Part 12

Strange faces smiled at Leila—sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices answered, “Of course, my dear.” But Leila felt the girls didn’t really see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn’t the men begin? What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that was what they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized her programme, scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. “May I have the pleasure?” He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man—fat, with a big bald patch on his head—took her programme and murmured, “Let me see, let me see!” And he was a long time comparing his programme, which looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much trouble that Leila was ashamed. “Oh, please don’t bother,” she said eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced at her again. “Do I remember this bright little face?” he said softly. “Is it known to me of yore?” At that moment the band began playing; the fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them spinning....

Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall where Miss Eccles (of London) held her “select” classes. But the difference between that dusty-smelling hall—with calico texts on the walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with rabbit’s ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls’ feet with her long white wand—and this was so tremendous that Leila was sure if her partner didn’t come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars.

“Ours, I think—” Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she hadn’t to die after all. Some one’s hand pressed her waist, and she floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool.

“Quite a good floor, isn’t it?” drawled a faint voice close to her ear.

“I think it’s most beautifully slippery,” said Leila.

“Pardon!” The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. And there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, “Oh, quite!” and she was swung round again.

He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancing with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other, and stamped on each other’s feet; the girl who was gentleman always clutched you so.

The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white flags streaming by.

“Were you at the Bells’ last week?” the voice came again. It sounded tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to stop.

“No, this is my first dance,” said she.

Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. “Oh, I say,” he protested.

“Yes, it is really the first dance I’ve ever been to.” Leila was most fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. “You see, I’ve lived in the country all my life up till now....”

At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and disappearing through the swing doors.

“Enjoying yourself, Leila?” asked Jose, nodding her golden head.

Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But it didn’t matter. Almost immediately the band started and her second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling.

“Floor’s not bad,” said the new voice. Did one always begin with the floor? And then, “Were you at the Neaves’ on Tuesday?” And again Leila explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very often—oh yes—but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it would never be like that again—it had opened dazzling bright.

“Care for an ice?” said her partner. And they went through the swing doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to the hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her quite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on the stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with her other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French chalk.

“Come along, little lady,” said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than dancing. But he said not a word about the floor. “Your first dance, isn’t it?” he murmured.

“How _did_ you know?”

“Ah,” said the fat man, “that’s what it is to be old!” He wheezed faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. “You see, I’ve been doing this kind of thing for the last thirty years.”

“Thirty years?” cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born!

“It hardly bears thinking about, does it?” said the fat man gloomily. Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him.

“I think it’s marvellous to be still going on,” she said kindly.

“Kind little lady,” said the fat man, and he pressed her a little closer, and hummed a bar of the waltz. “Of course,” he said, “you can’t hope to last anything like as long as that. No-o,” said the fat man, “long before that you’ll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into little short fat ones, and you’ll beat time with such a different kind of fan—a black bony one.” The fat man seemed to shudder. “And you’ll smile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man tried to kiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache”—the fat man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that poor heart—“because no one wants to kiss you now. And you’ll say how unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they are. Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?” said the fat man softly.

Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was it—could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music seemed to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn’t happiness last for ever? For ever wasn’t a bit too long.

“I want to stop,” she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her to the door.

“No,” she said, “I won’t go outside. I won’t sit down. I’ll just stand here, thank you.” She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it all?

“I say, you know,” said the fat man, “you mustn’t take me seriously, little lady.”

“As if I should!” said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking her underlip....

Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn’t want to dance any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening to those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, they had long beams like wings....

But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of politeness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into the middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the fat man and he said, “Par_don_,” she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She didn’t even recognize him again.

The Singing Lesson

With despair—cold, sharp despair—buried deep in her heart like a wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, “Muriel.” And then there came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had dropped her dumbbells.

The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.

“Good mor-ning,” she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. “Isn’t it cold? It might be win-ter.”

Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You would not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair.

“It is rather sharp,” said Miss Meadows, grimly.

The other smiled her sugary smile.

“You look fro-zen,” said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?)

“Oh, not quite as bad as that,” said Miss Meadows, and she gave the Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed on....

Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss Meadows’ favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning “Sh-sh! girls!” and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence.

“Silence, please! Immediately!” and, looking at nobody, her glance swept over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking. “Meady is in a wax.” Well, let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by such a letter—

... “I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but—” and the word “disgust” was scratched out lightly and “regret” written over the top.

Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks while she breathed, “Good morning, Miss Meadows,” and she motioned towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, “Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two,” what was Mary’s horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, “Page fourteen, please, and mark the accents well.”

Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through the music hall.

“Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. ‘A Lament.’ Now, girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together; not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand.”

She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, and in chimed those young, mournful voices:—

Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure; Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear. Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic’s Gay Measure Passes away from the Listening Ear.

Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. “... I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake....” she beat. And the voices cried: _Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly._ What could have possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it! It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak

## bookcase he had bought for “our” books, and a “natty little hall-stand”

he had seen, “a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding three hat-brushes in its claws.” How she had smiled at that! So like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! _From the Listening Ear_, sang the voices.

“Once again,” said Miss Meadows. “But this time in parts. Still without expression.” _Fast! Ah, too Fast._ With the gloom of the contraltos added, one could scarcely help shuddering. _Fade the Roses of Pleasure._ Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn’t help knowing it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he smiled.

“The headmaster’s wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It’s a perfect nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place.”

“But can’t you refuse?”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t do for a man in my position to be unpopular.”

_Music’s Gay Measure_, wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. “... I am not a marrying man....” The voices were silent; the piano waited.

“Quite good,” said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. “But now that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. _Fast! Ah, too Fast_,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to break out—a loud, strong _forte_—a lament. And then in the second line, _Winter Drear_, make that _Drear_ sound as if a cold wind were blowing through it. _Dre-ear!_” said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should be one crescendo. _Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure._ Breaking on the first word of the last line, _Passes._ And then on the word, _Away_, you must begin to die... to fade... until _The Listening Ear_ is nothing more than a faint whisper.... You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now, please.”

Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. _Fast! Ah, too Fast._ “... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but disgust—” Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from church that very dark night, “You know, somehow or other, I’ve got fond of you.” And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. _Passes away from the Listening Ear._

“Repeat! Repeat!” said Miss Meadows. “More expression, girls! Once more!”

_Fast! Ah, too Fast._ The older girls were crimson; some of the younger ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one could hear the willows whispering, “... not that I do not love you....”

“But, my darling, if you love me,” thought Miss Meadows, “I don’t mind how much it is. Love me as little as you like.” But she knew he didn’t love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word “disgust,” so that she couldn’t read it! _Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear._ She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to disappear somewhere. _Passes away._ The voices began to die, to fade, to whisper... to vanish....

Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss Meadows.

“Well, Monica, what is it?”

“Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,” said the little girl, gasping, “Miss Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.”

“Very well,” said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, “I shall put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away.” But they were too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses.

The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows’ steps. The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her lace tie. “Sit down, Miss Meadows,” she said very kindly. And then she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. “I sent for you just now because this telegram has come for you.”

“A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?”

Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. “I hope it’s not bad news,” she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open.

“Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand to-day—Basil,” she read. She couldn’t take her eyes off the telegram.

“I do hope it’s nothing very serious,” said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward.

“Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,” blushed Miss Meadows. “It’s nothing bad at all. It’s”—and she gave an apologetic little laugh—“it’s from my _fiancé_ saying that... saying that—” There was a pause. “I _see_,” said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then—“You’ve fifteen minutes more of your class, Miss Meadows, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Wyatt.” She got up. She half ran towards the door.

“Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows,” said Miss Wyatt. “I must say I don’t approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death,” explained Miss Wyatt, “or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know.”

On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.

“Page thirty-two, Mary,” she said, “page thirty-two,” and, picking up the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: “Page thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two.”

We come here To-day with Flowers o’erladen, With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot, To-oo Congratulate . . .

“Stop! Stop!” cried Miss Meadows. “This is awful. This is dreadful.” And she beamed at her girls. “What’s the matter with you all? Think, girls, think of what you’re singing. Use your imaginations. _With Flowers o’erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot._ And _Congratulate._” Miss Meadows broke off. “Don’t look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager. _Congratulate._ Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!”

And this time Miss Meadows’ voice sounded over all the other voices—full, deep, glowing with expression.

The Stranger

It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see little couples parading—little flies walking up and down the dish on the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck—the cook’s apron or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to the bridge.

In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and the shepherd.

But what a fool—what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There wasn’t a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them.

“Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might have been able to stir ’em up a bit. We might have managed a little signalling. _Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless._ Or: _A welcome awaits you. All is forgiven._ What? Eh?”