CHAPTER X
LESLIE, ON "THE ROOTS OF THE ROSE"
Leslie Long was lounging in a rickety deck-chair under the acacia treethat overshadowed the small lawn behind the Ladies' Residential Club.Miss Long looked nonchalantly untidy and her hair was coming down again.But she had an eye to an occasion on which she meant to shine. She wascarefully darning a pair of silk stockings, stockings she was to wearwith her all-mauve Nijinski rig at a costume dance in a week's time. Shewas looking forward to that dance.
It was a late Saturday afternoon, a fortnight after that Saturday thatGwenna Williams had spent in the country with the Dampier boy. Most ofthe girls in the Club were out somewhere now. Only one of the studentsfrom the College of Music was practising Liszt's "Liebestraum."Presently however, a sunshine-yellow jersey coat appeared on the stepsat the back entrance of the Club. Gwenna Williams was looking out. Shesaw her chum in the garden and ran down to her; dropping upon the lawnat her feet, and nestling her curly head down upon the lengthy knee thatsupported the darning-basket.
Gwenna's small face looked petulant, miserable. She felt it. Leslie, towhom, of course, the other girl was as an open book, asked no question.She left that to Gwenna, who had never, so far, made any spokenadmission of what had happened--or not happened--since the evening whenthey had dressed together to go to that dinner-party at the Smiths'. Itwas Gwenna who asked the first question.
With a stormy and troubled sigh, she broke out, a propos of nothing:"How is one to make him? I mean how is one ever to get a young man tolike one if he hardly ever sees one?"
Leslie looked down at her over the second mauve stocking that she wasdrawing over a yellow wooden darning mushroom.
"Tut," said Leslie, with her usual mock unction. "What is all this about'getting' a young man to like one? What an expression, my love. And,worse; what a _sentiment_! Surely you know that men (nice men) thinkvery lightly of a girl who does not have to be _wooed_. With deference,Taffy. With _reverence_. With hovering uncertainty and suspenseand--er--the rest of that bag of tricks."
The soft, persistent notes of the "Liebestraum" coming through the openClub windows filled a short pause. Leslie threaded her needle with mauvesilk, then took up her mushroom--and her theme--once more.
"Men care little for the girl who drops like a ripe plum (unripe fruitbeing obviously so much sweeter) into their mouths. (Query, why go aboutwith their mouths open?) Not so. The girl who pleases is the girl who ishard to please."
A small discouraged sigh from Gwenna, as she sat there with her yellowjersey coat spread round her like a great dandelion in the grass.
"Oh, but supposing she _isn't_ hard to please?" she faltered. "Supposingsomebody pleased her awfully? If he'd let her, I mean--oh, I daresay youthink I'm dreadful?"
"You outrage my most sacred what's-their-names--convictions, Taffy,"declared Leslie, solemnly running her needle in and out of the stretchedsilk. "How many times must you be told that the girl a man prizes is shewho knows how to set the very highest Value upon herself? The sweetlyreserved Girl who keeps Him Guessing. The ter-_ruly_ maidenly type whoputs a Barrier about herself, and, as it were, says, 'Mind the barbedwire. Thus far--unless it's going to be made worth my while, for good.'Haggling little Hebrew!" concluded Miss Long.
For the girl at whom everybody is shocked has standards of her own. Yes!There are things at which she, even she, is shocked in turn.
Leslie, speaking of that other, belauded type, quoted:
"'_Oh, the glory of the winning when she's won!_'
(per-haps!)."
And in her voice there was honest disgust.
"No, but Leslie! _Stop_ laughing about it all! And tell me, really,now--" appealed the younger girl, leaning an arm upon her friend's kneeand looking up with eyes imploring guidance. "_You've_ known lots ofmen. _You've_ had them--well, admiring you and telling you so?"
"Thank you, yes," said Leslie, demurely darning. "You mightn't think it,to look at me in this blouse, but I have been--er--stood plenty ofemotional drinks of that kind."
"Then you know. You tell me--" pleaded Gwenna, pathetically earnest. "Isit true that men don't like you if they think you like them very much?"
Leslie's impish face peeped at her over the silk stocking held up overthe mushroom. And Leslie's mouth was one crooked scarlet curve ofderision.
But it straightened into gravity again as she said, "I don't know,Taffy. Honest injun! One woman can't lay down rules for another woman.She's got to reckon with her own type--just pick up that hairpin, willyou--and his. I can only tell you that what is one man's meatis--another man's won't meet."
Gwenna, at her knee, sighed stormily again.
Leslie, rearranging herself cautiously in the insecure deck-chair, put afinger through one of Gwenna's curls, and said very gently, "Doesn't theDampier boy come to meet it, then?"
Gwenna, carnation red, cried, "Oh _no_! Of _course_ not. I wasn't_thinking_ of him."
In the same breath she added shamefacedly, "How did you know, Leslie?You are clever!" And then, in a soft burst of confidence, "Oh, I _have_been so worrying! All these days and days, Leslie! And to-day I felt Isimply _had_ to tell you about it--or _burst_! I haven't really beenable to think of anything but him. And he--he _hates_ me, I know."
She used that word to console herself. Hate is so infinitely lessdiscouraging than polite indifference!
Leslie glanced very kindly at the flushed face, at the compact yetlissom little body sitting up on its heels on the Club lawn. She asked,"Doesn't the creature _look_ at you? The other day when he took you outand broke down the motor? Didn't he then?"
"Yes, he did," admitted Gwenna, "a little."
"That's a start, then. So 'Cheer up, Taff, don't let your spirits godown,'" hummed Leslie. "Ask your Fraeulein at the works if she knows anexcellent slang German phrase for falling in love. 'Der hat sich aberman ordentlich verguckt?' 'He's been and looked himself well into it'--Iam glad the Dampier boy did look. It _is_ engendered in the eyes, aspoor old Bernard Shaw used to say. It will be all right."
"Will it, d'you think? Will it?"
Gwenna, kneeling beside the dishevelled, graceful figure with its longlimbs stretched out far beyond the deck-chair, gazed up as if into theface of an oracle.
"What do I _do_," she persisted innocently, "to make him look--to makehim like me?"
"You don't 'do.' You 'be,' and pretty hard too. You, my child, sittight. It's what they call the Passive Role of Woman," explained Leslie,with a twinkle. "Like _this_." And she drew out of her darning-basket aslender horseshoe-shaped implement such as workwomen use to pick up adropped needle, painted scarlet to within half an inch of its end. Sheheld it motionless a little away from her darning. There was a flash inthe sunlight and a sharp little "click" as the needle flew up and clungto the magnet.
"D'you see, Turtle-dove?"
"Yes; but _that_ isn't what you seemed to be talking about just now,"objected Gwenna. "You seemed to think that a girl _needn't mind_ 'doing'something about it. Letting a person see that she liked him."
"That isn't 'doing.' A girl can get in such a lot of usefulexecution--excuse my calling spade work spade work--all the time she isgoing on being as passive as--as that magnet," pronounced the mentor."Of course you've got to take care to look as nice as you know how toall the time.
"And here you score, Miss Williams. Allow a friend to say that you'renot only as pretty as they make 'em, but you know how to take care thatyou're as pretty _as they're made_!"
The younger girl, puzzled, asked the difference.
"I mean that you've cultivated the garden, and haven't got to startdigging up the weeds and sweeping the lawn five minutes before youexpect the garden-party," explained Leslie, in the analogies that sheloved. "Some girls don't seem to think of 'making the most ofthemselves' until the man comes along that they want to make much of_them_. Then it's so often a scramble. You've had the instinct. Youhaven't got your appearance into any of the little ways that put a manoff without his knowing quite
what he's been put off _by_. One excellentthing about you----"
"Yes?" said Gwenna, rapt, expectant.
The particular unsolicited testimonial that followed was unexpectedenough.
"For one thing, Taffy, you're always--_washed_!"
"Why, of course. But, Leslie--surely--so's _everybody_!"
"_Are_ they?" ejaculated Miss Long darkly. "They think they are. Theysimply haven't grasped how much soap and water and loofah go to that, inbig towns. Half the girls aren't what _I_ call tubbed. How many of them,with bathrooms a yard from their bedrooms, bother to have a scrub atnight as well as in the mornings? It's at night they're grimy, Taff.It's at night they leave it on, powder and all, to work into themselvesuntil that 'unfresh' look gets chronic. My dear, I tell you that thetwo-bath-a-day rule would give us much less of the Lonely-and-NeglectedWomen Problem. There!"
Gwenna Williams, twisting between finger and thumb the stalk of a daisyshe had picked off the lawn, murmured something about it's being funny,love having anything to do with how often a girl _washed_!
"Of course you think Leslie is revoltingly unpoetic to suggest it. Butit's sound enough," declared the elder girl. "Flowers don't look as if'anything to do with' earth had ever touched them, do they? But aren'ttheir roots bedded deep down in it right enough? All these hints I giveyou about Health and Body-culture, these are the Roots of the Rose.Some of them, anyhow. Especially _washing_. I tell you, Taff"--she spokesepulchrally--"_half the 'nice' girls we know don't wash enough_._That's_ why they don't get half the attention they'd like. Men likewhat they call a 'healthy-looking' girl. As often as not it simply meansthe girl happens to be specially _clean_. Beauty's skin-deep; moral,look after your skin. Now, you do. No soap on your face, Taff?"
"No; just a 'clean' after washing, with Oatine and things like that."
"Right. Costs you about fourpence a week. It might cost four guineas, tojudge from the economical spirit of some girls over that," said Leslie."Then, to go on with this grossly material subject that is really theroot of Poetry, do you shampoo your hair nice and often? It looks thickand soft and glossy and with the curls all big, as if you did."
"Oh, yes, I do. But then that's easy for me; it's short."
"Mine's long enough, but I do it religiously every fortnight. Pays me,"said Miss Long candidly as she went on working. "Untidy it may be, butit does feel and smell all right. One of my medical students at thehospital where I trained for five minutes--the boy Monty, the Dean'sson--_he_ said once that the scent of my hair was like cherry-wood.'Course I didn't confide in _him_ that I watered it well with bay rumand rosemary every night. Better than being like Miss Armitage, thesuffragette-woman here, who's so nice-minded that she's 'above'pampering the body. What's the consequence? She, and half the girlshere, go about smelling--to put it plainly--like cold grease andgoloshes! Can they wonder that men don't seem to think they'd be--bevery nice to marry?"
"Some suffragettes, and sort of brainy women," hesitated Gwenna, "aremarried."
"Yes; and _have_ you observed the usual type of their husbands?" scoffedLeslie. "Eugh!"
Gwenna, set upon her own subject, drew her back with innocent directnessto the matter in hand.
"What else ought one to do? Besides lots of washing, besides taking careof one's hair and skin?"
"One's shape, of course," mused Leslie. "There you're all right. Thankgoodness--_and me_--that you've left off those weird, those unearthlystays you came up to town in. My dear, they were like a hamper strappedround the middle of you and sending your shoulders up, squared, intoyour ears! You've got a pretty slope there now, besides setting free allyour 'lines.' I suppose elastic has pretty well solved the great corsetquestion at last."
"Thirty shillings was a dreat-ful lot to give for just an elastic belt,"murmured Gwenna, with her little hand at her supple waist. "Still, yousaid I must, even if I didn't have a new blouse over it for eighteenmonths." Again she looked up for guidance. "What else? What's a good_thing_, Leslie? About clothes and that?"
"Oh, child, you know it all now, practically. Let's see--shoes"--sheglanced at the tiny brown one half-tucked under Gwenna's knee. "_Bootsand shoes_ men seem to notice as much as any other part of your get-up.Attractive shoes, even with an unfashionable skirt, will pull youthrough, when shabby shoes would ruin the look of the smartest rig. Theysee that, even when they've no idea what colour you've got on."
She went on to another hole in the stocking and continued: "As forcolours, a man does seem to notice 'a girl in black,' or all-white, orpale blue. I read once that pale blue is 'the sex colour'--couldn't tellyou, never worn it myself. Managed well enough without it, too!" musedLeslie. "Then 'a girl in pink' is very often a success in the evening.Men seem to have settled vaguely that pink is 'the pretty girl'scolour.' So then they fondly imagine that anything that dares to wearit must be lovely. _You_ needn't yet. Keep it for later. Pink--judiciouspink--takes off ten years, Taffy!"
"I--I suppose I shall still care what I look like," murmured the younggirl wistfully, "at thirty-two...."
"Pearl of Wisdom Number Forty-eight: When in doubt, wear thecoat-and-skirt (if it's decently cut) rather than the frock," decreedLeslie. "White silk shirts they seem to like, always. (I'm gladI weaned you of the pin-on tie, Taffy. It always looked like'sixpence-three-farthings.' Whereas you buy a piece of narrow ribbon for'six-three,' you _tie_ it, you fasten it with a plain silver brooch toyour shirt, and it looks _good_.)"
"I'll remember," murmured Gwenna devoutly, from the grass.
Leslie said, "One of the housemaids here--(never stoop to gossip withthe servants, dearest. It _is_ so unhelpful and demoralising to bothclasses)--one of the housemaids once told me that _her_ young man hadtold her that 'nothing in the wide world set a young woman off like anice, fresh, clean, simple shirt blouse, same as what she was wearingthen!' Of course, _he_ was a policeman. Not an aviator or a dean's son.But when it comes to a girl in the case, I expect they're _'brothersunder their skins_,'" said Leslie Long.
Husky with much talking, she cleared her throat.
"Pearl of Wisdom Number Forty-nine: Be awfully careful about yourcollar, the ends of your sleeves and the hem of your skirt. (Keeping astrong force on the Frontier; that is always important.) Don't ever letyour clothes be 'picturesque,' except for indoors. A man loathes walkingalong beside anything that flaps in the wind, or anything that lookslike what he calls 'fancy dress.' Outside, don't wear anything that youcan't skip easily on to the last bus in. Don't have 'bits' of anythingabout you. Try to be as neat as the very dowdiest girl you know,_without the dowdiness_. Neatness, my beloved sisters, is the---- (Heream I talking like this; but why," she interrupted herself, laughing,"_why_ aren't I neater myself when in mufti? I mean, when there's nobodyabout? '_In time of Peace, prepare for War._' It would be better. Mightget my hair out of its _habit_ of descending at the wrong moment.) Andthen, then, when all your good points are mobilised, you wait for theEnemy."
"The _enemy_?" said little Gwenna, doubtfully.
"Yes. The Man. The opposing force, if you like. You can think and thinkand wish and wish about him then until the whole air about you goesshivery-quivery with it. 'Creating an atmosphere' is what they call it,I believe. And get him well into the zone of _that_," advised Leslie."For it's no use the magnet being a magnet if it doesn't allow itself toget within miles of a needle, is it? Might as well be any old bit ofscrap-iron. Plenty of girls--_nice_ girls, I mean--not like thatdeplorably vulgar Miss Long. What _she's_ doing in a Club that'ssupposed to be for _ladies_ I don't know. The _horrid_ things she says!Bad! _Bad_ form! And I'm sure if she says those here, she must haveheaps of other worse things she _could_ say, and probably _does_, tosome people! Er--oh, where _was_ I? Ah, yes!" rattled on Leslie, withher black head flung against the striped canvas back of the chair, hereyes on her surprisingly neat darning. "I was going to say--plenty ofnice girls muff everything by putting too much distance that doesn'tlend enchantment to the view between themselves and the men that aren'toften sharp enough t
o deserve being called 'the needle.' Don't you makethe mistake of those nice girls, Taffy."
"Well, do I _want_ to? But how can I help it? How can I even try to 'be'anything, if he isn't there to know anything at all about it? I don'tsee him! I don't meet him!" mourned the Welsh girl in the soft accentthat was very unmistakable to-day. "It's a whole fortnight, Leslie,since that lovely day in the fields. It seems years. He hasn't writtenor anything. I've waited and waited.... And sometimes I feel as ifperhaps I _shouldn't_ ever see him again. After all, I never did see himproperly before we went to your sister's that night. Oh, isn't it awfulto think what little _chances_ make all the difference to who one seesor doesn't see? I can't know for certain that I shall _ever_ see himagain. Oh, Leslie!"
Leslie cut her last needleful of lilac silk and answered in the mostreassuringly matter-of-fact tone:
"But of course you will. If you want to enough. For instance--should youlike to see him at this dance?"
"Dance?" inquired Gwenna, dazed.
"Yes. This fancy-dress affair that I'm doing these stockings for. (I wonthese in a bet from one of my Woolwich cadets.) This tamasha next week?"
"But--_he_ isn't going, is he? And I'm not even asked."
"And can't these things ever be arranged?" demanded her chum, laughing."Can do, Taffy. Leslie will manage."
"Oh--but that's so _kind_!" murmured the younger girl, overcome.
"Do you expect me _not_ to be 'kind'? To another girl, in love? Nay, ohTaffy! I leave that to the 'nicest' of the girls who think it 'horrid'to think about young men, even. Gem of Truth Number Eighty: It isn't thelittle girl who's _had_ plenty to eat who's ready to snatch the bun outof the hand of the next little girl," said Leslie. She rolled the silkstockings into a ball, and rose in sections from that sagging chair."Leslie will see you're done all right. All that remains to be discussedis the question of what you're to wear at the dance."
This question Leslie settled as the two girls went for an after-supperstroll. They went past the summer crowd patrolling the Spaniards Road,past the patch of common and the benches and the pond by the flagstaffthat make that part of Hampstead so like a bit of the seaside. It was agolden evening. In the hazy distance a small, greyish, winged objectrose above the plane which was Hendon, and moved to the left towards theblue taper of Harrow Church, then sank out of sight again.
"There's one," sighed Gwenna, her eyes on the glowing sky, where thebiplane had been circling. "He's in it, perhaps."
"Little recking what plans are now being made for his welfare by me,"observed Miss Long, as the two girls descended the hill and found atlast a birch thicket that was not held by Cockney lovers. She letherself down cross-legged into the bracken. The Welsh girl perchedherself on a branch of the birch tree that was polished smooth as an oldbench. Thus she sat among the stirring leaves, head on one side,listening, her babyish face looking down intent against the sky.
"Ah! That's _you_! '_A Cherub._' That's what your fancy dress is to be,"pronounced the elder girl. "Just your own little crop-curled head withnothing on it; and a ruff of cherub's wings up to your chin. Thoselittle wings off your hat will do beautifully. Below the ruff, clouds.Appropriate background for cherubs. Your misty-white frock with no sashthis time, and one of those soap-bubble coloured scarves of Libertygauze draped over it to represent a rainbow. Little silver shoes._Strictly_ speaking, cherubs don't have those, of course. But if youcan't become a Queen of Spain--if you can't be realistic, be pretty.Your own, nearly-always expression of dreamy innocence will come innicely for the costume," added Leslie. "Quite in keeping."
"I'm sure I'm not that," protested the Welsh girl, piqued. "_I'm_ notwhat they call 'innocent.'"
"No, I don't think you are. 'What they call innocent' in a girl is sucha mixture. It means (a) no sense of humour at all; (b) the chilliesttemperament you can shiver at, and (c) a complete absence ofobservation. But I believe _you_ have '_beneath your little frostingsthe brilliance of your fires_,' Taffy. Yours is the real innocence."
"It isn't, indeed," protested the girl, who was young enough to wish tobe everything but what she was. "Why, look at the way you say anythingto me, Leslie!"
Leslie laughed, with a remoter glance. Then suddenly she dropped herblack head and put a light caress on the corner of the sunshine-yellowjersey coat.
"Be as sweet always," she said, lightly too. "Look as sweet--at thedance!"