Introduction to Sally

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

‘I shall be much too busy, darling,’ said Jocelyn, pleased at the way she was taking their first separation, and not hearing the last words because he was rummaging among coats.

‘There’s Father,’ persisted Sally anxiously. ‘’E could take me in. I wouldn’t be no trouble to nobody——’

‘Darling, I’m afraid it can’t possibly be managed,’ said Jocelyn, very thankful to leave her safe with his mother; but she looked so enchanting in her obvious sorrow at being parted from him that he took her in his arms, and kissed her warmly.

‘Kissin’s no good,’ said Sally. ‘Goin’ too’s what I’d like.’

‘And if I took you too, my beautiful one,’ whispered Jocelyn, flaming up at the touch of her, ‘I’d do nothing but kiss you instead of doing my business——’ which wasn’t true, but with Sally in his arms he thought it was; besides, they had been separated for a whole night.

‘Turtle doves—oh, turtle doves!’ exclaimed Mrs. Luke, managing to smile, though she didn’t like it, when she came out of the kitchen and found them locked together; for this was happening in what Mr. Thorpe refused to call the hall.

And later on when Jocelyn had gone, she put her arm through Sally’s, who was standing at the window staring after him as though it couldn’t be true that he had really left her, and drew her away into the little dining-room at the back of the house, because of its greater privacy—she had to consider the possible movements of Mr. Thorpe—and at once began to put the plans she had made in the night into practice, not only taking immense pains with the child’s words and pronunciation, but leaving no stone unturned—‘As the quaint phrase goes,’ she said, smiling at Sally, for why hide her intentions?—in order to win her confidence and love.

Sally was most depressed. She didn’t want to love—‘Too much of that about as it is,’ she thought,—and she hadn’t an idea what her confidence was.

The table was arranged with paper and ink, and Mrs. Luke began by kissing her affectionately, and telling her that they were now going to be very busy and happy. ‘Like bees,’ said Mrs. Luke, looking cheerful and encouraging, but also terrifyingly clever, with her clear grey eyes that seemed to see everything all at once and never were half as much pleased as her mouth was. ‘You know how bees store up honey—the bright, golden honey, don’t you, dear. Say honey, Salvatia dear. Say it after me——’

Sally was most depressed. Mixed up with her efforts to say honey were puzzled thoughts about her husband’s having left her. She understood, from her study of the Bible, that one of the principal jobs of husbands was to cleave to their wives. Till death, the Bible said. Nobody had died. It wasn’t cleaving to go away to Cambridge and leave her high and dry with the lady. And though Usband was often very strange, he wasn’t anything like as strange as the lady; and though he often frightened her, there were moments when he didn’t frighten her at all—when, on the contrary, she seemed able to do pretty much as she liked with him. And she had great hopes that some day she and he would get on quite nicely together, once they had set up housekeeping and he went off first thing after breakfast to his work, and she got everything tidy and ready for him when he came back to his dinner. Yes; she and Usband would settle down nicely then. And later on, when she had a little baby—Sally thought frequently and complacently of the time when she would have a little baby, several little babies—things would be as pleasant as could be. All she wanted, so as to be happy, was no lady, a couple of rooms, Usband to do her duty by, God’s Word to study, and every now and then a little baby. It was all she asked. It was her idea of bliss. That, and being let alone.