Читать книгу Splendid Joy - Marguerite Williams - Страница 11

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FOR a week Clare and Martyn roamed in Eden and dreamed their dreams together. Then Martyn talked of a wedding and Clare remembered clothes.

In Mrs. Hulbert’s cosy kitchen, by the light of the paraffin lamp, she attempted to make up her accounts. It was slow business, for “I love you” kept intruding into the columns; “Beloved” made arithmetic go wrong. The final result of the interrupted calculations needed a daring optimism to face. Clare had no lack; yet she had determined to come to the man she loved as beautiful as possible.

She had dreamed her girlish dreams—of a lover who might one day be hers. For him she had secretly guarded her thoughts and her imagination. Now that he had come true there was nothing in the past that must be forgotten, nothing that she must ask him to forgive; but much more that she was discovering she herself must give.

While they roamed together in their Eden they talked of many things beyond themselves—and saw them all colored by their love. By way of Martyn’s microscope Clare found hitherto unexplored wonder-worlds—in a tiny shell, a grain of sand, the section of a leaf, the chip of a common pebble. The lovers flamed responsive to the warm wonders of the earth—of life—of love, as they daringly explored the mysteries of those monosyllabic immensities together.

Then into Clare’s dreams came new thoughts of personal things. For herself she had had very little vanity; now that Martyn loved her she must have much. She visioned the ancient women of the East—their raiment of needlework, their clothing of wrought gold, their spices and perfumes; and she dreamed of fine garments, dainty embroidery, and exquisite needlework for herself. She would go to the man she loved as beautiful as she could make herself. She longed to begin.

She longed to finish too—that she might be his altogether.

Practical visionary! In her dreams—raiment of needlework, clothing of wrought gold, sweet perfumes, and dainty embroideries; in her exchequer—ten pounds. But she went on dreaming!...

At the end of the week Martyn had to go up to town. He said he would be back in a few days. The first evening that Clare found herself alone, she discovered that she too must go—to the cheap lodging that was waiting for her there—and earn some money. She could surely get some secretarial work—she was very experienced.

The morning after her return she set out to visit Employment Agencies with the hopeful optimism of the lover who has found that life is kind.

She was not to be too easily rebuffed, and the first check that she received was tempered by courtesy.

“I’m afraid it would be no use entering your name. Our last temporary post is just filled.”

“Are you likely to be having any more?” Clare asked diffidently.

“I’m afraid not. Most of our posts are in schools, and all the engagements for next term are fixed. I can give you another address if you like.”

“Thank you.”

Clare left the neat, business-like office, and the pleasant faced woman in charge, and in a few moments was in Oxford Street, the address in her hand. After a second journey underground she reached the Agency recommended—the possible adit to the temporary post that should make “raiment of needlework” a reality.

The building was over-flowed with people. Employers occupied but a small part—she saw fashionably-dressed ladies writing at small tables—those wishing to be employed seemed everywhere; and all Clare’s sympathies went out to that superfluous, seeking majority.

What post did she require? Secretary? Would she step upstairs—to the left.... On she went, passing men and women, up to a large room crowded with women—waiting.

Clare gave only one glance in the direction of that sombre, dreary group, but it roused her burning sympathy. How long had those tired women waited? How much longer would they have to wait? Would despair reach some of them before success had brightened their lives? Would old age—before love? She wished that they all knew how beautiful life could be!

She crossed the room to the small office in the corner. The stern-looking woman at the desk asked questions mechanically. But as Clare answered, she looked up, and her face changed. Suddenly she smiled. Clare did not know that she was radiating happiness, but the tired woman’s hard voice softened as she answered her appeal.

“I’m afraid we’ve nothing suitable. Couldn’t you advertise? That ought to bring you something.”

“Thank you,”—and Clare smiled in return, hiding her urgency. “I might try.”

“I’ll just put down the names of the best papers,” the woman suggested with unwonted consideration.

“Thank you very much,” Clare responded gratefully, as she took the slip of paper. Then she turned and walked quickly through that crowd of sombre waiting women—down into the street again.

The morning had gone and she had accomplished nothing. How much more fruitful had been the mornings in Eden! But still she kept her dream of the “clothing of wrought gold,” and of the king’s daughter within the palace, who made herself beautiful in the days of old.

She bought the papers in which she had been recommended to advertise, and got into the train southward bound. One advertisement looked encouraging. Should she spend the sunny afternoon still searching? The dream of sweet perfumes and dainty embroideries helped her to persevere. She decided to ring up the Agency of the encouraging advertisement.

A voice answered in cheery tones—

“Temporary post? Oh, yes—certainly!—Secretarial?... Shorthand?... Yes—sure to find you something.... One moment.... Do you speak French?... Ah, unfortunate. Had just the post for you. Still, come over and have a talk. We don’t close till five.”

The cheery voice stopped. Clare said that she would come at once—hung up the receiver, and again started west, lured on by those deceptively encouraging tones.

Clare hated travelling underground, but she chose her own mental abode, and there she kept the sunshine. Tired men and women smiled involuntarily as they looked at her glowing face—and went on their way a little less wearily.

Once again she emerged into Oxford Street, and after several inquiries found the place that she sought. Her hurry had been unnecessary. She was left unnoticed in a dingy waiting room, while the precious minutes passed, carrying away the beauty of the day that could never come back.

The air of the room was stifling. Clare transferred her consciousness to a golden shore. She watched a graceful vessel cutting a straight path through blue waters—the sunlight on her sails....

After nearly an hour someone came to the door and called a name. Clare rose, thinking that it must have been hers. But still she had to wait—as many others had waited before her.

Some time later a very unprepossessing woman came in, with a paper in her hand. Clare now dreaming of the “raiment of needlework,” was rudely awakened.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,”—and the tones—no longer cheery—scattered the dreams. “No, we’ve no temporary posts. Yes, there was a lady here when you rang up. Just the thing; but you see, you’ve not sufficient French.... Shall we have any others? I’m sure I can’t say. Here’s the registration form. Will you fill it in—the fee is half-a-guinea. Oh—you’d rather take it with you?... Good evening.”

Clare had had many bad minutes that day, but they were afterwards adequately paid for by the good ones spent in enjoying the recollection of them. But when she thought of the girls to whom such experiences were all too common—girls who had not her knowledge of a Paradise beyond—then laughter died, and she drew up plans for a fairer England.