Miriam thumped her Gladstone bag down on to the doorstep. Stout boots hurried along the tiled passage and the door opened on Florrie in her outdoor clothes smiling brilliantly from under the wide brim of a heavily trimmed hat. Grace in a large straight green dress appeared beside her from the open dining-room door. Miriam finished her cadenza with the door knocker while Florrie bent to secure her bag saying on a choke of laughter, come in. You’ve just been out, said Miriam listening to Grace’s soothing reproaches for her lateness. Shall I come in or shall I burst into tears and sit down on the doorstep? Florrie laughed aloud, standing with the bag. Bring her in scolded Mrs. Philps from the dining-room door. Grace took her by the arm and drew her along the passage. I’m one mass of mud.—Never mind the mud, come in out of the rain, scolded Mrs. Philps backing towards the fire, you must be worn out.—No, I don’t feel tired now I’m here, oh what a heavenly fire. Miriam heard the front door shut with a shallow suburban slam and got herself round the supper table to stand with Mrs. Philps on the hearthrug and smile into the fire. Mrs. Philps patted her arm and cheek. Is the door really shut O’Hara said Miriam turning to Florrie coming into the room. Of course it is, choked Florrie coming to the hearthrug to pat her;—I’ll put the chain up if you like.—Sit down and rest before you go upstairs said Mrs. Philps propelling her gently backwards into the largest of the velvet armchairs. Its back sloped away from her; the large square cushion bulging out the lower half of the long woollen antimacassar prevented her from getting comfortably into the chair. She sat on the summit of the spring and said it was not cold. Wouldn’t you like to come up before supper suggested Grace in answer to her uneasy gazing into the fire. Well I feel rather grubby. Give her some hot water murmured Mrs. Philps taking up the Daily Telegraph. Grace preceded her up the little staircase carrying her bag. Will you have your milk hot or cold Miriam? called Florrie from below—Oh, hot I think please, I shan’t be a second said Miriam into the spare room, hoping to be left. Grace turned up the gas. M-m darling she murmured with timid gentle kisses, I’m so glad you have come. So am I. It’s glorious to be safely here .... I shan’t be a second. I’ll come down as I am and appear radiant to-morrow—You’re always radiant—I’m simply grubby; I’ve worn this blouse all the week; oh bliss, hot water. Sit on the rocking chair while I ablute; unpack my bag—D’you mind if I don’t Miriam darling? Aunt and I called on the Unwins to-day and I haven’t put my hat by yet. We’ve got three clear days—All right, oh my dear you don’t know how glad I am I’m here—Grace came back murmuring from the door to repeat the gentle kisses. When the door was shut the freshness and quietude of the room enfolded Miriam, smoothing away grubbiness and fatigue. Opening her Gladstone bag she threw on to the bed her new cream nun’s veiling blouse and lace tie, her brushbag and sponge-bag and shoes and a volume of Schiller and a bundle of note-paper and envelopes. A night-gown was put ready for her on the bed frilled in an old-fashioned way with hand-made embroidery. Her bag went under the bed for nearly four days. Nothing grubby anywhere. No grubbiness for four days. In the large square mirror her dingy blouse and tie looked quite bright under the gaslight screened by the frosted globe. Her hair had been flattened by her hat becomingly over the broad top of her head, and its mass pushed down in a loose careless bundle with good chance curves reaching low on to her neck. She poured the hot water into one of the large cream-coloured basins, her eye running round the broad gilt-edged band ornamenting its rim over the gleaming marble cover of the washstand, the gleaming tiles facing her beyond the rim of the basin, the highly polished woodwork above the tiles. She snuffed freshness everywhere. While the fresh unscented curdiness of the familiar Broom soap went over her face and wrists and hands she began to hunger for the clean supper, for the fresh night in the freshness of the large square bed, for the clean solid leisurely breakfast. Pushing back her hair she sponged the day from her face sousing luxuriously in the large basin and listening to Grace moving slowly about upstairs. Seizing a towel she ran up the little single flight and stood towelling inside Grace’s door. Hullo pink-face, laughed Grace tenderly, smoothing tissue paper into a large hat box—I say it must be an enormous one—It is; it’s huge smiled Grace—You must show it to me to-morrow—Miriam ran downstairs and back to the mirror in her room to look at her clean untroubled face. Don’t run about the house, come down to supper, called Florrie from below.

2

Have they brought the sausages, asked Mrs. Philps acidly.

Yes, scowled Florrie.

Don’t forget to tell Christine how we like them done, said Grace frowning anxiously. Miriam took her eyes from the protruding eyes of the Shakespeare on the wall opposite, and shut away within her her sharp sense of the many things ranged below him on the mantlepiece behind Florrie, the landscape on one side of him, the picture of Queen Victoria leaning on a walking stick between two Hindu servants, receiving an address, on the other side, the Satsuma vases and bowls on the sideboard behind Mrs. Philps, the little sharp bow of narrow curtain-screened windows behind Grace, the clean gleam on everything.

Christine?

Oh yes, didn’t you know? She’s been with us a month—

What became of Amelia?

Oh we had to let her go. She got fat and lazy.

They all do! they’re all the same—Go on Miriam.

—Well, said Miriam from the midst of her second helping—they both listened, and the steps came shambling up their stairs—and they heard the man collapse with a groan against their door. They waited and, well, all at once the man, well, they heard him being violently ill—Oh Miriam—Yes; wasn’t it awful? and then a feeble voice like a chant—a-a-a-ah-oo—oo-oo-oo kom, and hailpemee—Oh Meester Bell, kom, oh, I am freezing to death, what a pity what a pity—and then silence. She fed rapidly, holding them all silently eager for her voice again to fill out the spaces of their room—For about half an hour they heard him break out, every few minutes, oh Meester Bell, dear pretty Mr. Bell kom. I am freezing to death whatta pity—whattapity. The Brooms sat breaking one against the other into fresh laughter. Miriam ate rapidly glancing from face to face. What-eh-pitie—what-eh-pitie she moaned. Can’t you hear him? Grace choked and sneezed and drank a little milk. They were all still slowly and carefully eating their first helping.—You do come across some funny people said Mrs. Philps mopping her eyes and dimpling and sighing upon the end of her laughter. I didn’t come across him. It was at Mag’s and Jan’s boarding house. Mrs. Philps had not begun to listen at the beginning. But Grace and Florrie saw the whole thing clearly. Mrs. Philps did not remember who Mag and Jan were. She would not unless one told her all about their circumstances and their parents. Florrie’s face was preparing a question. Then they must have—went on Miriam. There was a subdued ring at the front door bell.—There’s Christine shall we have her in to change the plates aunt, frowned Florrie.—No let ’er changer dress. We can put the plates on the sideboard—Then they must both have gone to sleep again, said Miriam when Florrie returned from letting Christine in—because they did not hear him go downstairs and he wasn’t there in the morning—A good thing I should think, observed Mrs. Philps. He wasn’t there said Miriam cheerfully—er—not in person. Oh Miriam, protested Grace hysterically. Oh—oh—cried the others. Miriam watched the second course appearing from the sideboard—she greeted the blancmange and jam with a soft shout, feeling as hungry as when supper had begun. Isn’t she rude chuckled Florrie, putting down a plate of bananas and a small dish of chocolates. Ooo-ooo squealed Miriam—Be quiet and behave yourself and begin on that said Grace giving her a plate of blancmange. Oh yes and then said Miriam inspired to remember more of her story—it all came out. He must have got down somehow to his room in the morning. But he lay on the floor—he told them at dinner—all of mee could not find thee bed at once!—Oh-oh-oh—He had been—she cried raising her voice above the tumult—to a birthday party; twenty-seex wheeskies and sodahs.....—Why did he talk like that? Was he an Irishman? Oh, can’t you hear? He was a Hindu. They all talk like that. “I will kindly shut the door.” When they write letters they begin—Honoured and spanking sir, wept Miriam—they find spanking in the dictionary and their letters are like that all the way through, masses of the most amazing adjectives. Why did Mag and Jan leave that boarding house? asked Florrie into the midst of Miriam’s absorption with the solid tears on Mrs. Philps’s cheekbones. She was longing for Mrs. Philps to see the second thing, not only the funniness of spanking addressed to a civil servant, but exactly how spanking would look to a Hindu. If only they could see those things as well as produce their heavenly laughs. Oh, I don’t know, she said wearily; you see they never meant to go there. They wanted a place of their own. If only they could realise Mag and Jan. There was never enough time and strength to make everything clear. At every turn there was something they saw differently. They are a pair she breathed sleepily. No, thanks, she answered formally to an offer of more blancmange. She was beginning to feel strong and sleepy. No thanks she repeated formally as the heavy dish of bananas came her way. She wants a chocolate said Florrie from across the table. Miriam revived a little. Take two begged Mrs. Philps. They’re so huge, said Miriam obeying and leaving the chocolates on her plate while her mind moved heavily about seeking a topic. They were all beginning on bananas. It would be endless. By the time it came to sitting over the fire she would be almost asleep. She stirred uneasily. Someone must be seeing her longing and impatience.

3

Miriam lost threads while Christine cleared away supper, pondering the thick expressionless figure and hands and the heavy sallow sullen face. She was very short. The Brooms watched her undisturbed, from their places by the fire, now and again addressing instructions in low frowning voices from the midst of conversation—Do sit down said Mrs. Philps at intervals—I’ve been sitting down all day said Miriam swaying on her toes—I think we did half believe it she pursued with biting heartiness, aching with the onset of questions, speaking to make warmth and distraction for Christine. She had never thought about it. Had they half believed it? Had anyone ever put it to them in so many words? Giving an opinion opened so many things. It was impossible to show everything, the more opinions you expressed the more you misled people and the further you got away from them—Because she continued with a singing animation; Christine glanced;—we never heard anyone come in—although—(the room enclosed her even more happily with Christine there, everything looked even more itself)—we stayed awake till what seemed almost morning, always till long after the ser-m-our domestic staff had gone to bed. Their rooms were on the same floor as the night nursery—Christine was padding out with a tray, her back to the room; she had a holiday every year and regular off times and plenty of money to buy clothes and presents; probably she had some sort of home. When she had taken away the last of the supper things and closed the door Grace patted the arm of the vacant armchair. I like this best, said Miriam drawing up a little carved wooden stool—oh don’t sit on that cried Mrs. Philps.—I’m all right said Miriam hurriedly, looking at no one and drawing herself briskly upright with her eyes on the clear blaze. Grace and Florrie were close on either side of her in straight chairs, leaning forward towards the fire. Mrs. Philps sat back in the smaller of the armchairs, its unyielding cushion sending her body forward, her small chest crouched, her head bent and propped on her hand, half facing their close row and gazing into the fire. There was a silence. Florrie cleared her throat and glanced at Miriam. Miriam half turned with weary resentment.—Did you used to hang up stockings Miriam said Florrie quickly. Miriam assented hastily, staring at the fire. Florrie patiently cleared her throat. With weary animation Miriam dropped phrases about the parcels that were too big for the stocking, the feeling of them against one’s feet when one moved in the morning. Shy watchful glances came to her from Florrie. Grace took her hand and made encouraging sympathetic sounds. How secure they were, sitting with all the holiday ahead over the fire which would be lit again for them in the morning. This was only the fag-end of the first evening and it was beginning to be like the beginning of a new day. Things were coming to her out of the fire, fresh and new, seen for the first time; a flood of images. She watched them with eyes suddenly cool and sleepless, relaxing her stiff attitude and smiling vaguely at the fire-irons. She’s tired; she wants to go to bed said Mrs. Philps turning her head. The two heads came round—Do you my sweet asked Grace pressing her hand.—You shall have breakfast in bed if you like—Miriam grimaced briskly in her direction.—Did you have a Noah’s ark she asked smiling at the fire. Yes; Florrie had one. Uncle George gave it to her.—They began describing.—Didn’t you love it? broke in Miriam presently.—Do you remember—and she recalled the Noah’s ark as it had looked on the nursery floor, the offended stiffness of the rescued family, the look of the elephants and giraffes and the green and yellow grasshoppers and the red lady bird, all standing about alive amongst the little stiff bright green trees—We had a farm-yard too, pigs; and ducks and geese and hens with feathers—We used to stand them all out together on the floor, and the grocer’s shop and all our dolls sitting round against the nursery wall. It used to make me perfectly happy. It would still—Everyone laughed—It would. It does only to think of it. And there was a doll’s house with a door that opened and a staircase and furniture in the rooms. I can smell the smell of the inside at this moment. But the thing I liked best and never got accustomed to was a little alabaster church with coloured glass windows and a place inside for a candle. We used to put that out on the floor too. I wish I had it now .... The kaleidoscope. Do you remember looking at the Kaleidoscope? I used to cry about it sometimes at night; thinking of the patterns I had not seen. I thought there was a new pattern every time you shook it, forever. We had a huge one with very small bits of glass. They clicked smoothly when the pattern changed and were very beautifully coloured .... Oh and do you remember those things—did you have a little paper theatre? They were all looking at her, not at the little theatre. She wished she had not mentioned it. It was so sacred and so secret that she had never thought of it or even mentioned it to herself all these years. She rushed on to the stereoscope, her eyes still on the little cardboard stage, hearing the sound of the paper scraping over the little wooden roller as the printed scenes came round backwards or forwards, and plunged into descriptions of deep views of the insides of cathedrals in sharp relief in a clear silver light, mountains, lakes, statuary in clear light out of doors and came back to the dolls, pressing alone wearily on through the dying interest of her hearers to discover with sleepy enthusiasm the wisdom and indifference and independence of Dutch dolls, the charm of their wooden bodies, the reasons why one never wanted to put any clothes on them, the dear kind friendliness of dolls with composition heads—I don’t believe I’ve ever loved anyone in the world as I loved Daisy—Yes, I know—we had one too; it belonged to Eve, it was enormous and had real hair and a leather trunk for its clothes and felt huge and solid when you carried it; but it was as far away from you as a human being—yes, the rag dolls were simply funny—I never understand all that talk about the affection for rag dolls. We used to scream at ours and hold them by the skirts and see which could bang their heads hardest against the wall. They were always like a Punch and Judy show. The composition dolls I mean were painted a soft colour, very roundly moulded heads, with a shape, just a little hair, put on in soft brown colour, and not staring eyes but soft bluey grey with an expression; looking at something, looking at the same thing you looked at yourself— ...... Mrs. Philps yawned and Florrie began making a move—I suppose it’s bed time—said Miriam. They were all looking sleepy.—Have a glass of claret Miriam before you go said Mrs. Philps. No thank you, said Miriam springing up and dancing about the room. Giddy girl, chuckled Mrs. Philps affectionately. Grace and Florrie fetched dust sheets from the hall cupboard and began spreading them over the furniture. Miriam pulled up in front of a large oil-painting over the sofa; its distances where a meadow stream that was wide in the foreground with a stone bridge and a mill-wheel and a cottage half hidden under huge trees, grew narrow and wound on and on through tiny distant fields until the scene melted in a soft toned mist, held all her early visits to the Brooms in the Banbury Park days before they had discovered that she did not like sitting with her back to the fire. She listened eagerly to the busy sounds of the Brooms. Someone had bolted the hall door and was scrooping a chair over the tiles to get up and put out the gas. Dust sheets were still being flountered in the room behind her. Grace’s arm came round her waist.—I’m so glad you’ve come sweet she said in her low steady shaken tones—So’m I said Miriam.—Isn’t that a jolly picture—Yes. It’s an awfully good one you know. It was one of papa’s—What’s O’Hara doing in the kitchen?—Taking Grace by the waist Miriam drew into the passage trying to prance with her down the hall. The little kitchen was obscured by an enormous clothes-horse draped with airing linen. She’s left a miserable fire, said Mrs. Philps from behind the clothes-horse—She hasn’t done the saucepans aunt scolded Florrie from the scullery—Never mind, we can’t have er down now. It’s neely midnight.

4

Miriam emerged smoothly into the darkness and lay radiant. There was nothing but the cool sense of life pouring from some inner source and the deep fresh spaces of the darkness all round her. Perhaps she had awakened because of her happiness... clear gentle and soft in a melancholy minor key a little thread of melody sounded from far away in the night straight into her heart. There was nothing between her and the sound that had called her so gently up from her deep sleep. She held in her joy to listen. There was no sadness in the curious sorrowful little air. It drew her out into the quiet neighbourhood ..... misty darkness along empty roads, plaques of lamplight here and there on pavements and across house fronts..... blackness in large gardens and over the bridge and in the gardens at the backs of the rows of little silent dark houses, a pale lambency over the canal and reservoirs. Somewhere amongst the little roads a group of players hooting gently and carefully slow sweet notes as if to wake no one, playing to no one, out into the darkness. Back out of fresh darkness came the sweet clear music ..... the waits; of course. She rushed up and out heart foremost, listening, following the claim of the music into the secret happy interior of the life of each sleeping form, flowing swiftly on across a tide of remembered and forgotten incidents in and out amongst the seasons of the years. It sent her forward to to-morrow sitting her upright in morning light telling her with shouts that the day was there and she had only to get up into it .... the little air had paused on a tuneful chord and ceased ..... It was beginning again nearer and clearer. She heard it carefully through. It was so strange. It came from far back amongst the generations where everything was different; telling you that they were the same..... In the way those people were playing, in the way they made the tune sound in the air neither instrument louder than the others there was something that knew. Something that everybody knows.... They show it by the way they do things, no matter what they say..... Her heart glowed and she stirred. How rested she was. How fresh the air was. What freshness came from everything in the room. She stared into the velvety blackness trying to see the furniture. It was the thick close-drawn curtains that made the perfect velvety darkness ..... Behind the curtains and the Venetian blinds the windows were open at the top letting in the garden air. The little square of summer garden showed brilliantly in this darkest winter blackness. It was more than worth while to be wakened in the middle of the night at the Brooms. The truth about life was in them. She imagined herself suddenly shouting in the night. After the first fright they would understand and would laugh. She yawned sleepily towards an oncoming tangle of thoughts, pushing them off and slipping back into unconsciousness.

5

Miriam picked up the blouse by its shoulders and danced it up and down in time to the girls’ volleys of affectionate raillery—Did you sleep well broke in Mrs. Philps sitting briskly up and superciliously grasping the handle of the large coffee-pot with her small shrivelled hand. Christmas Day had begun. The time for trying to say suitable things about the present was over. All the six small hands were labouring amongst the large things on the table. The blouse hung real, a blouse, a glorious superfluity in her only just sufficient wardrobe.—Yes, thank you, I did she said ardently, lowering it to her knees. The rich strong coffee was flowing into the cups. In a moment Grace would be handing plates of rashers and Florrie would have finished extracting the eggs from the boiler. She laid the blouse carefully on the sofa and heard in among the table sounds the greetings that had followed her arrival downstairs. The brown and green landscape caught her eye, old and still, holding all her knowledge of the Brooms back and back, fresh with another visit to them. She turned back to the table with a sigh. Someone chuckled. Perhaps at something that was happening on the table. She glanced about. The fragrant breakfast had arrived in front of her—Don’t let it get cold laughed Florrie drawing the mustard-pot from the cruet-stand and rapping it down before her. There was something that she had forgotten, some point that was being missed, something that must be said at this moment to pin down the happiness of everything. She looked up at Shakespeare and Queen Victoria. It was going away—Mustard—said Florrie tapping the table with the mustard-pot.—Did you hear the waits? asked Mrs. Philps with dreary acidity. That was it. She turned eagerly. Mrs. Philps was sipping her coffee. Miriam waited politely with the mustard-pot in her hand until she had put down her cup and then said anxiously, offering it to Mrs. Philps—they played—Help yourself—laughed Mrs. Philps—a most lovely curious old-fashioned thing she went on anxiously. Florrie was watching her narrowly. That was the Mistletoe Bough—bridled Mrs. Philps accepting the mustard.—Oh that’s The Mistletoe Bough mused Miriam thrilling. Then Mrs. Philps had heard, and felt the same in the night. Nothing was missing. Everything that had happened since she had arrived on the doorstep came freshly back and on into to-day, flowing over the embarrassment of the parcels. There was nothing to say; no words that could express it; a tune .... That’s the Mistletoe Bough...... she said reflectively. Florrie was sitting very upright exactly opposite, quietly munching, her knife and fork quiet on her plate. Grace’s small hands and mouth were gravely labouring. She began swiftly on her own meal, listening for the tune with an intelligent face. If Florrie would take off her attention she could let her face become a blank and recover the tune. Impossible to go on until she had recalled it. She sought for some distracting remark. Grace spoke. Florrie turned towards her. Miriam radiated agreement and sipped her hot coffee. Its strong aroma flowed through her senses. She laughed sociably. Someone else laughed.—Of course they don’t said Florrie in her most grinding voice and laughed. Two voices broke out together. Miriam listened to the tones, glancing intelligence accordingly, umpiring the contest, her mind wandering blissfully about. Presently there was a silence. Mrs. Philps had bridled and said something decisive. Miriam guiltily re-read the remark. She could not think of anything that could be made to follow it with any show of sincerity and sat feeling large and conspicuous. Mrs. Philps’ face had grown dark and old. Miriam glanced restively at her meaning...... Large terrible illnesses, the doctor coming, trouble amongst families, someone sitting paralyzed; poverty, everything being different....—D’you like a snowy Christmas, Miriam? asked Florrie shyly. Miriam looked across. She looked very young, a child speaking on sufferance, saying the first thing that occurs lest someone should remark that it was time to go to bed. Hilarious replies rushed to Miriam’s mind. They would have re-awakened the laughter and talk, but there would have been resentment in the widowed figure at the head of the table, the figure that had walked with arch dignity into the big north London shop and chosen the blouse. The weight in the air was dreadful—There don’t seem to be snowy Christmases nowadays she said turning deferentially to her hostess with her eyes on Florrie’s child’s eyes—Christmas is a very different thing to what it was breathed Mrs. Philps sitting back with folded hands from her finished meal.—Oh, I don’t know aunt corrected Grace anxiously—aren’t you going to have your toast and marmalade? You lived in the North all your young Christmases. It’s always colder there. Take some toast aunt——We used to burn Yule logs flickered Mrs. Philps, plaintively refusing the toast. Miriam waited imagining the snow on the garden where the frilled shirts used to hang out to bleach in the dew ..... the great flood, the anxiety in the big houses—Yule logs would look funny in this grate, laughed Florrie—Oh, I don’t know, pressed Grace.—We had some last year. Haven’t we got any this year aunt?——I ordered some wood; I don’t know if it’s come—Miriam could not imagine the Brooms with burning logs. Yes, she could. They were nearer to burning logs than anyone she knew. It would be more real here; more like the burning logs in the Christmas numbers. The glow would shine on to their faces and they would see into the past. But it was all in the past. Yule logs and then, no yule logs. Everyone even the Brooms were being pushed forward into a new cold world. There was no time to remember—they don’t build grates for wood nowadays, ruled Mrs. Philps. Who could stop all this coming and crowding of mean little things? But the wide untroubled leisure of the Brooms breakfast-table was shut away from the mean little things ...... Are you coming to church Miriam?—Miriam looked across the doomed breakfast-table and met the watchful eyes. Behind Florrie very upright in her good, once best stuff dress, two years old in its features and methodically arrived at morning wear, the fire still blazed its extravagant welcome, the first of Christmas morning was still in the room. When they had all busied themselves and gone, it would be gone. She glanced about to see that everyone had finished and put her elbows on the table.—Well she said abundantly. There was an expectant relaxing of attitudes—I should like to go very much. But—Grace fidgeting her brooch had flung her unrestrained burning affectionate glance—when I saw Mr. La Trobe climbing into the pulpit—Florrie’s eyes were downcast and Mrs. Philps was blowing her nose her eyes gazing wanly out above her handkerchief towards the little curtained bow-window—Miriam dimpled and glanced sideways at Grace catching her shy waiting eyes—I should stand up on my seat.... give one loud shriek—the three laughters broke forth together—and fall gasping to the ground——Then you’d certainly better not go chuckled Florrie amidst the general wiping away of tears——I saw the Miss Pernes at Strudwick’s on Friday; Miss Perne and Miss Jenny——oh, did you responded Miriam hurriedly. The room lost something of its completeness. There was a coming and a going, the pressing grey of an outside world—How are they?——They seemed very well—They don’t seem to change—Oh; I’m so glad—They asked for you—Oh——I didn’t say we were expecting you—Oh, it’s such an age——We always say you’re very busy and hard-worked smiled Grace—Yes, that’s it......—You didn’t go often even when Miss Haddie was alive—No; she was awfully good; she used to come down and see me in the west-end when I first came to town.—How they like the west-end—Aunt, I don’t blame them.—She used to write to you a lot didn’t she Miriam?—She used to come and talk to me in a tea-shop at six-fifteen .... yes she wrote regularly said Miriam irritably—You were awfully fond of Miss Haddie weren’t you?—Miriam peered into space struggling with a tangle of statements. Her mind leapt from incident to incident weaving all into a general impression—so strong and clear that it gave a sort of desperation to her painful consciousness that nothing she saw and felt was visible to the three pairs of differently watchful eyes. Poured chaotically out it would sound to them like the ravings of insanity. All contradictory, up and down backwards and forwards, all true. The things they would grasp here and there would misrepresent herself and the whole picture. Why would people insist upon talking about things—when nothing can ever be communicated...... She felt angrily about in the expectant stillness. She could see their minds so clearly; why wouldn’t they just look and see hers instead of waiting for some impossible pronouncement. Yes would be a lie. No would be a lie. Any statement would be a lie. All statements are lies. I like the Pernes better than I like you. I like all of you better than the Pernes. I hate you. I hate the Pernes. I, of course you must know it, hate everybody. I adore the Pernes so much that I can’t go and see them. But you come and see us. Yes; but you insist. Then you like us only as well as you like the Pernes; you like all sorts of people as well perhaps better than you like us. I have nothing to do with anyone. You shall not group me anywhere. I am everywhere. Let the day go on. Don’t sit there worrying me to death.....—They always send you their love and say you are to go and see them—Oh yes, I must go; some time——They are wonderfully fond of their girls.... It’s one of the greatest pleasures of their lives keeping up with the old girls—Fatigue was returning upon Miriam; her face flushed and her hands were large and cold. She drew them down on to her unowned knees. A mild yes would bring the sitting to an end.—But you see I’m not an old girl she said impatiently. No one spoke. Florrie’s mind was darkly moving towards the things of the day. Perhaps Mrs. Philps and Florrie had been thinking of them for some minutes.—You know it does make a difference she pursued, obsequiously collecting attention,—when people are your employers. You can never feel the same—Everyone hovered,—and Mrs. Philps smiled in triumphant curiosity.—I shouldn’t have thought it made any difference to you Miriam said Florrie flushing heavily.—I think I know what Miriam means said Grace gently radiating—I always feel a pupil with them much as I like them—Grace, d’you know you’re my pupil said Miriam leaping out into laughter.—I can see Grace—she drove on carrying them all with her, ignoring the swift eyes upon the dim things settling heavily down upon her heart—gazing out of the window in the little room where I was supposed to be holding a German class—Yes I know Miriam darling, but now you know me you know I could never be any good at languages——You’re my pupil——It seems absurd to think of you as a teacher now we know you chuckled Florrie.—Aren’t you glad it’s over, Miriam?——I loved the teaching. I’ve never left off longing to go back to school myself yawned Miriam absently.—You won’t get much sympathy out of Florrie——I was a perfect fool beamed Florrie. Everyone laughed.—I often think now—chuckled Florrie rosy and tearful—when I open the front door to go out how glad I am there’s no more school—Miriam looked across laughing affectionately.—Why did you like your school so much Miriam?—I didn’t like it except now and again terrifically in flashes. I didn’t know what it was. I hadn’t seen other schools. I didn’t know what we were doing—It wasn’t—a—a genteel school for young ladies, there was nothing of that in it—You never know when you’re happy reproved Mrs. Philps—Oh, I don’t know aunt, I think you do appealed Grace, her eyes full of shy championship.—I’m very happy, thank you,—aren’t we all happy dear brethren? chirped Miriam towards the cruet-stand.—Silly children——Now aunt you know you are. You know you enjoy life tremendously.—Of course I do cried Mrs. Philps beaming and bridling. In a devout low tone she added—it’s the little simple things that make you happy; the things that happen every day—For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the fire flickering in the beamy air.—Hadn’t we better have her in aunt, muttered Grace? Florrie got up briskly and rang the bell.

6

They all went busily upstairs. Even Grace did not linger.—Let me come and help make my bed said Miriam going with her to the door—No, you’re to rest——I don’t want to rest——Then you can run round the room—She turned back towards the silent disarray. Busy sounds came from upstairs. A hurried low reproving voice emerged on to the landing ....—and light the drawing room fire as soon as you’ve finished clearing and when the postman comes leave the letters in the box—Christine came downstairs without answering. In a moment she would be coming in. Moving away from the attraction of the blouse Miriam wandered to the fireside. Her eyes turned towards the chair in the corner half-hidden by the large armchair. There they were, on the top of the pile of newspapers and magazines. Dare’s Annual lay uppermost its cover bright with holly. Her hands went out .... to look at them now would be to anticipate the afternoon. But there would be at least two Windsors that she had not seen. She drew one out and stood turning over the leaves. It would be impossible to look round and say a Happy Christmas and then go on reading, and just as bad to stop reading and not say anything more. She planted herself in the middle of the hearthrug with her face to the room. Why should she stand advantageously there while Christine unwillingly laboured? Why should Christine be pleased to be spoken to? She thought a happy Christmas in several different voices. They all sounded insulting. Christine was still making noises in the kitchen. There was time to escape. The drawing-room door would be bolted and that meant getting one of the hall chairs and telling the whole house of an extraordinary impulse. Upstairs her bed would still be being made or her room dusted. She drew up the little stool and sat dejectedly, close over the fire as if with a heavy cold in her head and anxiously deep in the pages of the magazine. Perhaps Christine would think she did not hear her come in .... she guessed the story from the illustrations and dropped into the text half-way through the narrative. No woman who did typewriting from morning till night and lived in a poor lodging could look like that.... perhaps some did .... perhaps that was how clerks ought to look ... she skimmed on; moving automatically to make room for boots that were being put down in the fender; ready to speak in a moment if whoever it was did not say anything; the figure turned to the table. It was Christine. If she blew her nose and coughed Christine would know she knew she was there. She turned a page swiftly and wrapped herself deeply in the next. When Christine had gone away with a trayful she resumed her place on the hearthrug ready to see her for the first time when she came in again and catch her eye and say Good morning, I wish you a happy Christmas. Christine came shapelessly in and began collecting the remaining things with sullen hands. Her face was closed and expressionless and her eyes downcast. Miriam’s eyes followed it, waiting for the eyes to lift, her lips powerless. It was too late to say good morning. Sadness came growing in the room. Her thoughts went homelessly to and fro between her various world and the lumpy figure moving sullenly along the edge of an unknown life. Stepping observantly in through the half-open door with a duster bunched carefully in her hand came Florrie. Miriam flung out a greeting that swept round Christine and out into a shining world. It brought Florrie to her side, shy and eager. Christine taking her final departure looked up. Miriam flushed through her laughter, steadily meeting the expressionless brown glitter of Christine’s eyes. Hullo Madam O’Hara she defended, collecting herself for the question that would follow Florrie’s encirclement of her waist—Hullo Little Miriam; you are happy ground out Florrie shyly—are you rested?—Yes said Miriam formally, I think I am—They turned, Florrie withdrawing her arm, and stood looking into the fire—Oooch isn’t it cold said Grace from the doorway—have you done the hall chairs?—No, I came in here to get warm first—It is cold said Grace coming to the hearthrug—are you warm Miriam darling?—I’m so warm that I think I ought to run upstairs for a constitutional and scrub my teeth said Miriam briskly, preparing to follow Florrie from the room.—Grace dropped her duster and put her arms upon her, raising an anxious pleading face—stay here while I dust sweetheart. You can scrub your teeth when we’re gone. Dear pink-face. How are you my sweet? Are you rested? she asked between gentle kisses dabbed here and there—Never berrer old chap. I tell you never berrer—Grace laughed gently into her face and stood holding her, smiling her anxious pleading solicitous smile.—I tell you never berrer repeated Miriam. Dear sweet pink face smiled Grace and turned carefully away to her dusting. Miriam sank into an armchair, listening to the soft smooth flurring of the duster over the highly polished surfaces—Well she asked presently—how are things in general?—Grace rose from her knees and carefully shut the door. She came back with fear darkening the velvet lustre of her eyes—Oh I don’t know Miriam dear she murmured kneeling on the hearthrug near Miriam’s knees and holding her hands out towards the fire. It’s all over thought Miriam, she’s failed.—I’ve got ever so many things to tell you. I want to ask your advice—Remember I’ve never even seen him argued Miriam automatically, figuring the surroundedness, the sudden realization and fear, the recapturing of liberty, the hidden polite determined retreat.—Oh, but you always understand. Wait till we can talk she sighed rising from her knees, and kissing Miriam’s forehead. It was all over. Grace was clinging to some “reasonable” explanation of some final thing. She cast about in her mind for something from her own scattered circumstances to feed their talk when it should come. She would have to induce Grace to turn away and go on.... the end of the long history of faithfully remembered details would be a relief...... the delicate depths of their intercourse would come back..... its reach backwards and forwards; and yet without anything in the background.... it seemed as if always something were needed in the background to give the full glow to every day ... she must be made to see the real face of the circumstance and then to know and to feel that she was not forlorn; that the glow was there ..... first to brush away the delusion ruthlessly .... and then let the glow come back, begin to come back, from another source.

7

Left alone with silence all along the street, Christine inaudible in the kitchen, dead silence in the house, Miriam gathered up her blouse and ran upstairs. As she passed through the changing lights of the passage, up the little dark staircase past the turn that led to the little lavatory and the little bathroom and was bright in the light of a small uncurtained lattice, on up the four stairs that brought her to the landing where the opposing bedroom doors flooded their light along the strip of green carpet between the polished balustrade and the high polished glass-doored bookcase, scenes from the future, moving in boundless backgrounds came streaming unsummoned into her mind, making her surroundings suddenly unfamiliar ..... the past would come again.... Inside her room—tidied until nothing was visible but the permanent shining gleaming furniture and ornaments; only the large box of matches on the corner of the mantlepiece betraying the movement of separate days, telling her of nights of arrival, the lighting of the gas, the sudden light in the frosted globe preluding freedom and rest, bringing the beginning of rest with the gleam of the fresh quiet room—she found the nearer past, her years of London work set in the air, framed and contemplable like the pictures on the wall, and beside them the early golden years in snatches, chosen pictures from here and there, communicated, and stored in the loyal memory of the Brooms. Leaping in among these live days came to-day..... the blouse belonged to the year that was waiting far off, invisible behind the high wall of Christmas. She dropped it on the bed and ran downstairs to the little drawing-room. The fire had not yet conquered the mustiness of the air. The room was full of strange dim lights coming in through the stained glass door of the little greenhouse. She pushed open the glass door turning the light to a soft green and sat sociably down in a low chair her hands clasped upon her knees, topics racing through her mind in a voice thrilling with stored up laughter. In her ears was the rush of spring rain on the garden foliage, and presently a voice saying where are we going this summer? ..... By the time they came back she would be too happy to speak. Better perhaps to go out into the maze of little streets and in wearying of them be glad to come back. As she moved to the door she saw the garden in late summer fulness, the holidays over, their heights gleaming through long talks on the seat at the end of the garden, the answering glow of the great blossoms of purple clematis hiding the north London masonry of the little conservatory, the great spaces of autumn opening out and out running down rich with happenings to where the high wall of Christmas again rose and shut out the future. She ran busily upstairs casting away sight and hearing and hurried thoughtlessly into her outdoor things and out into the street. She wandered along the little roads turning and turning until she came to a broad open thoroughfare lined with high grey houses standing back behind colourless railed-in gardens. Trams jingled up and down the centre of the road bearing the names of unfamiliar parts of London. People were standing about on the terminal islands and getting in and out of the trams. She had come too far. Here was the wilderness, the undissembling soul of north London, its harsh unvarying all-embracing oblivion..... Innumerable impressions gathered on walks with the schoolgirls or in lonely wanderings; the unveiled motives and feelings of people she had passed in the streets, the expression of noses and shoulders, the indefinable uniformity, of bearing and purpose and vision, crowded in on her, oppressing and darkening the crisp light air. She fought against them, rallying to the sense of the day. It was Christmas Day for them all. They were keeping Christmas in their homes, carrying it out into the streets, going about with parcels, greeting each other in their harsh ironic voices. Long ago she had passed out of their world for ever, carrying it forward, a wound in her consciousness unhealed, but powerless to re-inflict itself, powerless to spread into her life. They and their world were still there, unchanged. But they could never touch her again, ensconced in her wealth. It did not matter now that they went their way just in the way they went their way. To hate them for past suffering now that they were banished and powerless was to allow them to spoil her day..... They were even a possession, a curious thing apart, unknown to anyone in her London life .... dear north Londoners. She paused a moment, looking boldly across at the figures moving on the islands. After all they did not know that it was cold and desolate and harsh and dreadful to be going about on Christmas Day in a place that looked as this place looked, in trams. They did not know what was wrong with their clothes and their bearing and their way of looking at things. That was what was so terrible though. What could teach them? There were so many. They lived and died in amongst each other. What could change them? ..... Her face felt drawn and weariness was coming upon her limbs... a group was approaching her along the wide pavement, laughing and talking, a blatter of animated voices; she turned briskly for the relief of meeting and passing close to them.... too near, too near..... prosperity and kindliness, prosperous fresh laughing faces, easily bought clothes, the manner of the large noisy house and large secure income, free movement in an accessible world, all turned to dangerous weapons in wrong hands by the unfinished, insensitive mouths, the ugly slur in the speech, the shapelessness of bearing, the naÏvely visible thoughts, circumscribed by business, the illustrated monthly magazines, the summer month at the seaside; their lives were exactly like their way of walking down the street, a confident blind trampling. Speech was not needed to reveal their certainties; they shed certainty from every angle of their unfinished persons. Certainty about everything. Incredulous contempt for all uncertainty. Impatient contempt for all who could not stand up for themselves. Cheerful uncritical affection for each other. And for all who were living or trying to live just as they did ..... The little bushes of variegated laurel grouped in railed-off oblongs along the gravelled pathway between the two wide strips of pavement, drew her gaze. They shone crisply, their yellow and green enamel washed clean by yesterday’s rain. She hurried along feeling out towards them through downcast eyes. They glinted back at her unsunned by the sunlight, rootless sapless surfaces set in repellent clay, spread out in meaningless air. To and fro her eyes slid upon the varnished leaves.... she saw them in a park set in amongst massed dark evergreens, gleaming out through afternoon mist, keeping the last of the light as the people drifted away leaving the slopes and vistas clear... grey avenues and dewy slopes drifted before her in the faint light of dawn, the grey growing pale and paler; the dew turned to a scatter of jewels and the sky soared up high above the growing shimmer of sunlit green and gold. Isolated morning figures hurried across the park, aware of its morning freshness, seeing it as their own secret garden, part of their secret day.....

From the sunlit white facade of a large London house the laurels looked down through a white stone-pillared balustrade. They appeared coming suddenly with the light of a street lamp, clumped safely behind the railings of a Bloomsbury square.... the opening of a side street led her back into the maze of little roads. The protective presence of the little house was there and she sauntered happily along through channels of sheltered sunlit silence..... What was she doing here? At Christmas-time one should be where one belonged. Gathering and searching about her came the claims of the firesides that had lain open to her choice, drawing her back into the old life, the only life known to those who sat round them. They looked out from that life, seeing hers as hardship and gloom, pitying her, turning blind eyes unwillingly towards her attempts to unveil and make it known to them. She saw herself relinquishing efforts, putting on a desperate animation, professing interests and opinions and talking as people talk, while they watched her with eyes that saw nothing but a pitiful attempt to hide an awful fate, lonely poverty, the absence of any opening prospect, nothing ahead but a gloom deepening as the years counted themselves off. Those were the facts—as almost anyone might see them. They made those facts live; they tugged at the jungle of feelings that had the power to lead one back through any small crushing maiming aperture..... In their midst lived the past and the thing that had ended it and plunged it into a darkness that still held the threat of destroying reason and life. Perhaps only thus could it be faced. Perhaps only in that way. What other way was there? Forgetfulness blotted it out and let one live on. But it was always there, impossible, when one looked back.... The little house brought forgetfulness and rest. It made no break in the new life. The new life flowed through it, sunlit. It was a flight down strange vistas, a superfluity of wild strangeness, with a clue in one’s hand, the door of retreat always open; rest and forgetfulness piling up within one into strength.

8

The incidents Grace had described went in little disconnected scenes in and out of the caverns of the dying fire. She was waiting tremulously for a verdict. They seemed to Miriam so decisive that she found it difficult to keep within Grace’s point of view. She stood in the picturesque suburb, saw the distant glimpse of Highgate Woods, the pretty corner house standing alone in its garden, the sisters in the dresses they had worn at the dance talking to their mother indoors, waited on by their polite admiring brother; their unconsciousness, their lives as they looked to themselves. Everything fitted in with the leghorn hats they had worn at the league garden party in the summer. She could have warned Grace then if she had heard about the hats... Grace had not yet found out that people were arranged in groups.... The only honest thing to say now would be—oh well of course with a mother and sisters like that; don’t you see—what they are? Her mind drew a little circle round the family group. It spun round them on and on as they went through life. She frowned her certainty into the fire, ranging herself with the unknown people she knew so well. If she did not speak Grace would see in her something of the quality that was the passport into that smooth-voiced world.... she imagined herself further and further into it, seeing everyday incidents, hearing conversations slide from the surfaces of minds that in all their differences made one even surface, unconscious unbroken and maddeningly unquestioning and unaware..... They were unaware of anything, though they had easy fluent words about everything.... underneath the surface that kept Grace off they were.... amoebae, awful determined unconscious .... octopi .... frightful things with one eye, tentacles, poison-sacs .... the surface made them, not they the surface; rules .... they were civilisation. But they knew the rules; they knew how to do the surface ... they held to them and lived by them. It was a sort of game... They were martyrs; with empty lives.... always awake, day and night, with unrelaxed wills ... she turned and met frank eyes still waiting for a verdict. All the strength of Grace’s personality was quivering there; all the determined faith in reason and principle. Perhaps if she had a clear field she could disarm them.... anyone, everyone. If she could get near enough they would find out her reality and her strength. But they would not want to be like her. They would run in the end from their apprehension of her, back to the things she did not see.... They had done so. He had; it was clear. Or she could not have spoken of him. If you can speak of a thing, it is past .... Speaking makes it glow with a life that is not its own.—There’s a lot more to tell you—said Grace pressing her hand. Miriam turned from the fire; Grace was looking as she had done when she began her story. Miriam sat back in her chair searching her face and form trying to find and express the secret of her indomitable conviction. Being what she was, why could she not be sufficient to herself? Entrenched in uncertainty she seemed less than herself. Her careful good clothes, so exquisitely kept, the delicate old gold chain, the little pearled cross, the old fine delicate rings, the centuries of shadowy ecclesiasticism in her head and face, the look of waiting, gazing from grey stone framed days upon a jewelled splendour, grew with her uncertainty small and limited. It was unbearable that they should have no meaning ... Grace was ready to take all she possessed into a world where it would have no meaning; ready to disappear and be changed. She was changed already. She could not get back and there was nothing to go forward to. Miriam dropped her eyes and sat back in her chair. The tide of her own life flowed fresh all about her; the room and the figure at her side made a sharply separated scene, a play watched from a distance, the end visible in the beginning to be read in the shapes and tones and folds of the setting, the intentions and statements nothing but impotent irrelevance, only bearable for the opportunities they offered here and there, involuntarily, for sudden escape into the reality that nothing touched or changed. If only Grace could be forced to see the unchanging reality... Oh Miriam darling, breathed Grace in an even, anxious tone. Miriam suppressed a desire to whistle;—Oh well of course that may make a difference she said hurriedly, checking the thrill in her voice. Far back in the caverns of the fire life moved sunlit. She dropped her eyes and drew away the hand that Grace had clasped. Life danced and sang within her; shreds of song; the sense of the singing of the wind; clear bright light streaming through large houses, quickening on walls and stairways and across wide rooms. Along clear avenues of light radiating from the future, pouring from behind her into the inner channels of her eyes and ears came unknown forms moving in a brilliance, casting a brilliance across the visible past, warming its shadows, bathing its bright levels in sparkling gold. Her free hands lifted themselves until only the tips of her fingers rested on her knees and her hair strove from its roots as if the whole length would stand and wave upright.—You see—she said to gain a moment. Suddenly her mind became a blank. Her body was heavy on her chair, ill-clothed, too warm, peevishly tingling with desires. She stirred, shrinking from her ugly, inexorable cheap clothes, her glasses, the mystery of her rigid stupidly done hair; how how how did people get expression into their hair consciously and not by accident? Why did Grace like her in spite of all these things, in spite of the evil thoughts which must show. She did. She had felt nothing, seen nothing. She dissembled her face and turned towards Grace, gazing past her into the darkness beyond the range of the firelight. Just outside the rim of her glasses Grace’s firelit face gleamed on the edge of the darkness half turned towards her. Leaping into her mind came the realisation that she was sitting there talking to someone .... Marvellous to speak and hear a voice answer. Astounding; more marvellous and astounding than anything they could discuss. Grace must know this, even if she were unconscious of it.... some little sound they could both hear, a little mark upon the stillness, scattering light and relief. She turned her eyes and met Grace’s, velvety, deeply sparkling, shedding admiration and tyrannous love, patiently waiting—Well,—said Miriam, sleepily feeling for a thread of connected thought.—D’you mean a difference about my taking aunt to call, asked Grace with fear in her eyes.—No, my dear, said Miriam impatiently.—Can’t you see you can’t do that anyhow?——They’ve only been there five years, said Grace in a low determined recitative—We’ve lived in what’s almost the same neighbourhood, fifteen. So it’s our place to call first—Miriam sighed harshly.—That doesn’t make a scrap of difference she retorted flushing with anger.—I wish I had your grasp of things Miriam dear, said Grace with gentle weariness.—Well—we’ve got to-morrow and Monday said Miriam getting up with an appearance of briskness and striking random notes on the piano. Grace laughed.—I suppose we ought to light the gas she said getting up?—Why?——Oh well—Florrie will be coming in and asking why we’re sitting in the dark——What if she does?——Oh, I think I’ll light it Miriam. Miriam sat down again and stared into the fire. After supper they would all sit, harshly visible, round the hot fire, enduring the stifling unneeded gaslight.