§ 1
THE next morning she awoke with a bad headache. Her hands and wrists were very hot, and when she tried to get out of bed her feet were curiously vagrant and unstable. So she got back to bed and summoned Florrie, her maid. Florrie was a country girl, large and buxom and pleasure-loving. Catherine had got her by advertising in an Essex local paper, a method which had been recommended to her as one by which excellent servants are frequently picked up. So Florrie had left the little village near Chelmsford and had taken up her abode in “Elm Cottage.” The joys of the town fascinated her. In less than three weeks she was “walking out” with a tram conductor. When Catherine was out at evening concerts she used frequently to allow Florrie the evenings off, and gradually Florrie came to regard these not as a privilege, but as a right. She had a huge appetite and a habit of reading sixpenny novelettes. There was no personal affection between mistress and servant, though that was not altogether the fault of the latter.
Florrie’s appearance at nine o’clock in the morning was aggressive. It was not her business to get her mistress out of bed and dress her: she was a housemaid. She regarded distrustfully Catherine’s announcement that she was not feeling very well, that she would not get up just yet, and that Florrie could bring the breakfast upstairs to her. She obeyed truculently. The tray of breakfast pots was placed on a chair by the side of her bed.
“There’s not enough milk, I think,” said Catherine, looking into the cream jug; “you’d better fetch a drop more.”
Florrie sniffed. “There ain’t no more meulk in the ’ouse, mum,” she replied steadfastly.
“Why not?”
“’Cos there ain’t, mum.”
Catherine raised herself sideways on her elbow, the better to pursue the argument.
“Did the milkman leave a pint as usual?”
“Yes, mum.”
“And this is all that’s left of it?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Then you must have used far too much with your porridge.... Well, since there isn’t enough, you’d better go to a shop and get another pint.”
Florrie fidgeted uneasily with her feet. She was not used to her mistress in such a firm mood.
“It’s a long way, mum.... There’s no plice nearer than Brigson’s, daown the ’Igh Road. All daown the ’ill an’ up agin, mum.”
“Never mind. Go to Brigson’s.”
“Naow, mum?”
“Yes, this minute.”
“The milkman’ll be here again in ’alf an hour, mum.”
Catherine flushed with anger.
“Are you going to go to Brigson’s or not?”
Florrie raised her eyebrows self-questioningly.
“S’powsing I waster say not, mum?” she said impudently.
The retort stung Catherine to feverish decision.
“You can either go to Brigson’s or take a week’s notice,” she cried shrilly, and let go the elbow that supported her head. Her red hair straggled across the pillow, half hiding her face and effectively preventing Florrie from seeing that she was weeping. Florrie was not hard-hearted, and if she had seen her mistress’s tears she would probably have apologized. But she did not see them: she saw only the red flush on her cheeks and the angry glint in her eyes. She saw that it was a direct contest of wills, and also, which perhaps was the deciding factor, she did not wish to leave Upton Rising and her tram conductor. So she left the room sullenly, put on her hat in front of the dining-room overmantel downstairs, and took the path through the snow towards the High Road.
And meanwhile Catherine lay weeping upstairs.... Florrie’s open defiance seemed one more link in the chain of evidence that proved her to be unworthy of respect, devotion or love. Even Florrie despised her: Florrie, with her mule-like doggedness and inferior intellect, judged herself competent to query her mistress’s orders, and treat her with what was very thinly veiled contempt....
The morning paper was on the breakfast tray, and she raised herself again and glanced at the headlines. Then she turned to the inside page where the musical criticisms and announcements, if any, were inserted. Under the heading, “New Year’s Concert,” she read:
Miss Weston’s performance was curiously disappointing. I was confirmed in the opinion I have held ever since I first heard Miss Weston, that she is a skilful player of considerable talent who will, however, never reach the front rank of her profession. Some cardinal defects in her technique and interpretation showed themselves with disconcerting frankness last evening. On the whole, had I not known that Miss Weston at her best is quite skilful in her playing of Chopin and Liszt, I should have wondered last evening what had led the organizers of the concert to include her in a programme which included such names as Signor——, the tenor, and Mme.——, the prima donna. She played a Chopin polonaise as if it were a cake-walk, and her Liszt’s Sposalizio was not even note-perfect. Perhaps Miss Weston was feeling unwell, in which case it would be unfair to criticize her too severely, but the truth is, in twenty years’ musical experience I have never heard such poor playing at a concert purporting to be first-rate....
The article was signed by one of London’s chief musical critics....
Catherine dropped the newspaper on to the floor with the remainder of the criticism unread. She did not even know if that was the worst that was printed about her. The writer was a man for whom she had a great respect: he had never been among the enthusiasts who prophesied for her a world-wide reputation, yet till now his criticisms had always been mildly encouraging, particularly when it was borne in mind that his newspaper, a journal of independent views, permitted him to be mercilessly sarcastic at the expense of all musical aspirants whom he thought to be aiming too high. And now he had turned against her. It was all the harder to bear because he had not employed sarcasm: there was throughout his criticism a kind of sorrowful kindness, as if he sincerely pitied her.
When she thought that Verreker might read the article (would, in fact, in all probability) she felt ashamed, disgraced. Then, as she realized that a few more criticisms of that kind from the leading critics would damn her reputation, lose her her engagements and fling her back into the common rut, she was overwhelmed with the horror that the future might hold for her. She tossed and fretted in an agony of shame and mortification, cursing blindly at the ill-luck that was falling upon her on all sides. At last, unable to bear the torture of her thoughts any longer, she sprang out of bed with the zest of a tiger and put on a dressing-gown. She did not notice the difficulty she was having to stand upright: she had tapped hidden sources of energy within her which, though not extensive, were sufficient to sustain her for the present. She opened the door and went on to the landing. It was terribly cold there: the open fanlight window let in an icy draught from the north. Her feet were bare, but she did not appear to notice it on the thick stair-carpet. She began to descend, holding on to the stair-rail tightly. At the foot she stood still for a minute, as if waiting for supplies of energy, and then walked into the drawing-room. The fire, lit apparently with damp wood picked up from the Forest, had gone out and the room was very chilly. She walked unerringly to the music-cabinet and, kneeling on the floor, began to search in feverish haste. At last, seemingly, she discovered the object of her quest, a single thin piece of music in a yellow paper cover. With a strangely difficult movement she rose to her feet again and half walked, half staggered the short intervening distance to the piano-stool. It took her quite a minute to open out the music at the first page and place it in front of her on the rest. Instinctively she placed her bare feet on the cold brass of the pedals, and drew them away as quickly as if the metal had been white-hot. The shock restored to her a part of her lost energy. She began to move her fingers desultorily over the keys. At first the music was simple and she managed pretty well. But on the third page it developed octave arpeggio eccentricities in the left hand, and against these the fury of her determination burst in vain. She was handicapped, too, by not having the use of the pedals. For several moments her fingers moved, struggling vainly against chords and runs which her eyes could scarcely read and her memory but vaguely suggest. A terrible battle it was—a truly Homeric contest: her own tigerish determination against all the difficulties that a master-technician could invent.... But you would never have guessed that it was Liszt’s Sposalizio....
On the fourth page her spirit broke, and she fell forward sobbing, with her head and hair on the keys. And there some moments later, Florrie, entering with a jug of milk in her hand, found her, still sobbing uncontrollably....