The Loving Spirit Part 32

In spite of this she was not happy. Always there was something lacking. It seemed to Jennifer that there must be more in life than the things she had known, there must be more than this occasional laughter, these little sorrows, this common irritation, that evidence of good-will - the dull or funny incidents of day to day. There was no depth of satisfaction in them, no real comfort.

Depression hung heavily upon her and the sensation that she belonged nowhere. She had no corner in the atmosphere of the boarding-house, she could not adapt herself to that way of thinking and living.

London was still the bleak city she had hated as a child, the boarding-house was still the cheerless sh.e.l.l of a home that held no welcome.

It seemed to her that there was no way of escape.

After Christmas a newcomer arrived at No. 7 Maple Street. He was a man of about sixty, whose profession was vaguely understood to be 'something in the City'. His manners were almost too faultless, his choice of expressions correct to the last degree of verbosity, and he became the brightest and most glorious feature of the boarding-house. His name was Francis Horton. Jennifer loathed him at first, but soon decided he was too ridiculous to be of any consequence, and watched with amus.e.m.e.nt the approval he met at headquarters.

'Such a distinguished person,' said Grandmamma, 'quite comme il faut, my dear Bertha. Really one of the old school.'

He was soon admitted into the intimate sanct.i.ty of the boudoir.The evenings were not complete without Mr Horton sitting between the two women, while Jennifer crouched in a rocking-chair by the bookshelf. His manner towards them was at once deferential and familiar, eager to a.s.sure them of his infinite respect, yet mingled with the spice of male superiority.

'Well, ladies,' he would begin in his smooth, silken voice, too carefully modulated to be natural,'and how have you spent your day? Mrs Parkins, allow me to arrange that cus.h.i.+on for you - h'm? No trouble at all, I a.s.sure you, a positive pleasure. Well now, here we are, all a.s.sembled. Tell me what you have been doing.

'Oh! it's been very quiet as usual, Mr Horton,' said Bertha.

'I do my best, you know, that everything shall run like clockwork. '

'I am sure you do, Mrs Coombe. You think of everybody before yourself. What pretty work this is - can a mere male be permitted a glimpse?' He bowed gallantly towards her, and fingered the piece of embroidery in her hands.

Bertha laughed, and pulled it away, a new note of affection in her voice.

'Really, the curiosity of you men . . .'

Jennifer glanced from her book, noticed her mother's silly gesture and the bold, rather swimming expression in Mr Horton's pale blue eye.

She lowered her head, hot and uncomfortable, wis.h.i.+ng she had not seen.

'What's that? What's that? What did Mr Horton say?' Grandmamma leaned forward in her chair.

'I perceive that Mrs Coombe is an excellent needlewoman, dear lady. So rare an accomplishment these days. "A st.i.tch in time,' h'm? You know the old saying. And what is Miss Jennifer about? What is our silent one doing in her secluded nook? I fear your daughter is a great book-worm, Mrs Coombe.' He shook his head in mock reproof.

'It's no use trying to make Jenny sociable, we have long given up that hope,' sighed her mother. 'There are no manners in the younger generation. Put down that book for once, dear, and make yourself agreeable.'

'Yes, come along Miss Jennifer, and join our cosy little circle. "All work and no play," h'm? You know the rest?' He over-laughed, and flushed slightly at the temples.

He disliked Jennifer. He was afraid she considered him a middle-aged fool.

'I am always alarmed, Mrs Parkins, that your granddaughter will take down my remarks with this shorthand of hers.'

'Take down your . . . with her hands? What's that, Mr Horton? What's that?'

'You misunderstand Mr Horton, Mamma. He was afraid Jennifer will write our conversations in shorthand.'

'Oh! I see, of course. Yes, what nonsense it is, this typing and the rest of it.'

Her misunderstanding had caused a little flutter in the circle. Jennifer stared straight before her, biting her cheeks to contain her laughter. Mr Horton was once more bending towards her mother, twisting his absurd moustache.

'Isn't it marvellous how time flies - but really, really marvellous? Do you know, I have already been amongst you five weeks today?'

'What's that? What's he been doing with you for five weeks?'

'I have been your resident, Mrs Parkins, dear lady, nothing more nor less than your proud resident. I was just saying so to Mrs Coombe. Delightful, quite delightful. propos - excuse my poor French - propos I am in favour of making some small celebration. I propose a little party, just us four, you know, and a visit to the theatre.'

'Theatre? Nonsense, nonsense, I'm not up to going to a theatre, Mr Horton. Actors don't speak clearly these days.Take Bertha, Mr Horton, take Bertha.'

'Mrs Coombe, would you honour me?'

'Oh! delicious. Jennifer, you will come too, of course.'

'Thanks, terribly, but I'd rather not. I - er - I think I'm getting a cold. Such a nuisance.' Jennifer lowered her eyes.

'Then it will be you and I alone, Mrs Coombe? You have no objection, I hope.'

Jennifer saw that her mother was blus.h.i.+ng. She felt a little sick. She pushed back her chair, and moved once more towards the bookcase.

'Ah! Miss Jennifer, you don't approve, I see.' The silken voice followed her across the room.

'I promise you I will take great care of your dear mother; she will be a very precious trust, and she will be all the better for a little amus.e.m.e.nt.'

'As long as she's amused,' said Jennifer brightly, 'it's not my affair.'

As she left the room she heard his voice continuing: 'What kind of piece would you care to see? I enjoy a humorous performance myself. I always appreciate clean, healthy humour.'

As time went by the celebration became a weekly event. Jennifer was never asked again. Day by day she watched the intimacy gradually increase between her mother and Mr Horton. She watched his effort at gallantry, and her self-conscious acceptance of it. She noticed his methods of singling her out for especial attention, and her change of manner whenever he entered a room. She saw the beginning of his air of proprietors.h.i.+p, the authority that crept into his voice, and her way of asking his opinion on any subject, of relying upon his advice.

She was an unwilling witness of their glances and of their conversations. She could scarcely bear to sit in the same room when they were together for the embarra.s.sment and the boredom that they caused her. Her mother must be a fool to feel any affection for this man. She made herself out a martyr too. Jennifer overheard her.

'My life has been full of ups and downs,' she had said. 'My poor husband never understood the sacrifices I made for him. I gave him the best years of my life. He gambled away our early savings, and I knew years of great wretchedness. Then he was a little more fortunate, and offered myself and the boys some sort of a home. We spent twelve years, as you know, buried in the depths of Cornwall. I never grumbled, because I believe in making the best of everything always. The people were kind in their fas.h.i.+on, but of course they were an entirely different cla.s.s, you understand.'

'You poor, dear thing,' he said, taking her hand.

'My happiness was wrapped up in Christopher and the children, to see that they were content prevented me from thinking of myself.'

Jennifer hurried away. It was beastly, nauseating. She could not bear it.

How could Mother speak about Daddy in that careless, off hand way, when he had slaved and toiled for her. Given him the best years of her life! What about Daddy? He had given her nothing apparently. He had stood by making no attempt to understand her.

Poor darling - poor darling, and all she could remember was a fair head on a pillow, and a figure raising his arm to wave to her from the bottom of a hill. . . .

Daddy . . . Harold . . . Willie. All gone, all forgotten as though they had never been, and Mother mouthing at this stranger with his silly sheep's eyes.

Perhaps she was hoping to marry again. After all, why not? n.o.body forced her to remain a widow.

Obviously that was what was going to happen. She would become Mrs Horton, the wife of this fool. Her mother who was fifty-five. Revolting, horrible picture . . . How could women, after they had loved one man, ever think, look, at anybody else? Even if their husbands had been dead for years they must remember. It was sordid, unattractive. She tried to imagine what the future state of things would be like. Perhaps they would move to another part of London. Mr and Mrs Francis Horton, and she, Jennifer, his stepdaughter. Odious sense of familiarity. 'Your mother and I have decided, my dear ...' The three of them sitting round the breakfast table.

'Another cup of tea, Francis?'

'Thank you, Bertha love, I have had sufficient.' His beastly smile of possession, aware of himself, and she fluttering, tremulous, eager to please.

And Jennifer condemned to watch them, conscious of the falsity of the whole position. She could not imagine how she would act under the circ.u.mstances.

The days pa.s.sed, and nothing had been said. Jennifer began to look about her for another job.

She had just pa.s.sed her nineteenth birthday. Apparently London was overcrowded with girls wanting to be typists; she almost despaired of ever finding a post. She would read the lists of 'Wanted' in the Daily Telegraph, but none of them seemed particularly suitable or worthy of notice. Life was rather a grind, and not so terribly amusing; she wondered why she was bothering at all. That idiot Horton had a tiresome way of seizing the Daily Telegraph before anyone else in the house, and reading it from page to page. She determined to prevent him by rising earlier in the morning, and running through the advertis.e.m.e.nts while they were waiting for breakfast.

The third morning that Jennifer did this she stopped half-way upon the stairs, a few steps from the drawing-room. The door was open, and she saw Horton with his arms round her mother. He had obviously just kissed her, and not for the first time. Her mother was patting her hair, and making a silly little face in the gla.s.s.

'Francis, I think we ought to tell them,' she was saying, 'people will begin to talk.'

'If you wish it, my Bertha, I propose that we make the announcement official at breakfast this morning.Wedding bells in the offing, h'm? What a sensation it will cause.'

'I think Mama is expecting it, but I don't know about Jenny.'

'Oh!' he laughed, 'leave Jennifer to me. She won't be any trouble, I a.s.sure you. A little firm handling is needed, that is all. We will soon be firm friends, you know. A father's will, eh?'

'Francis - how wonderful you are.'

Jennifer heard no more. She went upstairs and into her mother's bedroom. She took the faded, rather dusty photograph of Christopher Coombe from behind its vase on the mantelpiece. Then she glanced out of the window at the rows of chimney-pots stretching over London. The bugle summons rang out from the barracks across the street. 'Listen, Daddy,' she said, 'what do you suggest I do?'

' . . . And so, my very dear friends one and all, I have the extreme pleasure of informing you that your dearly-loved and respected hostess, Bertha Coombe, has done me the honour of consenting to become Mrs Horton.'

Cries of surprise, gratification, and polite approval came from the little crowd of boarders a.s.sembled in the dining-room. 'Isn't that just too romantic for words . . . we had no idea . . . heartiest congratulations . . . you're a lucky man . . .'

'I suppose you are all anxious to hear when the happy event will take place,' he continued. 'Well, I don't mind admitting it will be soon, very soon. Naturally, I am impatient, and I trust my dear wife-to-be shares my sentiments.'

Bertha nodded, and smiled up at Christopher's successor.

'I do not propose to rob you of her for long. Just a three weeks' honeymoon in some quiet corner, and we will continue to live here as before.'

'What's that, what's he going to do in a quiet corner?' whispered Mrs Parkins. 'Tell him to speak up, Bertha.'

'Hush, Mamma dear - he was referring to Ventnor.'

Horton was losing himself in a sea of eloquence.

'. . . Not only has she made me the happiest man on earth, but she has saved me from a drab and lonely bachelorhood, she has prevented me from straying and wandering in the paths of life with no fixed purpose, a rolling - er - stone gathers no - and so on, or in other words better to wear out than to rust out . . .' He broke off in some confusion.

'Go on dear,' murmured Bertha, 'it's beautiful.'

'What I mean is, dear friends, that I trust I will bring as much content to her as I know she will bring to me.' He sat down amidst a chorus of applause.

'But where is Jenny?' asked someone.

'Hasn't she congratulated the happy pair?'

'Yes - where is Jennifer?'

Her seat at the table was empty. No one had noticed this before.

'Jennifer is late for breakfast,' said her grandmother. 'What is she up to? Some nonsense or other.'

At that moment Jennifer came into the room. She wore a tweed coat over her jumper and skirt, and a brown squash hat tilted to one side. In her hands she carried a couple of small suitcases, and a disreputable old mackintosh hung over her shoulder, covered with ink stains.

'Jennifer,' exclaimed Grandmamma, 'what is the meaning of this?'

'Jenny - what is it?' cried her mother. The boarders gaped up at her, interested but confused.

Lastly Mr Horton, in his new dignity, rose from the table. 'Dear Jennifer,' he began, 'I think you owe your mother an explanation. Why this - er - costume? And those portmanteaux? '

They waited for her answer.

'I'm going away,' said Jennifer.

'You intend leaving us, making your departure in this absurd high-handed way?'

He watched her face incredulously.

Grandmamma shook with anger, and Bertha fumbled for her handkerchief.

'Listen to me, Mr Horton,' said Jennifer, 'what I do and where I go is my affair. I hear you are going to marry my mother: that's your affair. I hope from the bottom of my heart you'll both be happy. Let's leave it at that, shall we?'

'But Jenny - one moment, I don't understand.'

'Don't you, Mother? Well, it doesn't matter very much, does it? You want to lead your life in a new way, and I'm going to do the same with mine. I've had just over thirteen years of the present one, and believe me it's enough. I'll send you a picture postcard from time to time. Good-bye - everybody.'

'Stop her - stop her,' said Grandmamma, purple in the face. 'There's some man at the bottom of this; she's no better than she should be. Find out where she is going?'

Jennifer waved her suitcase in farewell.

'I'm going to the place where I belong,' she shouted. 'I'm going home to my own people - home to Plyn.'

8.

Jennifer had exactly five pounds, six s.h.i.+llings, and fourpence halfpenny when she left No. 7 Maple Street. She lugged her two suitcases along with her into various buses, and arrived at Paddington with three-quarters of an hour to wait before the twelve o'clock train should bear her away from London for ever.Thirty-two s.h.i.+llings and sixpence of her capital went on her third-cla.s.s ticket, and three s.h.i.+llings more on a cup of coffee, two rashers of bacon, and a banana, for she had eaten no breakfast. During this wait she had time to think over her crazy flight from the boarding-house. It had been her home since she was six years old, and she had left her mother without one pang of regret. 'I must be terribly unnatural, ' thought Jennifer sadly.'But it can't be helped. I was probably born without a heart; I believe some people are.'

She sat, rather aghast at herself, watching the movement of people about the platform, the roll of trolleys, the bustle of porters, the sudden shrieks and shuntings of departing trains.

Thirteen years before she had arrived here, at this very station, clinging to her mother's hand, subdued, tearful, utterly bewildered by the lights and the clamour, and it seemed to her now that those years had counted as nothing in her life, that she was still unchanged and unaltered from the child of six years old, who had felt herself alone. Jennifer sat in the corner of the carriage, and the train bore her swiftly from the city she detested, the roofs of houses stretching to the horizon, the crowded, threaded streets, the roar and clatter, the luxury, poverty, and squalor, the narrow faces of men and women; the train carried her past flat meadows and small hedges, glimpses of a narrow river, scattered towns, and a dull make-believe of country.

Later her spirits rose within her, strangely disturbed and content, for the flatness was left behind and they came upon rolling hills and a high white skyline, paths leading across the downs, sheep wandering in a thin unbroken line, and groups of labourers who raised their hands and waved.