The letter was two months old and more. She had read it at least fifty times. It was the dearest, bitterest, most miraculous phenomenon in the world. It was not a letter at all. It was a talisman, a fetish.
There came a rap on the door, shattering the immaterial fabric of her private existence and changing Elsie back into the ex-charwoman promoted to “general.” She shuddered under the shock.
“Elsie, are you going to burn that candle all night?” Mr. Earlforward’s bland, gentle, authoritative voice! He must have seen light shining under the door, and crept upstairs in his slippers.
“No, sir. I’m just going to blow it out.” She was conscience-stricken.
“Did you finish off all that loaf?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” She was still more conscience-stricken.
“Tut-tut. … Tut-tut.”
Elsie put the letter under her pillow. She was undressed in a minute. She had no toilet to perform. She no more thought of washing than a Saxon queen would have thought of washing. She did not examine the bed to see if it was comfortable. She had never failed to sleep. Any bed was a bed. As she slipped in between the blankets her brow puckered with one anxiety. Could she wake at six in that silent house? She must! She must! She extinguished the candle. And as she smelt its dying fumes in the darkness and explored with her sturdy limbs the roominess of the bed, a sudden surprising sensation impaired her joy in exclusive privacy. She missed the warm, soft body of the furniture-polisher’s child, with whom she had slept so long. Some people are never satisfied.
III
Waxworks
As Henry and Violet approached the turnstile, Henry murmured to Violet:
“How much is it? How much is it?”
“One and three, including tax,” Violet murmured in reply.
Half a crown for the two was less than he had feared, but he felt in his trouser-pocket and half a crown was more than he had there, and he slowly pulled out of his breast-pocket an old Treasury-note case. The total expenses of the wedding ceremony at the Registry had been considerable; he seemed to have been disbursing the whole time since they left Clerkenwell for the marriage and honeymoon (which, according to arrangement, was to be limited to one day).
The wedding breakfast—two covers—at the magnificent, many-floored, music-enlivened, swarming Lyons’ establishment in Oxford Street had been—he was prepared to believe—relatively cheap, and there were no tips, and everything was very good and splendid; but really the bill amounted to a lot of money in the judgment of a man who for years had never spent more than sixpence on a meal outside his own home, and whom the mere appearance of luxury frightened. Throughout the wedding breakfast he had indeed been scared by the gilding, the carving, the seemingly careless profusion, the noise, and the vastness of the throng which flung its money about in futile extravagance; he had been unable to dismiss the disturbing notion that England was decadent, and the structure of English society threatened by a canker similar to the canker which had destroyed Gibbon’s Rome. Ten shillings and sevenpence for a single repast for two persons! It was fantastic. He had resolved that this should be the last pleasure excursion into the West End. Meanwhile, he was on his honeymoon, and he must conduct himself and his purse with the chivalry which a loved woman would naturally, if foolishly, expect.
It was after the wedding breakfast that Violet had, in true feminine capriciousness, suddenly suggested that they should go to Madame Tussaud’s waxworks before the visit to the gorgeous cinema in Kingsway, which was the pièce de résistance of the day’s programme. She had never seen Madame Tussaud’s (nor had he), and she was sure it must be a very nice place; and they had plenty of time for it. All her life she had longed to see Madame Tussaud’s, but somehow … etc. Not that he needed too much persuading. No! He liked, he adored, the girlishness in that vivacious but dignified and mature creature, so soberly dressed (save for the exciting red flowers in her dark hat). In consenting to gratify her whim he had the sensations of a young millionaire clasping emerald necklaces round the divine necks of stage-favourites. After all, it was only for one day. And she had spoken truly in saying that they had plenty of time. The programme was not to end till late. Previous to their departure from Riceyman Steps on the wedding journey he had seen Violet call aside Elsie (who was left in charge of the shop), and he doubted not that she had been enjoining the girl to retire to bed before her employers’ return. A nice thoughtfulness on Violet’s part.
Withal, as he extracted a pound note from his case, he suffered agony—and she was watching him with her bright eyes. It was a new pound note. The paper was white and substantial; not a crease in it. The dim watermarks whispered genuineness. The green and brown of the design were more beautiful than any picture. The majestic representation of the Houses of Parliament on the back gave assurance that the solidity of the whole realm was behind that note. The thing was as lovely and touching as a young virgin daughter. Could he abandon it forever to the cold, harsh world?
“Here! Give it me,” said Violet sympathetically, and took it out of his hand. What was she going to do with it?
“I’ve got change,” she added, with a smile, her face crinkling pleasantly.
He was relieved. His agony was soothed. At any rate the note was saved for the present; it was staying in the shelter of the family. He felt very grateful. But why should she have taken the note from him?
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the uniformed turnstile-man, with almost eager politeness as Violet put down half a crown. The character of
