Archibald Cronin - The Stars Look Down

In the cool darkness of her room she lay flat upon her back, still thinking… thinking. There was no hysteria this time, no floods of tears, no wild beating at the pillow. She was perfectly calm; but for all her calmness she was frightened.

She faced the fact that Joe had thrown her over, a frightful blow, a blow almost mortally damaging to her pride, a blow which had struck her psychologically at the worst possible time. She was sick of Slattery’s, sick of the long hours of standing, stretching, snipping, sick of being politely patronising to the common women customers. Only to-day her six years at Slattery’s had risen up to confront her; she had told herself firmly she must get out of it. She was sick of her home, too; sick of the crowded, littered, blowsy place. She wanted a house of her own, her own things; she wanted to meet people, give little tea parties, have proper “society.” But suppose she never had her wish? Suppose it was a case of Slattery’s and Scottswood Road all her life — there lay the vital cause of Jenny’s sudden alarm. In Joe she had lost one opportunity. Would she lose the other?

She put in a great deal of cold hard thinking before she fell asleep. But she woke next morning feeling refreshed. Saturday was her half-day and when she came home at one o’clock she ate her lunch quickly and hurried upstairs to change. She spent a great deal of time upon her dressing; choosing her smartest frock, a pearl grey with pale pink trimmings, doing her hair in a new style, carefully smoothing her complexion with Vinolia cold cream. The result satisfied her. She went down to the parlour to wait for David.

She expected him at half-past two, but he came a good ten minutes before his time, thrilling with eagerness to see her. One glance reassured Jenny: he was head over ears in love with her. She let him in herself and he stood stock still in the passage, consuming her with his ardent eyes.

“Jenny,” he whispered. “You’re too good to be true.”

As she led the way into the parlour she laughed, pleased: David, she was forced to admit, had a way of saying things far beyond Joe’s capacity. But he had brought her the stupidest little present: not chocolates or candy or even perfume; nothing useful: but a bunch of wallflowers, hardly a bunch even, a small sort of posy which couldn’t have cost more than twopence at one of the market barrows. But never mind, never mind about that now. She smiled:

“I’m that pleased to see you, David, really I am, and such lovely flowers.”

“They’re nothing much, but they’re sweet, Jenny, and so are you. Their petals have a kind of mist on them… it’s like the lovely mist on your eyes.”

She did not know what to say; this style of conversation left her completely at a loss; she supposed it came from all the books he’d read in these last three years—“poems and that like.” Ordinarily she would have bustled away with the wallflowers, making the correct ladylike remark: “I really do love arranging flowers.” But this afternoon she did not wish to bustle away from him. She wanted to keep near him. Still holding the flowers she sat down primly on the couch. He sat beside her, smiling at the stem propriety of their attitudes.

“We look like we were having our photograph taken.”

“What?” She gazed at him blankly, making him laugh outright.

“You know, Jenny,” he said, “I’ve never met anyone more… oh, more completely innocent than you. Like Francesca… Hither all dewy from her cloister fetched… a man called Stephen Phillips wrote that.”

Her eyes were downcast. Her grey dress, pale soft face and still hands clasping the flowers did give her a queer nunlike quality. She remained very quiet after he had spoken, wondering what on earth he meant. Innocent? Was he — could he be kidding her? No, surely not, he was too far gone on her for that. She said at length:

“You’re not to make fun of me. I haven’t been feeling too well this day or two.”

“Oh, Jenny.” His concern was instant. “What’s been wrong?”

She sighed, began to pick at the stem of one of his flowers.

“They’ve all been down on me here, all of them… Then there’s been trouble with Joe… he’s gone away.”

“Joe gone?”

She nodded.

“But why? In the name of goodness why?”

She was silent a moment, then, still plucking pathetically at the flower:

“He was jealous… He wouldn’t stay because… oh, well, if you must know, because I like you better than him.”

“But, Jenny,” he protested, confused. “Joe said… do you mean… do you really mean that after all Joe was fond of you?”

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” she answered with a little shiver. “I won’t talk about it. They’ve been on about it all the time. They blame me because I couldn’t stand Joe…” She lifted her eyes to his suddenly. “I can’t help myself, can I, David?”

At the subtle implication in her words his heart beat loudly, with a quick and exquisite elation. She preferred him. She had called him David. Gazing into her eyes as on that first evening when they met, he lost himself, knowing only that he loved her, wanting her with all his soul. There was no one in the world but Jenny. There would never be anyone but Jenny. The thought, simply of her name, Jenny, was enchantment: a lark singing, a bud opening, beauty and sweetness, melody and perfume in one. With all the ardour of his young and hungry soul he desired her. He bent towards her, and she did not draw away.

“Jenny,” he murmured above the beating of his heart. “Do you mean that you like me?”

“Yes, David.”

“Jenny,” he whispered. “I knew right from the start it would be like this. You do love me, Jenny?”

She gave a little nervous nod.

He took her in his arms. Nothing in all his life transcended the rapture of that kiss. He kissed her lightly, almost reverently. There was a tragic youthfulness, a complete betrayal of his inexperience in the tender awkwardness of that embrace. It was the queerest kiss she had ever known. Some curious quality in the kiss helped a tear tremulously down her cheek, another, and another.

“Jenny… you’re crying. Don’t you love me? Oh, my dear, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I do love you, David. I do,” she whispered. “I haven’t got anybody but you. I want you to go on loving me. I want you to take me out of here. I hate it here. I hate it. They’ve been beastly to me. And I’m sick of working in the millinery. I’ll not put up with it another minute. I want to be with you, right away. I want us to be married and happy and, oh, everything, David.”

The emotion in her voice moved him beyond the edge of ecstasy.

“I’ll take you away, Jenny. As soon as ever I can. Whenever I take my degree and get a post.”

She burst into tears.

“Oh, David, but that’s another whole year. And you’ll be in Durham, at the University, away from me. You’ll forget me. I couldn’t wait as long as that. I’m sick of it here, I tell you. Couldn’t you get a post now?” She wept bitterly; she did not know why.

It distressed him terribly to see her crying: he saw that she was overwrought and highly strung: but every sob she gave seemed to pierce him like a wound.

He soothed her, stroking her brow as her head lay upon his shoulder.

“It’s not so very long, Jenny. And don’t worry, oh, my dear, don’t worry. Why, I daresay I could get a post now if it came to the bit. I’m quite qualified to teach, you see. I’ve got the B.Litt already, you can take that in two years at the Baddeley. It’s not worth anything, nothing like the B.A., but I daresay if it came to a push I could get a job on the strength of it.”

“Could you, David?” Her streaming eyes implored him. “Oh, do try, David! How would you set about it?”