Authors: Winifred Holtby
'Oh, these young people,' thought Caroline, 'with their
glib cry of "once a year." These thoughtless young, squan
dering their opportunities. How many years shall I have in
which to meet him?'
But she had regained her spirit, and only said brightly,
almost coquettishly: 'Oh, yes, we must. Still, she hasn't
gone yet.'
'No, not yet. But we might as well begin now.'
He raised his glass.
Caroline faced him across the table. She did not know
whether the strange feeling that seized upon her was pain
or exaltation. She had lost everything. Father Mortimer,
her dear dear Roger, was leaving her. Eleanor was leaving her. The Christian Cinema Company would be wound up. She was back where she had been a year ago. It was all to
begin over again.
And yet it was not the same. She had touched glory.
She had found a friend.
She raised her glass.
'To Eleanor's success,' she said.
He smiled and drank.
'And to your health,' he responded with a polite bow.
'Aren't you going to drink to my success as well?' she
bridled. 'I'm not at the stage yet when it's only my health
that matters.'
'Of course you're not. Success to you and all your new
adventures.'
Their glasses clinked again above the orange jelly.
But health was a condition of success which Caroline per
haps had not adequately valued. For on her way home, crossing the Bayswater Road towards Netting Hill Gate
Metropolitan Railway Station, she walked still in the ecstatic
trance in which the company of her friend had wrapped her;
and she failed to notice a motor-car swinging round the
corner from Westbourne Grove. It caught and hurled her
to the ground, though it did not run over her. No address
was found upon her person; her clothes and the sum of three
shillings and fourpence in her bag proclaimed her poverty;
she was carried unconscious to the Bayswater Infirmary.
§4
T
he infirmary ward was long and high and light and
bleakly, brilliantly public. Caroline felt that she had less
privacy there than if she had been put on the pavement in
Piccadilly. In and out, up and down, passed the nurses and wardmaids, wheeling hand-lorries, covered with glittering
bottles, with mugs of tea, with enamel plates of watery milk
pudding. Occasionally a screen was pulled round her bed
and she enjoyed a minute's seclusion, though even then her
feelings were outraged by the familiarity of the pert pro
bationer, who handled her without reverence and called her
'ma.'
She could bear the pain. Her thigh was broken, and she
lay with her leg slightly raised under an iron cage like a
meat-cover. Her body seemed to ache from her shoulders to
her heel; but she had known before what pain was like.
What she felt she could not endure was the publicity. Ever
since she roused herself into consciousness and realized her
plight, she had suffered anguish from embarrassment and humiliation. That a director of the Christian Cinema Com
pany, the author of
The Path of Valour,
the friend of Father Mortimer, should be in a public infirmary under the control of the Poor Law, between a charwoman with ruptured vari
cose veins and a factory girl with pernicious anaemia, was too
much. She disliked the pink flannelette nightdress provided by the institution; she disliked the mugs in which her tepid
tea was brought her; the bread and butter, which was cut
too thick; the coarse institutional sheets, and most of all, the
free-and-easy patronage of the young nurses and doctors.
'I've borne everything, everything. Poverty and discour
agement and loneliness. But this is too much,' she told her
self. The hot tears burned her eyes. 'I can't, I can't bear it.'
Two days after her accident, Eleanor arrived, neat,
solicitous, efficient.
'You must get me out of this. You must get me out of
this,' cried Caroline. 'They tell me I've broken a bone, and
I may be on my back for
weeks.
What about the company? How can I see the influential business men I must see and
have important interviews in a pauper's ward? And it's just terrible here. Terrible. The language, you'd never
believe what it's like. That thing there,' - she jerked her
head towards the factory girl's bed. 'Her language. And
the jokes she makes with the nurses. Horrible. Wearing so-
called pearls too - over a pauper's uniform, and plastering
her face up with lipstick. Eleanor, you
must
get me away.
Find me a nursing-home. Ask Father Mortimer to come and
help me.'
But the girl only answered with cautious sympathy.
'I've spoken to the doctor and your ward sister. I really
do believe that it's better for you to stay here. The quieter you keep, the quicker your leg will heal.'
'Quiet?
Quiet?
What sort of quiet do you think I have
here? Being wakened up at five o'clock in the morning to be
washed, and then - you see - all day long this continual
traffic. I might as well be lying in Selfridge's Bargain Base
ment during sale week.'
'I didn't quite mean that.'
Oh, why had she ever thought Eleanor intelligent? She could not see that this place was unendurable.
'It's no use trying to argue with you. I can see you don't
want to do anything for me. You don't want to help me,
though I should have thought that even for old times' sake
you might have been a
little
charitable. But I might have known.'
She remembered now that there was some particular reason
why she was angry with Eleanor. What was it? The girl
was obstinate and hard and selfish, of course, but there was something else. Caroline's head ached. Her mind was con
fused. She could not concentrate.
'I want you — I want you - I want you to write to dear
Enid at Marshington and tell her what has happened. She
must send me some money immediately and I want some butter and fruit too. Invalids
ought
to have fruit and they
have a lovely conservatory at Marshington and a vine with
grapes on it. I remember the William pears we used to have at Denton, they were splendid, not like the fruit
nowadays,
all pulp and pip, and then write please to Father Mortimer
and ask him to come here at
once.
And then I shall want you to go to Lucretia Road, and to get my papers from the office
in Victoria Street. I
must
attend to the business. I can't let
the company down. All my directors - all my schemes. I
want you to come here
every day
and bring my letters. Now
it's a good thing you can do shorthand and typewriting, because there will be a
great
deal to do.'
The girl was stupid. There she sat fiddling with her block and pencil, taking down a few notes and looking miserable,
instead of being bright and helpful as she could be if she chose.
'Cousin Caroline-'
'Well? Well? Now don't interrupt me. I've got to think.
It's very important. There are those particulars to be sent
to the people who inquired. I had eight inquiries yesterday
-no-not yesterday, Friday, I mean. I'm all confused. And
then will
you
see the Bishop of Kensington-Gore for me? Of
course, I
ought
to go myself. I always say, when you want a
thing done properly, do it yourself. But here I am, tied by
the leg.'
Oh, it was terrible to be dependent upon this obstructive and obstinate girl. She was trying to say something now -something about America and a man called Brooks. There had been a man called Brooks - Brooks - something to do with Macafee.
'I ought to have had a child,' wailed Caroline. 'My own
child would never have grudged a few hours to help me if I
were struck down in the middle of my
most promising
work,
and though I always say that these things are sent to try our faith, I do think there are some occasions when a little sym
pathy would help us to bear the test.'
It was no use. Appealing to Eleanor was like appealing
to a stone. She just sat there, looking white and troubled but
mulish, not at all warm and sympathizing as she should
look. There was something wrong about the girl. She had
no ordinary heart at all. And those absurd clothes she wore
that old tweed coat. Girls should be as fresh as flowers.
'I don't like your coat,' Caroline said aloud suddenly.
Eleanor's solemnity broke into a dimpling smile. 'I'
m sorry.'
'Next time you come, you might bring me a bed-jacket.'
'Cousin Caroline, don't you remember what I told you,
about going to America? It's all fixed up. I heard yesterday
-
Monday - I can go - I sail a week on Friday. It's simply
marvellous.'
'You what?'
'I sail a week on Friday in the
Ruritania
with Hugh and
old Brooks - for six months - as Hugh's assistant.'
'On Friday? You're going to America a week on Friday?
You're leaving me
here?'
'But how can I help it? I'll do all I can to get you fixed up
before I go. Couldn't Betty or Dorothy Smith from Marsh
ington run up to see you? You have other friends. I can't
play fast and loose with Brooks. It's simply amazing that he
should have let Hugh take me.'
'You're going to leave me
here?
Oh, you can't, Eleanor -
you can't. Don't you see - I must have you. I
must.
There's
no one else who can run the company while I'm in bed.
There's no one else. I can't -I can't. Oh, you're really
only at the beginning of your career. You've got time in
front of you, all time. But I'm growing old. This chance
has come at the end of my life. You can't leave me alone.'
'But don't you see - '
'Now, now, now.' The ward sister bustled up officiously.
'Now then, we mustn't get upset, must we?'
'Time to go now. And you can come again to-morrow
as a special favour, though it's
not
visiting day,' she whis
pered to Eleanor.
Caroline lay speechless. Eleanor was deserting her.
Everyone was deserting her. Nobody cared. Life was run
ning away from her.