The Grey Wig: Stories and Novelettes

sanctissima Maria, without being sure you exist. Oh, Holy Mother of God, advocate of sinners, pray for me. If I had only something solid to cling to-a babe to suckle with its red grotesque little face. You will say cling to the cross, but is not my whole life also a crucifixion? I am rent in twain that a thousand fools may laugh nightly. Oh, Holy Mother, make me at one with myself; it is the atonement I need. Send me the child's heart, and I will light a hundred candles to you.... Or do you now prefer electricity? Oh, Maria mavourneen, I cannot pray to you, for there is a mocking devil within me, and you will not cast her out.' And she burst into hysteric tears.

XVI.

As she was about to start one evening for her round, Mrs. Lee Carter's maid brought up a bombshell. Superficially it looked like a letter with foreign stamps, marked 'Private' and readdressed with an English stamp from Ireland. But that one line of unerased writing, her name, threw her into heats and colds, for she remembered the long-forgotten hand of Lieutenant Doherty. She had to sit down on her bed and finish trembling before she broke the seal and set free this voice from the past.

'DEAR MOTHER-CONFESSOR,-You will be wondering why I have been silent

all these years and why I write now. Well, I will tell you the truth.

It wasn't that I believed you had really gone into the Convent you

wrote me you were joining, it was the new and exciting life and

duties that opened up before me when I got to Afghanistan, far from

post-offices. Afterwards I was drafted to India and had a lot of

skirmishing and tiger-shooting, and your image-forgive me!-became

faint, and I excused myself for not writing by making myself believe

you were buried in the Convent. ['So, after all, he never got the

letter telling him I was going to marry back the Castle!' Eileen mused

joyfully through her agitation.] But now that I am at last coming home

in a few months, no longer a minor, but nearer a major (that's like one

of your old jokes)-somehow your face seems to be the only thing I am

coming back for. It's no use trying to explain it all, or even

apologising. It's just like that. I've confessed, you see, though it

is hopeless to get straight with my arrears, so I won't attempt it. And

when I found out how I felt, of course came the horrible thought that

you might be in the Convent after all, or, worse still, married and

done for, so what do you think I did? I just sent this cable to your

mother: 'Is Eileen free? Reply paid. Colonel Doherty.' Wasn't it clever

and economical of me to think of the word 'free,' meaning such a

lot-not married, not a nun, not even engaged to another fellow?

Imagine my joy when I got back the monosyllable, meaning all that lot.

I instantly cabled back 'Thanks, don't tell her of this.' ['So that's

what mother was hinting at,' thought Eileen, with a smile.] It was all

I could do not to cable to you: 'Will you marry me? Reply paid.' ['What

a good idea for a song!' murmured Nelly.] Put me out of my agony as

soon as you can, won't you, dearest Eileen? Your face is floating

before me as I write, with its black Irish eyes and its roguish

dimples....'

She could read no more. She sat long on her bed, dazed by the rush of bitter-sweet memories. The Convent, her father, her early years, this dear boy ... all was washed together in tears. There was something so bizarre, unexpected and ingenuous about it all; it touched the elemental in her. If he had excused himself even, she would have tossed him off impatiently. But his frank exposure of his own self-contradictoriness appealed subtly to her. Was this the want in her life, was it for him she had been yearning, below the surface of her consciousness, even as she had remained below the surface of his? Here, indeed, was salvation-providential salvation. A hand was stretched to save her-snatch her from spiritual destruction. The dear brown manly hand that had potted tigers while she had been gesticulating on platforms-a performing lioness. Distance, imagination, early memories, united to weave a glamour round him. It was many minutes before she could read the postscript: 'I think it right to say that my complexion is not yellow nor my liver destroyed. I know this is how we are represented on your stage. I have sat for a photograph, especially to send you.'

The stage! Why should he just stumble upon the word, to chill her with the awful question whether she would have to tell him. She was late at her engagements, her performance was perfunctory-she was no longer with 'the boys,' but seated in a howdah on an elephant's back, side by side with a mighty hunter, or walking with a tall flaxen-haired lieutenant between the honeysuckled hedges of an Irish boreen. It struck her as almost miraculous- though it was probably only because her attention was now drawn to the name-that she read of Colonel Doherty in the evening paper the gasman tendered her that very evening, as she waited at the wing. It was a little biography full of deeds of derringdo. 'My Bayard!' she murmured, and her eyes filled with tears.

She wrote and tore up many replies. The first commenced: 'What a strange way of proposing! You begin by giving me two black eyes to prove you've forgotten me. I am so different in other people's eyes as well as in my own it would be unfair to accept you. You are in love with a shadow.' The word-play about her eyes seemed to savour of the 'Half-and-Half.' She struck it out. But 'you are in love with a shadow,' remained the Leit-motif of all the letters. And if he was grasping at a shadow it would be unfair for her to grasp at the substance.

The correspondence continued by every Indian mail after his receipt of her guarded refusal; he Quixotic, devoted, no matter how she had changed. He loved the mere scent of her letter paper. Was she only a governess? Had she been a charwoman, he would have kissed her cheeks white. The boyish extravagance of his passion worked upon her, troubling her to her sincerest core. She would hide nothing from him. She wrote a full account of her stage career, morbidly exaggerating the vulgarity of her performance and the degradation of her character. She was blacker than any charwoman, she said with grim humour. The moment she dropped the letter into the box, a trembling seized on all her limbs. She spent three days of torture; her fear of losing him seeming to have heightened her love for him.

Then Mrs. Lee Carter handed her a cable.

'Sailing unexpectedly S.S. Colombo to-morrow-Doherty.' She nearly fell fainting in dual joy. He was coming home, and he would cross her letter. Before it could return they would be safely married. It should be destroyed unread.

'Is anything wrong?' said her mistress.

'No, quite the contrary.'

'I am glad, because I had rather unpleasant news to tell you. But you must have seen that when Kenneth goes to Winchester, there will practically be nothing for you to do.'

'How lucky! For I am going to be married.'

'Oh, my dear, I am so glad,' gushed Mrs. Lee Carter.

Afterwards Eileen marvelled at the obvious finger of Providence unravelling her problems. She had never relished the idea of finding another place, not easily would she find one so dovetailing into her second life; she might have been tempted to burn her boats.

She prepared now to burn her ships instead. Her contracts with the Halls were now only monthly; Nelly O'Neill could easily slip out of existence. She would not say she was going to be married-that would concentrate attention on herself. Illness seemed the best excuse. For the one week after the Colombo's arrival she could send conscience money. The Saturday it was due found her still starred; she did not believe his ship would get in till late, and managers would particularly dislike being done out of her Saturday night turn. Perhaps she ought to have left the previous week, she thought. It was foolish to rush things so close. But it was not so easy to give up the habits of years, and activity allayed the fever of waiting. She had sent an ardent letter to meet the ship at Southampton, saying he was to call at the Lee Carters' in Oxbridge Terrace on Sunday afternoon, which she had to herself. Being only a poor governess, she would be unable to meet him at the station or receive him at the house on Saturday night, even if he got in so early. He must be resigned to her situation, she added jestingly. On the