The Eye of Love

by Margery Sharp

  For himself, he not only worried about Harry, he missed Harry. Miranda seemed not to miss Harry at all. Mr Joyce missed him all the time. Not to see his friend across the dinner-table, not to snug down with him in the study afterwards, to Mr Joyce made it scarcely worth while coming home. When old Mrs Gibson crept weeping to Bond Street, a letter from Harry in her hand—no address, just saying he’d be round to see her soon—Mr Joyce almost dropped a tear on it himself. The rash promise rose to his lips spontaneously. “Don’t worry, Mamma Gibson,” promised Mr Joyce. “I’ll find him a job somewhere …” “But near!” wept Mrs Gibson. “Not that Leeds again! I want my boy where I can see him!” “So do I,” said Mr Joyce …

  Fortunately he had very good connections; not much more than a week passed before he was lunching his friend Conrad at the Ritz. Mr Joyce never minded doing things obviously. From the moment he saw the caviare, Mr Conrad knew he was to be asked a favour, and could think over the advantages of granting it while he ate. Its nature indeed startled him (he was the father of Denise) but not (also, perhaps, because he was the father of Denise) as much as might have been expected.

  “I hear you want a manager for that branch of yours at Richmond,” said Mr Joyce, over the cigars.

  “You hear right,” agreed Mr Conrad—thinking “Ah ha!” to himself. The surprise was yet to come.

  “Then why not Harry Gibson?” asked Mr Joyce.

  Mr Conrad stared. Then, he stared.

  “You want a job for that chap there’s been all the trouble over? First he cooks your books, then you want to send him to cook mine?”

  “He did not cook the books,” said Mr Joyce angrily. “Harry is honest as the day. Conscientious, hardworking. Just the man you need. I dare say we could do a little business.”

  “If he’s as good as all that, why did you sack him?” asked Mr Conrad reasonably.

  Mr Joyce shrugged.

  “It was an affair of the women …”

  “Ah,” said Mr Conrad. He had from the first mistrusted certain of his daughter’s reports; after respecting old Joyce’s acumen for some twenty years, hadn’t been able to see him going so wrong at last over a son-in-law … An affair of the women, then! One might have known! “When that girl of yours changes her mind,” said Mr Conrad, with something like admiration, “she makes a thorough job of it. All right, send him round.”

  2

  Mr Joyce arrived at the house in Alcock Road not exactly furtively (he took a taxi), but having dropped in at Bond Street first to leave word that if Miranda telephoned, he was at an auction. It was the first step towards what he hoped would be a very happy double life—he had already discovered, for instance, that at Richmond was a golf-course, and meant to play there with Harry on Sundays under cover of taking Turkish baths. The immediate prospect, of relieving his friend’s anxieties and saving him from starvation, was of course more delightful still; but as the taxi bore him down Alcock Road, it was a toss-up which took priority in Mr Joyce’s excited mind.

  How astounding, therefore, that within an instant of his ringing the bell, both should have been even momentarily forgotten! To Mr Joyce’s amazement, the child who opened the door was a child he recognised. Short, stocky, fair-haired and grey-eyed—wearing the same jersey—actually with a stick of charcoal in her fist—there stood his faithless protégée of Almaviva Place.

  “But this is crazy!” ejaculated Mr Joyce—even as he spoke grabbing hold of her. “Why didn’t your mother come to see me?”

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Martha stolidly. “I haven’t got a mother. I’m an orphan.”

  “But you told me—An orphan!” cried Mr Joyce. “Harry!” shouted Mr Joyce, thrusting her before him into the house. “Are you there, Harry?” Out burst Harry from the sitting-room; Mr Joyce thumped him gladly with the hand that wasn’t grasping Martha and hurried on. “Whose is this child, Harry? What is she doing here? I have a job for you, Conrad’s, Richmond,” added Mr Joyce rapidly. “Who is this child?”

  “I told you about her, that’s Martha, Miss Diver’s niece,” said Harry Gibson, in natural astonishment, and thumping his friend back. “Did you say Conrad’s?”

  “At Richmond, we will play golf, but never mind that now,” exclaimed Mr Joyce impatiently. “She told me her mother was Mrs Brown.” He shook Martha up and down. “Was it wrong? Why did you tell me wrong? Good afternoon, Miss Diver, have you a sister-in-law Mrs Brown?”

  “No, Hogg,” said Miss Diver, adding to the confusion. “I’m afraid she’s dead. Oh, Harry, did I hear him say—?”

  “Yes, he has!” exulted Harry Gibson.

  “But she lives here, you look after her?” persisted Mr Joyce.

  “Who, Martha? Of course,” said Dolores. “Oh, Mr Joyce, won’t you come into the sitting-room? Martha can come too—”

  But Martha had had enough of being pulled about. She wrenched herself free and glowered all round.

  “I don’t want to come into the sitting-room. I’d rather not,” said Martha, very plainly.

  “Martha, do as you’re told!” cried Dolores. When their benefactor, their saviour, was taking an interest in her! “When Mr Joyce is being so kind!” cried Dolores—an unfortunate echo. Martha started off towards the kitchen; Dolores glanced in desperate apology towards Mr Joyce, and was surprised to see on his face a look not of anger or offence, but merely one of peculiar attentiveness.

  “Stop a moment,” said Mr Joyce mildly.

  Remarkably, Martha stopped.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Draw,” said Martha.

  “That’s right,” said Mr Joyce. “Get along, don’t waste time.”

  3

  It astonished both Miss Diver and Harry Gibson, in the sitting-room, how he kept recurring to the child, as though she was of importance. “Conrad’s won’t be any goldmine,” said Mr Joyce, “but enough for you both—and Mamma Gibson. (No pension for Mamma Gibson now!” chuckled Mr Joyce, in parenthesis.) “But the one to think for, of course, is the child. If she’s happy with her aunt, it would be a mistake to disturb her.” “I’m sure Martha’s always seemed perfectly happy,” said Miss Diver, uncomprehendingly. “And she’s been such a little comfort, we wouldn’t dream of parting with her—would we, Harry?” “By Jove, no!” said Harry Gibson. “I wasn’t thinking of that,” said Mr Joyce impatiently. “All I want is that she shouldn’t be put off.” “Put off what?” asked Harry. Both he and Dolores were anxious to meet Mr Joyce’s wishes in every possible way, but they didn’t know what he was driving at. Even when he proposed to pay for Martha’s keep and education, in return for the pick of her drawings year by year, they saw only another proof of his surpassing benevolence. “I’ll make her draw you something really pretty!” promised Dolores.

  At that Mr Joyce laid down the law.

  “On the contrary, I ask you please not to make any suggestion to her at all. Not to bother her at all about her drawings, or even look at them, unless she wants. Also not to try and make her be grateful to me, because she won’t. Martha would chop us all up for india-rubber, if we were made of india-rubber,” said Mr Joyce, without apparent disapproval. “Do you understand me at all?”

  “Well, really, I’m not sure,” said Dolores. “I’m afraid I’ll just go on treating her as I always have.”

  “That’ll do,” said Mr Joyce.

  4

  It was inevitable in one of Harry Gibson’s temperament that he should wish to celebrate rescue from financial catastrophe, the gift of a fair future—in short, the fulfilment of all his loving hopes for himself and Dolores—by going out to get a drink. (“You won’t mind a pub just for once?” asked chivalrous Harry. “Of course not, with you, dearest,” replied Dolores, as it were folding herself under his wing.) Mr Joyce took this further step towards a double life with alacrity; only Martha remained behind, refusing even the lure of fizzy lemonade. “But she eats well?” enquired Mr Joyce, in a last burst of solicitude, walking down Alcock Road. “Jolly nearly as muc
h as I do,” Harry reassured him. “Fine,” approved Mr Joyce. “Good meat, good puddings, build up strength. D’you know what they feed me now?” he added wistfully. “Eternal goulash. I put up with it because of you-know-why.”

  This was the last word of reproach he ever uttered, to his defaulting son-in-law. He was a man of remarkable magnanimity.

  “But on Sundays, at the golf-club, we will get some good British grub,” forecast Mr Joyce, cheering up.

  5

  When they were all gone Martha went out into the back-garden. It was several months now since she had frequented there; drawing hard outlines in Indian ink, and latterly in charcoal, had kept her within-doors; also Mr Phillips might have surprised her—Mr Phillips clanking about with garbage-pail and coal-bucket. There was no danger of this now.

  It was quite dark. Head-on, head-down to the knotted grasses, one couldn’t have seen an inch beyond one’s nose. All Martha could make out was the shape of the coal-shed, square and peaked, and the cylindrical shape, beside it, of the dust-bin.

  They formed a rather satisfactory combination. Martha, cautiously circling to find the best angle, meditated in terms of charcoal. When there was more light, thought Martha; not full daylight, but when it got shadowy; the top of the shed hard against the sky, and perhaps the dust-bin lid (which might be cocked) and the lower-down part blotty. Beautiful was the coal-shed, beautiful the dust-bin, at that moment, to Martha’s eye of love; she forgot to be cold, out in the December dark without a coat, as she rapturously contemplated them. Then suddenly down from the fence leapt a cat—grey-furred by the night, discs of mica for eyes—and scared her out of her wits.

  “You frightened me!” cried Martha indignantly; and like the child she still was, chased it away.

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  Turn the page to continue reading from the Martha Novels

  Chapter One

  1

  “I’ve come,” announced Mr. Joyce, “to talk about Martha.”

  Martha’s Aunt Dolores, still slightly fluttered at the unexpected visit, paused in the act of placing a black satin cushion behind his back to glance nervously at Harry her husband. She was always a little nervous of Mr. Joyce, because they owed so much to him: if he hadn’t put Harry in as manager at the shop in Richmond, they mightn’t even have had a roof over their heads. (The Joyce headquarters establishment, in Bond Street, purveyed sable and mutation mink; Harry Gibson still did quite nicely with lapin and flank musquash.) Moreover—a circumstance peculiarly precious to Harry’s somewhat battered ego—the two men were friends; regularly every Sunday morning they played a round of golf together on the Richmond course—Mr. Joyce nipping ahead after his ball small and spry as a cat, Harry Gibson plodding behind large and sedate as a cart-horse—after which Mr. Joyce, sated by a week’s fancy cooking at home, regularly came back for roast beef and apple pie. If it had been a Sunday Dolores could have taken him quite calmly; but this was Saturday evening after supper.

  Also he wanted to talk about Martha.

  Mr. Joyce’s interest in Martha was something the Gibsons had never been able to understand, though they were grateful for it. That they didn’t understand Martha either troubled them the less because they were not aware of the fact: to Dolores in particular it was incredible that she shouldn’t understand her own niece, who had lived with her since the age of six—doubly orphaned, poor mite, and with no other relative to give succour! Resolutely, tenderly, for twelve years, Dolores attributed any lack of communication to feelings (on Martha’s part) too deep for words …

  But even she could never manage to think of plain fat Martha as the sort of child to twine herself about any unrelated heart; while what Mr. Joyce had seen in Martha’s youthful drawings was a deeper mystery still. To Dolores, with the best will in the world, they looked no more than a muddle of criss-cross lines, and to Harry like some sort of blue-print: the fact remained that Mr. Joyce had been so unaccountably struck by them, he was now paying not only her fees at an art-school, but also three pounds a week towards her keep. Since Martha ate like a horse, it made a quite substantial difference to the Gibsons’ narrow economy.

  “Isn’t she working?” asked Harry severely.

  “Darling, I’m sure she is!” cried Dolores.

  With a snap of his small neat fingers Mr. Joyce flipped the notion aside. Indeed all three knew very well that whatever her other shortcomings, Martha worked. She ate like a horse, also she worked like a horse. (That is, at drawing or painting: not about the house to help her aunt. Given a bed to make, she simply covered it up; given a cup to wash, broke the handle off. Mr. Joyce called it conserving her energies; and after all it was he who paid three pounds a week.)

  “Where is she now?” asked Mr. Joyce.

  “I’m afraid in the bath,” said Dolores modestly.

  “Saturday night,” added Harry—betraying as he too often did his plebeian background.

  “Good,” said Mr. Joyce. “I am not sorry to have a word with you both first. What I’ve been thinking about Martha is, she ought to go to Paris.”

  2

  He pushed the cushion away and sat back impassive.—As his father or grandfather, outside booth or tent, had sat back impassive, before a deal of consequence. Neither Dolores nor Harry had ever understood, it was beyond them to understand, the sense of creative rapture with which Mr. Joyce had followed year by year Martha’s artistic progress. He was himself an artist manqué, destined merely to make a fortune in the fur-trade: in Martha finding a vicarious fruition. Equally beyond the Gibsons was it to appreciate the integrity that held him back from loosing her on the world as an infant prodigy. With his many connections—for he was a great patron of art-galleries—it would have been easy enough. Mr. Joyce held back. Counting his remaining years, and allowing himself the decade between seventy and eighty, he set Martha’s first show at somewhere about his seventy-fourth birthday. He was the best friend Martha ever had.

  The short, astonished silence was broken first by Harry.

  “Gay Paree?” said Harry dubiously. “Why Gay Paree?”

  Mr. Joyce grinned. He was truly fond of Harry—as the cat is fond of the cart-horse, as the small is attracted to the large, as the nervous to the placid.

  “Dashed if I quite know myself,” he admitted, “what they’ve got there. But they’ve got something.” He cast about for an acceptable simile. “It’s like the Argentines coming here to buy bulls.”

  “The roast beef of old England,” agreed Harry, brightening.

  “Well, it’s the same with Paris and painters. Paris gives ’em something. Look at Sickert, look at Whistler, look at Sisley. Look at Picasso. Let alone their promotion technique,” added Mr. Joyce; “get taken up in Paris and it’s half the battle. But you’ve got to be trained there.
Which is why Martha,” finished Mr. Joyce, “should have at least two years.”

  He had spoken with unusual, even unnecessary, impressiveness: the Gibsons had no intention of arguing. When Mr. Joyce talked about painters and Paris, and Whistler and Sickert and Sisley and Picasso, they knew themselves thoroughly out of their depth in waters where only Martha could thrash beside him.—Harry by now would have seen Martha off on the next boat-train, such was his confidence in her patron’s wisdom and intentions; and only Dolores’ maternal, or auntly, instincts found voice.

  “She’s only eighteen, Mr. Joyce! Do you really think that at eighteen—”

  “Just the right age,” said Mr. Joyce briskly.

  “And she doesn’t speak French!”

  “She will,” promised Mr. Joyce. “I have just the billet for her—widow of a professor, daughter who’s a school-marm, not a word of English between them. Martha’ll learn French all right.”

  Still Dolores hesitated. Actually it wasn’t Martha’s lack of the parlez-voo (as Harry would have put it) that chiefly troubled her; nor did she fail to appreciate the widow-and-daughter aspect. Before marriage once forced to take in lodgers herself, as an experienced landlady Dolores at once recognized, in that particular set-up, a guarantee of respectability. But Martha, in Paris, would be attending an art-school as well; and of the few French phrases Dolores knew, la vie de bohême happened to be one …