Part 51 (1/2)

'No, no,' interrupted Victoria fearing an avowal. 'I couldn't. I've been through the mill. Oh, Jack, it was awful. I've been cold, hungry, ill; I've worked ten hours a day--I've swabbed floors.'

A hot flush rose in Holt's fair cheeks.

'Horrible,' he whispered, 'but why didn't you tell me? I'd have helped, you know I would.'

'Yes, I know, but it wouldn't have done. No, Jack, it's no good helping women. You can help men a bit; but women, no. You only make them more dependent, weaker. If women are the poor, frivolous, ignorant things they are, it's because they've been protected or told they ought to want to be protected. Besides, I'm proud. I wasn't coming back to you until I was--well I'm not exactly rich, but--'

She indicated the room with a nod and Holt, following it, sank deeper into wonder at the room where everything spoke of culture and comfort.

'But how--?' he stammered at last, 'how did you--? what happened then?'

Victoria hesitated for a moment.

'Don't ask me just now, Jack,' she said, 'I'll tell you later. Tell me about yourself. What are you doing? and where is your mother?'

Holt looked at her doubtfully. He would have liked to cross-question her, but he was the second generation of a rising family and had learned that questions must not be pressed.

'Mother?' he said vaguely. 'Oh, she's gone back to Rawsley. She never was happy here. She went back as soon as pater died; she missed the tea fights, you know, and Bethlehem and all that.'

'It must have been a shock to you when your father died.'

'Yes, I suppose it was. The old man and I didn't exactly hit it off but, somehow--those things make you realise--'

'Yes, yes,' said Victoria sympathetically. The similarity of deaths among the middle cla.s.ses! Every woman in the regiment had told her that 'these things make you realise' when d.i.c.ky died. 'But what about you?

Are you still in--in cement?'

'In cement!' Jack's lip curled. 'The day my father died I was out of cement. It's rather awful, you know, to think that my freedom depended on his death.'

'Oh, no, life depends on death,' said Victoria smoothly. 'Besides, we are members of one another; and when, like you, Jack, we are a minority, we suffer.'

Holt looked at her doubtfully. He did not quite understand her; she had hardened, he thought.

'No,' he went on, 'I've done with the business. They turned it into a limited liability company a month ago. I'm a director because the others say they must have a Holt in it; but directors never do anything, you know.'

'And you are going to do like the charwoman, going to do nothing, nothing for ever?'

'No, I don't say that. I've been writing--verses you know, and some sketches.'

'Writing? You must be happy now, Jack. Of course you'll let me see them?

Are they published?'

'Yes. At least Amershams will bring out some sonnets of mine next month.'

'And are you going to pa.s.s the rest of your life writing sonnets?'

'No, of course not. I want to travel. I'll go South this winter and get some local colour. I might write a novel.'

His head was thrown back on the cus.h.i.+on, looking out upon the blue southern sky, the bluer waters speckled as with foam by remote white sails.

'You might give me a cigarette, Jack,' said Victoria. 'They're in that silver box, there.'