All afternoon the snow fell steadily, and she stayed indoors and debated how she might best re-create her soul. How she might drive out from her being the demon of self. How she might open her heart to pure, noble and unselfish motives. How she might rid herself of insane jealousies. How she might become less conceited, less the egoist. How she might build up in herself a real personality, strong, simple and generous, something which would make life worth the living, even if all other things were taken away. And how (God forgive her for thinking this!)—how she might make herself more acceptable to Verreker, more worthy in his eyes, more valued in his esteem. It meant tearing herself to pieces. She declared that he had hurt her more than she had ever been hurt before. It was so. She was hurting all over from his words to her. But the surgical operation on her own soul would cost her more still. The pain of it would be all the harder to bear because it would be self-inflicted. She must stamp out ruthlessly what was ninetenths of her.... And then beyond all the pain, in the sweet aftercalm, her soul would be clean and passionately free....
That night she was playing at a concert in town. She played badly, and as she left the platform she realized the fight that was in store for her. Among the few things left which she dared to treasure was her ambition as a pianist. It might be selfish and conceited, but she felt that it was at any rate one of the most worthy parts of her. And she saw that, come what might, she must not lower her standard in that direction. Her fight to be a great pianist must be linked up with her spiritual struggle for the cleansing of her soul. She went home resolved that she would practise harder and more rigorously than ever....
CHAPTER XVIII
DÉBÂCLE
§ 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.”