3. III
She pushed in three bescribbled forms which the girl's hand was quick to
appropriate, Mr. Buckton having so frequent a perverse instinct for
catching first any eye that promised the sort of entertainment with which
she had her peculiar affinity. The amusements of captives are full of a
desperate contrivance, and one of our young friend's ha'pennyworths had
been the charming tale of "Picciola." It was of course the law of the
place that they were never to take no notice, as Mr. Buckton said, whom
they served; but this also never prevented, certainly on the same
gentleman's own part, what he was fond of describing as the underhand
game. Both her companions, for that matter, made no secret of the number
of favourites they had among the ladies; sweet familiarities in spite of
which she had repeatedly caught each of them in stupidities
and mistakes,
confusions of identity and lapses of observation that never failed to
remind her how the cleverness of men ends where the cleverness of women
begins. "Marguerite, Regent Street. Try on at six. All Spanish lace.
Pearls. The full length." That was the first; it had no signature.
"Lady Agnes Orme, Hyde Park Place. Impossible to-night, dining Haddon.
Opera to-morrow, promised Fritz, but could do play Wednesday. Will try
Haddon for Savoy, and anything in the world you like, if you can get
Gussy. Sunday Montenero. Sit Mason Monday, Tuesday. Marguerite awful.
Cissy." That was the second. The third, the girl noted when she took
it, was on a foreign form: "Everard, Hotel Brighton, Paris. Only
understand and believe. 22nd to 26th, and certainly 8th and 9th. Perhaps
others. Come. Mary."
Mary was very handsome, the handsomest woman, she felt in a moment, she
had ever seen--or perhaps it was only Cissy. Perhaps it was both, for
she had seen stranger
things than that--ladies wiring to different
persons under different names. She had seen all sorts of things and
pieced together all sorts of mysteries. There had once been one--not
long before--who, without winking, sent off five over five different
signatures. Perhaps these represented five different friends who had
asked her--all women, just as perhaps now Mary and Cissy, or one or other
of them, were wiring by deputy. Sometimes she put in too much--too much
of her own sense; sometimes she put in too little; and in either case
this often came round to her afterwards, for she had an extraordinary way
of keeping clues. When she noticed she noticed; that was what it came
to. There were days and days, there were weeks sometimes, of vacancy.
This arose often from Mr. Buckton's devilish and successful subterfuges
for keeping her at the sounder whenever it looked as if anything might
arouse; the sounder, which it was equally his business to mind, being the
innermost cell of captivity, a cage within
the cage, fenced oft from the
rest by a frame of ground glass. The counter-clerk would have played
into her hands; but the counter-clerk was really reduced to idiocy by the
effect of his passion for her. She flattered herself moreover, nobly,
that with the unpleasant conspicuity of this passion she would never have
consented to be obliged to him. The most she would ever do would be
always to shove off on him whenever she could the registration of
letters, a job she happened particularly to loathe. After the long
stupors, at all events, there almost always suddenly would come a sharp
taste of something; it was in her mouth before she knew it; it was in her
mouth now.
To Cissy, to Mary, whichever it was, she found her curiosity going out
with a rush, a mute effusion that floated back to her, like a returning
tide, the living colour and splendour of the beautiful head, the light of
eyes that seemed to reflect such utterly other things than the mean
things actually before them; and, above all, the high curt consideration
of a manner that even at bad moments was a magnificent habit and of the
very essence of the innumerable things--her beauty, her birth, her father
and mother, her cousins and all her ancestors--that its possessor
couldn't have got rid of even had she wished. How did our obscure little
public servant know that for the lady of the telegrams this was a bad
moment? How did she guess all sorts of impossible things, such as,
almost on the very spot, the presence of drama at a critical stage and
the nature of the tie with the gentleman at the Hotel Brighton? More
than ever before it floated to her through the bars of the cage that this
at last was the high reality, the bristling truth that she had hitherto
only patched up and eked out--one of the creatures, in fine, in whom all
the conditions for happiness actually met, and who, in the air they made,
bloomed with an unwitting insolence. What came home to the girl was the
way the insolence was tempered by something that was equally a part of
the distinguished life,
the custom of a flowerlike bend to the less
fortunate--a dropped fragrance, a mere quick breath, but which in fact
pervaded and lingered. The apparition was very young, but certainly
married, and our fatigued friend had a sufficient store of mythological
comparison to recognise the port of Juno. Marguerite might be "awful,"
but she knew how to dress a goddess.
Pearls and Spanish lace--she herself, with assurance, could see them, and
the "full length" too, and also red velvet bows, which, disposed on the
lace in a particular manner (she could have placed them with the turn of
a hand) were of course to adorn the front of a black brocade that would
be like a dress in a picture. However, neither Marguerite nor Lady Agnes
nor Haddon nor Fritz nor Gussy was what the wearer of this garment had
really come in for. She had come in for Everard--and that was doubtless
not his true name either. If our young lady had never taken such jumps
before it was simply that she had never before been so
affected. She
went all the way. Mary and Cissy had been round together, in their
single superb person, to see him--he must live round the corner; they had
found that, in consequence of something they had come, precisely, to make
up for or to have another scene about, he had gone off--gone off just on
purpose to make them feel it; on which they had come together to Cocker's
as to the nearest place; where they had put in the three forms partly in
order not to put in the one alone. The two others in a manner, covered
it, muffled it, passed it off. Oh yes, she went all the way, and this
was a specimen of how she often went. She would know the hand again any
time. It was as handsome and as everything else as the woman herself.
The woman herself had, on learning his flight, pushed past Everard's
servant and into his room; she had written her missive at his table and
with his pen. All this, every inch of it, came in the waft that she blew
through and left behind her, the influence that, as I have said,
lingered.
And among the things the girl was sure of, happily, was that
she should see her again.