Introduction to Sally

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

§

Mr. Pinner disillusioned her.

For many years he hadn’t tasted such quiet happiness, such contentment and well-being, as during the four weeks he had been without Sally. Her marriage to a gentleman, to one of the scholars from Cambridge, was known to every one in the village, and he was proud of it, very proud. Sally, besides having been handed over safe and sound to some one else’s care, had risen in life and was now a lady. He had every reason to be proud of her, and no further bother. Now for the first time he could live, after forty years of the other thing, free from females. Was it sinful, he asked himself occasionally, and at variance with God’s Word, to be so very happy all alone? He didn’t think it could be. He had served his time. Forty years in the wilderness he had had—just like the Israelites, who had come out of it too, just as he had, and enjoyed themselves too at last, as he was enjoying himself, quietly and nicely. No husband or father could have been fonder of his wife and daughter than he had been of his, or done his duty by them more steadily. Surely now, both of them being safely settled, it couldn’t be wrong to like having a rest? He loved Sally, but she had been a back-breaking responsibility. For four weeks now he had enjoyed himself, and with such relish that when he got up in the morning and thought of the quiet, free hours ahead of him, he had often quavered into song. Then came the day when, peacefully dusting the toffee in his window, and thinking how prettily the birds were singing that fine spring morning, and of the little bit of mutton he was going to do in capers for his dinner, he saw an enormous closed car coming down the village street, and with astonishment beheld it stop in front of his shop, and Sally get out.

Mr. Pinner knew enough of what cars cost to be sure this one wasn’t anyhow Mr. Luke’s. Things like that cost as much as two of Mr. Luke’s five hundreds a year; so that the car, of which Sally had been so proud, far from impressing him only frightened him. And when, after the chauffeur had handed her a bag, he saw him turn the car round and disappear, going away again without her while she came running up the steps, he was more frightened than ever.

What had happened? Not a month married, and back again by herself with a bag.

‘I come ’ome,’ said Sally in the doorway, still bright with the sheer enjoyment of the ride, yet, faced by her father’s amazement, conscious of a slight lowering of her temperature. ‘My! You ain’t ’alf small, Father,’ she added, surprised, after looking at the tall Jocelyn and the broad Mr. Thorpe, by how little there was of Mr. Pinner. ‘Almost count you on the fingers of one ’and,’ she said.

‘Want more fingers than I got to count you,’ retorted Mr. Pinner, retreating behind the counter and feeling that these words somehow constituted a smart preliminary snub.

He didn’t offer to kiss her. He stood entrenched behind his counter and stared up at her, struck, after having got out of the habit of her beauty, into a new astonishment at it. But it gave him no pleasure. It merely frightened him. For it blew up peace.

‘Where’s your ’usband?’ he inquired, afraid and stern.

‘Oh—’im,’ said Sally, trying to look unconcerned, but flushing. ’E’s with ’is mother, ’e is. Ain’t you pleased to see me, Father?’ she asked, in an attempt to lead the conversation off husbands at least for a bit; and tighter to her side she hugged the box of chocolates, because the feel of it helped her to remember Father-in-law’s approval and encouragement. And he was a gentleman, wasn’t he? And a lot older even than Father, so must know what was what.

‘Oh, indeed. With ’is mother, is ’e,’ said Mr. Pinner, ignoring her question. ‘’Oos car was that?’ he asked.

‘Father-in-law’s,’ said Sally, hugging her chocolates.

‘Oh, indeed. And ’oo may father-in-law be?’

‘The gentleman as is—as was goin’ to marry Mr. Luke’s mother.’

‘Oh, indeed. And you ride about in ’is car meanwhile. I see.’

‘Lent it to me so I can come ’ome.’

‘What do ’e want to send you ’ere for, then?’ asked Mr. Pinner, leaning on his knuckles, his blue eyes very bright. ‘Ain’t your ’ome where your ’usband’s is? Ain’t that a married woman’s ’ome?’

‘I only come on a visit,’ faltered Sally, whose spirits were by now in her shoes. Her father had often scolded her, but she had never been afraid of him. Now there was something in his eye that made her feel less sure that she had taken, as Mr. Thorpe had told her, the one possible and completely natural step. ‘I only come for a few days, while Mr. Luke——’

‘Mr. Luke know you’re ’ere?’ interrupted her father.

‘’E don’t know yet,’ said Sally. ‘But I——’

‘That’s enough,’ said Mr. Pinner, holding up a hand. ‘That’s quite enough. No need for no more words. You go back right away to your ’usband, my girl. Come to the wrong box, you ’ave, for ’arbourin’ runaway wives.’

‘But, Father—’ she stammered, not yet quite able to believe that in coming back to him she had only got out of the frying pan into the fire, ‘you got to listen to why I come——’

He held up his hand again, stopping her. He had no need to listen. He could see for himself that she was a runaway wife, which was against both man’s and God’s laws.

Sally, however, persisted. She put her bag down on the counter, behind which he firmly remained, and facing him across it tried to give him an idea of what had been happening to her, and what had been going to happen to her much worse if she had stayed.

He refused to be given an idea of it. He turned a deaf ear to all explanations. And he was merely scandalised when she said, crying by this time, that she couldn’t, couldn’t be left alone with Mr. Luke’s mother, for where a husband thinks fit to leave his wife, said Mr. Pinner, always supposing it is respectable, there that wife must remain till he fetches her. This he laid down to Sally as a law from which a married woman departs at her peril, and he laid it down with all the more emphasis, perhaps, because of knowing how unlikely it was that he himself would ever have had the courage to enforce it in the case of Mrs. Pinner, and that, if he had, how certain it was she wouldn’t have stayed five minutes in any place he tried to leave her in.

Sally was in despair. What was she to do? The little shop looked like paradise to her, a haven of peaceful bliss after the life she had led since last she saw it. She cried and cried. She couldn’t believe that her father, who had always been so kind really, wouldn’t let her stay with him for the two days till Jocelyn got back to Cambridge.

But not even for one night would Mr. Pinner, who was secretly terrified of Jocelyn, and sure he would be hot on his wife’s tracks and make a scene and blame him if he gave her so much as an inch of encouragement, harbour her. Back she should go by the very next train to her husband and her duty; and the breaking of marriage vows, and the disregard of the injunctions in the New Testament which had so much shocked her in Jocelyn, were now thrown at her by Mr. Pinner, who accused her of precisely these. Useless for Sally, clinging to the hope of somehow being able to justify herself and be allowed to stay, to say through her tears that the Gospel didn’t mention what a woman had to do but only what a man had to, because to that Mr. Pinner replied that no Gospel could be expected to mention everything, and that in any case, when it came to sinning, the sexes couldn’t be kept apart.