant a little against him. Delightful creature! He pressed her hand ever so slightly, and began to hum the tune under his breath.

Soon after midnight the Vicar left.

He did not believe in keeping late hours, they tired his brain and spoilt his temper.

However, he had enjoyed his evening.

The little girl had been very pretty, and amusing into the bargain; he flattered himself that he had made a very definite impression.

She was coming to St Swithin's anyway.

As he sank into bed he remembered with relief that the Curate was taking Low Ma.s.s at eight the following morning instead of him.

His prayers said, his sins of the day acknowledged, he fell asleep in a state of grace.

The next day, when he rose and went down into his study, it occurred to him that he had not prepared his sermon.

He glanced through the Sunday paper at random, in the hope of finding an inspiration.

There were two paragraphs that caught his attention, and disturbed him.

One was the copy of an article from a Socialist newspaper, attacking the smart society women, declaring them to be mere expensive ornaments who had never done a day's work in their lives, and who generally lived in idleness, immorality, and vice.

The other was shorter, and ran thus: 'The body of a young girl that was taken from Regent's Park Ca.n.a.l last night has been identified as that of a Miss Mary Williams, of 32 Clifton Road, St John's Wood, by her sister, Mrs Datchett, who had become alarmed at the girl's absence. It is believed that she stumbled in the dark and fell in, when walking home, and was instantly drowned. The inquest will be held on Tuesday.'

The Vicar stood silent for a while, his face white with emotion, his eyes gleaming.

'But this is monstrously unjust!' he cried aloud. He was thinking of the Socialist article.

St Swithin's was always packed for eleven-o'clock Ma.s.s on Sunday mornings.

Most people had their own pews, and those who had not, generally found it difficult to get a seat at all. Large queues began to form about twenty-to-eleven.

The singing of course was famous, and musicians would go for the anthem alone.

Upon entering the church one was aware of the pleasant drugged atmosphere; a mixture of heavy-scented flowers and waves of incense filled the air. Then the organ would start, a deep sensuous throb, soft and low, whose sound would gradually swell louder until the plaintive notes echoed through the church, and then lost themselves in a dim, hushed whispering among the rafters in the roof. The sweet voices of the choirboys quavered, immeasurably high, amid the chanting of the tenors.

Then the Vicar would stand before the altar, a far-away, impressive figure in his vestments, guarded by a little crowd of boys in red, who bowed before him and shook incense in his face.

It was in his capacity of priest that he really found himself. He felt that he was a shepherd of souls, a saviour of humanity.

The vast ma.s.s of people in the congregation were listening to his voice, thirsting for the consolation that he would give them.

The Ma.s.s was a drama of which he was the chief actor. Each prayer was a speech in which he had learnt to put the fullest amount of expression, a depth of colour, a world of significance.

The choir and organ served but as complements to his own voice. Thus in the call to Confession, when he said the words, 'Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins,' his voice was that of a judge, stern and merciless, but who was himself stainless.

And with what compa.s.sion he faced the congregation afterwards, with what pity he p.r.o.nounced the Absolution! The people would rise from their knees with the agreeable feeling that all was now well.

Of course he had favourite parts of the Ma.s.s.

The words 'It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty' were one of his best intonations, but he knew that his triumph, his moment of exaltation, and one that was waited for eagerly by his little band of followers, was 'Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and with all the company of Heaven, we laud and magnify Thy Glorious Name, evermore praising Thee, and saying: "Holy, Holy, Holy"' the choirboys chimed in, swelling their voices to his.

This was great, this was magnificent.

To-day, however, victory was to come to him in the pulpit. He ascended the stairway with the light of battle in his eyes.

His sermon was indirectly a defence of those beautiful women who had been so ruthlessly attacked by the Socialist article.

His text was superb: 'Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin.'

From his first words his listeners were held.

A large number of the accused were present before him; he felt rather than saw the warm colour of pleasure mount into their cheeks.

They all hoped that he was addressing each of them personally, and they inwardly registered the vow to include him among the list of their most personal friends.

He knew this, his triumph was complete.

Not a sound disturbed the full rich tones of that glorious voice, the very air was breathless.

The little curate sat with bowed head. The doctor had told him that his wife must go to Switzerland, her right lung was already seriously affected and unless she could enjoy the benefit of another climate he would not answer for her life. But Switzerland meant hundreds of pounds, how was he to afford that?

For a week he had not slept, his head was nearly splitting with the agony of thinking.

And he was overwhelmed with work at the moment, the Vicar had entrusted the whole business of the Bazaar in aid of Unfortunate Women into his hands. If only there was someone he could turn to . . .

He looked up, a subdued giggle drew his attention to the choirboys. They were playing noughts-and-crosses amongst themselves. He frowned at them, but they replied by staring rudely at his feet.

He flushed he knew the soles of his shoes were through. Oblivious of them all, the Vicar continued his sermon. He was drawing to the end now, he was finishing in a blaze of unparalleled eloquence. A sea of faces gazed up at him, the eager tools of his ambition.

Mary Williams was dead, he had forgotten her . . . The people he knew were before him, they would repay him for his n.o.ble defence. Words of flattery, words of praise seethed through his mind. Almost dazed, he heard the torrent of sound pour from him.

He lost himself in the beauty of his own voice. At last he paused, he ended on a note of supreme victory. The world was his. With a final gesture he turned his triumphant head: 'And now to G.o.d the Father . . .'

A Difference in Temperament.

He leant against the mantelpiece, nervously jingling the change in his pockets. He supposed there would be another scene. It was so unreasonable the way she minded him going out without her. She never seemed to realise that he just had to get away sometimes for no particular reason, but because it gave him a sense of freedom. He loved to slam the front door behind him, and to walk along the street to a bus, swinging a stick. There was something about the feeling of being alone he could not explain to anyone, not even to her. The delicious sense of utter irresponsibility, of complete selfishness. Not to have to look at his watch and remember, 'I promised to be back at four,' but at four to be doing something quite different that she would not know. The feeblest thing. Even driving in a taxi she had never seen; to have the sensation of leaning back and smoking a cigarette without turning his head and being aware of her beside him. He would come back in the evening and tell her about it; they would sit in front of the fire and laugh; but at least it would have been his afternoon not theirs, but his alone.

This was what she resented, though; she wanted to share everything. She could never imagine doing things apart from him. She had an uncanny way of reading his thoughts, too. If he was thinking of something that had no connection with her, she would know it at once. Only she exaggerated it in her mind. She would immediately think he was bored with her, that he did not like her any more. It wasn't that, of course; it wasn't that at all. Naturally, he loved her more than anyone in the world; in fact, there literally did not exist anyone but her. Why did she not realise this and be thankful? Why must she chain him to her, his mind, his body, his soul, without allowing the smallest part in him to stray, even for a little distance? She should understand that he would never go far, he would never go out of her sight metaphorically; but surely just to the top of that hill, to see what was on the other side. No, even this she must share with him.