6
They all went busily upstairs. Even Grace did not linger.—Let me come and help make my bed said Miriam going with her to the door—No, you’re to rest——I don’t want to rest——Then you can run round the room—She turned back towards the silent disarray. Busy sounds came from upstairs. A hurried low reproving voice emerged on to the landing ...—and light the drawing-room fire as soon as you’ve finished clearing and when the postman comes leave the letters in the box—Christine came downstairs without answering. In a moment she would be coming in. Moving away from the attraction of the blouse Miriam wandered to the fireside. Her eyes turned towards the chair in the corner half-hidden by the large armchair. There they were, on the top of the pile of newspapers and magazines. Dare’s Annual lay uppermost its cover bright with holly. Her hands went out ... to look at them now would be to anticipate the afternoon. But there would be at least two Windsors that she had not seen. She drew one out and stood turning over the leaves. It would be impossible to look round and say a Happy Christmas and then go on reading, and just as bad to stop reading and not say anything more. She planted herself in the middle of the hearthrug with her face to the room. Why should she stand advantageously there while Christine unwillingly laboured? Why should Christine be pleased to be spoken to? She thought a happy Christmas in several different voices. They all sounded insulting. Christine was still making noises in the kitchen. There was time to escape. The drawing-room door would be bolted and that meant getting one of the hall chairs and telling the whole house of an extraordinary impulse. Upstairs her bed would still be being made or her room dusted. She drew up the little stool and sat dejectedly, close over the fire as if with a heavy cold in her head and anxiously deep in the pages of the magazine. Perhaps Christine would think she did not hear her come in ... she guessed the story from the illustrations and dropped into the text half-way through the narrative. No woman who did typewriting from morning till night and lived in a poor lodging could look like that ... perhaps some did ... perhaps that was how clerks ought to look ... she skimmed on; moving automatically to make room for boots that were being put down in the fender; ready to speak in a moment if whoever it was did not say anything; the figure turned to the table. It was Christine. If she blew her nose and coughed Christine would know she knew she was there. She turned a page swiftly and wrapped herself deeply in the next. When Christine had gone away with a trayful she resumed her place on the hearthrug ready to see her for the first time when she came in again and catch her eye and say Good morning, I wish you a happy Christmas. Christine came shapelessly in and began collecting the remaining things with sullen hands. Her face was closed and expressionless and her eyes downcast. Miriam’s eyes followed it, waiting for the eyes to lift, her lips powerless. It was too late to say good morning. Sadness came growing in the room. Her thoughts went homelessly to and fro between her various world and the lumpy figure moving sullenly along the edge of an unknown life. Stepping observantly in through the half-open door with a duster bunched carefully in her hand came Florrie. Miriam flung out a greeting that swept round Christine and out into a shining world. It brought Florrie to her side, shy and eager. Christine taking her final departure looked up. Miriam flushed through her laughter, steadily meeting the expressionless brown glitter of Christine’s eyes. Hullo Madam O’Hara she defended, collecting herself for the question that would follow Florrie’s encirclement of her waist—Hullo Little Miriam; you are happy ground out Florrie shyly—are you rested?—Yes said Miriam formally, I think I am—They turned, Florrie withdrawing her arm, and stood looking into the fire—Oooch isn’t it cold said Grace from the doorway—have you done the hall chairs?—No, I came in here to get warm first—It is cold said Grace coming to the hearthrug—are you warm Miriam darling?—I’m so warm that I think I ought to run upstairs for a constitutional and scrub my teeth said Miriam briskly, preparing to follow Florrie from the room.—Grace dropped her duster and put her arms upon her, raising an anxious pleading face—stay here while I dust sweetheart. You can scrub your teeth when we’re gone. Dear pink-face. How are you my sweet? Are you rested? she asked between gentle kisses dabbed here and there—Never berrer old chap. I tell you never berrer—Grace laughed gently into her face and stood holding her, smiling her anxious pleading solicitous smile.—I tell you never berrer repeated Miriam. Dear sweet pink face smiled Grace and turned carefully away to her dusting. Miriam sank into an armchair, listening to the soft smooth flurring of the duster over the highly polished surfaces—Well she asked presently—how are things in general?—Grace rose from her knees and carefully shut the door. She came back with fear darkening the velvet lustre of her eyes—Oh I don’t know Miriam dear she murmured kneeling on the hearthrug near Miriam’s knees and holding her hands out towards the fire. It’s all over thought Miriam, she’s failed.—I’ve got ever so many things to tell you. I want to ask your advice—Remember I’ve never even seen him argued Miriam automatically, figuring the surroundedness, the sudden realization and fear, the recapturing of liberty, the hidden polite determined retreat.—Oh, but you always understand. Wait till we can talk she sighed rising from her knees, and kissing Miriam’s forehead. It was all over. Grace was clinging to some “reasonable” explanation of some final thing. She cast about in her mind for something from her own scattered circumstances to feed their talk when it should come. She would have to induce Grace to turn away and go on ... the end of the long history of faithfully remembered details would be a relief ... the delicate depths of their intercourse would come back ... its reach backwards and forwards; and yet without anything in the background ... it seemed as if always something were needed in the background to give the full glow to every day ... she must be made to see the real face of the circumstance and then to know and to feel that she was not forlorn; that the glow was there ... first to brush away the delusion ruthlessly ... and then let the glow come back, begin to come back, from another source.