MISS Mason was sitting in the lounge of the Wilton Hotel. Mr. Davis—the lawyer—had given her the name of this hotel, telling her that it was both quiet and comfortable.
A tiny cloud had arisen in Miss Mason’s mind. It partially eclipsed the sunshine of her morning mood. She knew vaguely what had caused it.
She had changed her dress on her arrival, donning a black satin gown made in precisely the same style as the cashmere. A lace collar took the place of the linen one. A cameo brooch, large, and set in gold as massive as her watch, superseded the black bow. Miss Mason never wore jewellery except in the evening.
She had dined excellently at a small table in a room adorned with water-colour drawings. Between the courses she had found herself admiring them. She was so intent on them that at first she did not notice the covert smiles which two girls were directing towards her table. When she did, the smiles began to make her feel uncomfortable. At first she wondered if her cap were crooked, or her brooch unpinned, but gradually it dawned on her that it was just she herself who was affording them amusement.
Miss Mason had finished the last morsels of her gooseberry tart hurriedly, had swallowed her glass of light wine, and gone out into the lounge. She told herself that she was an old fool to worry over the little incident, but it had caused a vague anxiety in her mind.
She took up a number of the “Graphic” and began turning the pages. The style of the advertisements displayed within its covers had made her previously imagine the periodical to be exclusively intended for feminine perusal. She had been slightly alarmed before dinner to see a stout elderly gentleman studying it profoundly. A momentary idea took possession of her as to whether it was not her duty to go up to him and warn him regarding the nature of some of the contents, but as she saw it was the middle of the book he was studying, she concluded that someone had already given him a delicate hint regarding the advertisement pages. All the same, she could not imagine the editor of the paper to be a modest man.
One or two people had come into the lounge for coffee after dinner, but they had left it again, and, at the moment, it was deserted save for Miss Mason and one other woman.
There was something about the woman that attracted her attention. It was not merely her beauty, but something in the graceful way in which she was sitting in her chair, and in her manner of speaking to the waiter who brought her coffee. Miss Mason found herself watching her. She liked the ivory whiteness of her skin, the vivid red-brown of her hair, and the expression in her eyes. Her dress, too, which was a curious deep blue, pleased her immensely.
Suddenly the woman looked up. She saw Miss Mason’s eyes fixed on her, and she smiled. There was something so frank and spontaneous about the smile that Miss Mason found herself smiling too.
“We have the place to ourselves,” said the woman. “Every one else has departed for different theatres. I should have gone myself if I hadn’t an appointment with a friend of mine.”
“Never been to a theatre in my life,” said Miss Mason. “Lack of opportunity, not prejudice.”
“If you really care to have the opportunity it is certain to present itself sooner or later,” replied the woman calmly. “It’s only a question of the intensity of wishing.”
Miss Mason leant a little forward.
“Doesn’t the opportunity sometimes arrive too late?”
The question was put almost involuntarily. It was one she had been asking herself for the [Pg 31]last three-quarters of an hour—ever since her somewhat hurried exit from the dining-room; and the question did not refer merely to the opportunity of visiting the theatre. The woman understood.
“That raises rather a fine point of question,” she replied. “Can it be fairly said that one has been given the opportunity if it is truly impossible to accept it, which I imagine ‘too late’ would signify?”
Miss Mason did not reply at once. She wanted to tell this woman about the little cloud which had covered the brightness of her sun, the insidious little doubt which had crept into her mind. Yet she hardly knew how to begin.
The woman waited. She was one of those to whom confidences are given. If she had said anything at that moment the sentence Miss Mason was slowly preparing in her mind would never have reached her lips. It came suddenly and jerkily, it was spoken, too, almost below Miss Mason’s breath.
“Isn’t one ever too old? Have waited a long time for the chance of happiness. Got it now. But perhaps I am too old.” A slow painful flush had mounted in Miss Mason’s face with the words.
The younger woman turned quickly towards her.
“Too old for happiness!” she cried, with a little laugh. “Never! If happiness has come to you, welcome her with both hands; and with every kiss she gives you years will roll away from your heart. Happiness is like the spring, which wakes the world to brightness after a dreary winter.”
Miss Mason gave a little choke.
“Felt like that myself in the train this morning. Forgot I was sixty. Thought it was splendid to be alive. Was going to enjoy myself. Was so glad thinking about it thought everybody would be glad too. Can’t explain very well, but felt quite young. Thought all the young things in the world would let me watch their happiness, and I’d be happy in my own happiness and theirs. Didn’t want to interfere with them, or try to mix myself up with them. Just wanted to be a kind of onlooker. Never thought they’d stop to laugh at me—make quiet fun of me, I mean. Made me feel very old. Silly nonsense, of course. Oughtn’t to care. Am old.”
The woman looked up quickly. She had noticed the little scene in the dining-room.
“Age has nothing to do with the matter,” she replied quietly. “There is no reason why you should not enjoy yourself enormously. The dullest person I know is a young man of twenty-three, and one of the gayest is an aunt of mine who is seventy-five. Happiness is a gift of the gods, and is bestowed by them irrespective of age.”
“Think so?” said Miss Mason.
“I am sure of it.”
Again there was a silence. Then, quite suddenly, Miss Mason began to tell the woman the story of her life. She told it badly. For the last forty years at least Miss Mason had talked little. Miss Stanhope had never cared to encourage conversation other than her own. A daily and minute recital of her own imaginary ailments had sufficed her. That had been a subject which had never palled.
“And the summary of it all is,” ended Miss Mason, “that my life has been utterly narrow.” She stopped and looked at the woman. There was something half humorous, half pathetic, in the expression in her eyes.
“I think,” said the woman slowly, “that one is too ready to use the term ‘narrow’ for lives and opinions which have not covered, as we imagine, a great deal of ground. Sometimes I think ‘concentrated’ would be a better word to use for them. I know that people who have darted hither and thither from one place to another, and from one excitement to another, often talk about ‘living’ and the broadness of their lives. But I fancy that if one could go up in a kind of mental aeroplane and look down upon those lives, one might see that their grooves, though they took an intricate pattern, were possibly narrower than some of those which have gone along one straight and monotonous course.”
“Think so?” said Miss Mason again. Then she smiled half-shamefacedly. “There’s one thing—in spite of all the monotony, I’ve never been able to get rid of my belief in kind of fairy tale happenings. Utterly ridiculous, of course.”
The woman laughed, a low clear laugh, which pleased Miss Mason enormously.
“Now we’re on ground with which I’m far more familiar,” she replied. “I was trying to get hold of words and expressions before which were rather outside my vocabulary, and I fear I sounded a little stilted in consequence. But fairy tales! Why life is a fairy tale. Bad fairies and wicked magicians get mixed up in it of course, or it wouldn’t be one, but there are good fairies and all kinds of unexpected and delicious happenings right through it in spite of them. There’s often, too, a long journey through a wood. You’ve been through yours. What do you hope to find on this side?”
“A studio,” said Miss Mason promptly. This woman was making it extraordinarily easy for her to tell her fairy tale. “Have wanted one ever since I was seventeen, and I think almost before that. Perhaps because my father was an artist.”
“And now you’ll take one?”
“Have come up to look for one,” said Miss Mason. “Am going to look at pictures too. There’s the National Gallery, the Tate Gallery, and the Academy. Used to read about them. Later I shall go abroad. Thought I’d better get used to going about in England first. Have read a lot about pictures. Used to take in a magazine called ‘The Studio.’ Saw it advertised once and sent for it. Miss Stanhope used to make me a small allowance. She was kind really, though didn’t always understand.”
“The kindest people don’t always understand,” said the younger woman quickly. “Are you going to take an unfurnished studio? and will you have some of the furniture sent up from your old home?”
There is a curious luxury in speaking of the details of a cherished scheme, and especially to one who has never before found a sympathetic audience. This the woman knew when she put the question.
Miss Mason gave a little laugh.
“Wouldn’t ask that if you’d seen the furniture. Was so used to it it was a wonder I still went on thinking it hideous. I think it was after I’d been away from it for a year and came back to it that I knew how terrible it was. After that it remained terrible. It will all be sold. Have arranged for that. Couldn’t stay with it any longer than was necessary. Don’t care what becomes of it now.”
Miss Mason was feeling so light-hearted again she was almost reckless.
“Then you’ll buy new things?” asked the woman.
“Yes. Soft colours—blues and greens. Love blue. Your dress is lovely.” The words were jerky but genuine.
“It’s my favourite colour,” said the woman.
Miss Mason looked in the direction of a mirror near her. She could see both their figures reflected in it. Again a little wistful look crept into her eyes.
“I suppose,” she said suddenly, “that it was my dress those two girls were laughing at. Perhaps it is queer. Never thought of that before. Couldn’t change now, any more than I could change my skin.”
She stopped, then looked directly at the woman.
“I suppose people will always laugh at me?” she queried. “I suppose those girls were right to laugh. I am queer.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then the woman in the blue dress spoke deliberately.
“I am going to ask you a question which may sound rather conceited,” she said. “Which would you value most—my opinion or the opinion of those two girls?”
“Yours,” said Miss Mason promptly.
“Then I am going to tell you exactly what I think, and you must forgive me if what I say sounds impertinent. I don’t think you are the least queer. I think you are quaint and original. Any artist would infinitely prefer your method of dressing than the method chosen by the older women of the present day. I think it quite possible that you will find a few people will laugh at you, for, as I’ve already said, in this fairy tale world there are bad fairies, and, worse still, stupid ones. But they don’t count, because they aren’t worth consideration, at least not as regards their opinion of our actions.” She spoke the words slowly and simply, almost as she would have spoken them to a child.
Again there was a silence.
“Where will you take your studio?” asked the woman suddenly.
“Chelsea,” said Miss Mason. “Whistler lived there.”
“Conclusive,” laughed the woman.
“Want it to be a nice studio,” said Miss Mason. “Rent won’t matter. Miss Stanhope left me a lot of money. Can’t spend it all.”
“Now the fairy tale progresses,” said the woman joyfully. “Plenty of money and fairy tale ideas are the happiest of combinations.”
Miss Mason laughed.
“Glad I met you,” she said. “Feel like I did when I came up in the train this morning.”
“Our meeting was evidently part of the fairy tale,” said the woman. “Now I must go and get my cloak. It’s five minutes to nine.”
She went towards the stairs. Miss Mason watched her ascending them.
A moment after she had left, a man came into the lounge. He was wearing a thin dark grey overcoat, and held a flat black hat in one hand. Miss Mason had never before seen an opera hat. She looked at it with interest. From it she looked at the man. He was tall and distinctly aristocratic-looking. Miss Mason noticed that he wore a small moustache and imperial.
She heard a step on the stairs. The woman in the blue dress was coming down again. She had a black satin cloak round her.
“Christopher, darling,” she cried, “is that you? I’m beautifully punctual.”
He went up to her and kissed her hand. There was something charming in the courtliness of his manner. Miss Mason, who had been momentarily shocked by the “darling,” felt it somehow explained by the subsequent action.
“One moment, and I’ll come,” said the woman.
She crossed to Miss Mason. The man waited for her.
“I shan’t be home till midnight,” she said, “and I’m leaving for Italy at an unearthly hour to-morrow morning. But I am sure one day we shall meet again. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Miss Mason. “Hope you’ll enjoy yourself.” She longed to say something more, but the words failed her.
She watched her rejoin the man and leave the lounge. It seemed extraordinarily empty after her departure.
“Don’t suppose she’ll ever lack friends,” said Miss Mason to herself, “but if ever she did need one——” She left the rest of the sentence unspoken in her mind, and finding the place a little lonely went up to her own room.
It was not till she was in bed that she realized that she had no idea of the woman’s name. It also never dawned on her to ask the hotel management for it.