What could people be expected to say of such an object as I saw before me in that looking-glass?
“Oh,” I cried, “if only for a short time I could have my time! If I could only make those girls feel what I have felt—the insolence of masculine imbeciles, the snubs of conceited boys, the contemptuous impertinence of their uncles and their fathers, even of their grandsires! If only I could treat some of those men as all of them have treated me I’d give—well, it’s no use my talking about giving anything, because I’ve just simply nothing to give; but wouldn’t I like to have the chance.”
I had my comb in my hand at the moment. I had torn off my hat, and was trying to do something to my hair, without letting it down, and taking my bodice off, and all the rest of the fuss which a girl has to go through if she wants to titivate herself. I brought the comb down bang whack against the dressing-table to emphasise my concluding aspiration.
“If only every masculine thing had to fall madly in love with me at sight! There; now I’ve done it!”
I had—broken the comb into two clear halves. And I had only had it a week. I cannot think how it is that my things do break so. I should have to buy a new one that very afternoon; though it would only be a shilling one, because funds were low, and combs were waste of money.
As I was surveying the broken pieces with a pretty wry face—it was a tortoise-shell comb; I happened to know that mamma had paid twelve-and-six for it, to match my toilet-set; she would go on when she knew what had happened—I became conscious that something very odd indeed was taking place. On the top of the little drawers which was on one side of my dressing-table was half a sheet of notepaper. Just an ordinary half-sheet which I had torn off somebody’s letter and left there; I have a trick of keeping half-sheets. A second ago that half-sheet was blank. Now I became aware that someone—or something—was writing on it. I heard a faint scratching noise. Turning, I saw that letters were forming upon the paper—how, I cannot say. They appeared to be written in ink, though there were no signs of a pen, and certainly none of anybody holding it.
It was the strangest feeling, to stand there and watch words apparently writing themselves upon that piece of paper. I know it sounds incredible, and it is incredible; but it’s true, for all that. It was just simply the most extraordinary thing that ever happened—and lots of people know that extraordinary things do happen. When you have lived to my time of life, and have had my experience, you know that as a solemn fact. Though, I repeat once more, that that was the most wonderful experience even I ever had.
I cannot describe my sensations as I stood there watching. The two halves of the comb in my hands, my hair all anyhow, my bodice positively maddening beneath my arms, and, I was convinced, unhooked behind, rage in my bosom, perspiration on my brow. It was so frightfully mysterious; there is nothing I dislike like things I do not understand, they make you feel yourself so insignificant. Then the letters went on forming themselves before my eyes, and there I remained looking on like a stuck pig, until I could endure it no longer. I snatched up the paper, exclaiming:
“What are you doing?”
Though to whom I addressed the inquiry I have not the faintest notion. On that half-sheet of paper, staring me in the face, were the words: