Balloons | Page 3

she to know that the
Simpsons of life stand for romance and mystery and longings
unachieved? To some people the impossible is impossible. One fine
day they wake up in the morning knowing that they will never hold the
moon in their hands and with the certainty, perfect peace descends on
them.
Miss Wilcox was not like that. She couldn't settle down to decorating
the church and organising village entertainments. She woke up every
morning sure that something was going to happen and went to bed
every night dissatisfied in proportion to her confidence.
And then, quite close together, two things did happen. Miss Wilcox
was left a small fortune and Vera became engaged to be married.
The wedding, of course, was a great dramatic event. The preparations
engulfed everybody. What flowers should the triumphal arches be
made of and were the fair or the dark bridesmaids to be considered in
the bridesmaids' dresses? Miss Wilcox gave her advice freely and tied
cards on to presents but she felt unaccountably depressed. This, of
course, was because dear little Vera whom she had known since a child,
whom she had loved as a child, was leaving them and plunging into this
strange, unknown adventure. What an uncertain thing marriage, what
an elusive thing happiness! At nights she would dream of white satin
figures shrouded in white tulle veils, of shy, passionate bridegrooms
and shy, radiant brides. Sometimes she would see Vera's face and
sometimes her own and often in the morning, she would find her pillow
wet. "It will be you and Simpson next," Sir Harry teased her. But
somehow the remark no longer pleased her and she no longer blushed.
And then, one day she couldn't bear it any more. Without saying a word
to any one she went to London. A thick orange fog greeted her, a
wonderful, mysterious fog, creating immense prehistoric silhouettes, a
fog which freed you from old accustomed sights and sounds so that
your individuality seemed at last to be released and to belong
exclusively to you.
Gratefully Miss Wilcox accepted this gift of privacy. London belonged

to her, there were no prying eyes. Slowly she walked along the
pavement peering into shop windows. It was difficult to see anything.
At last she distinguished a blur of gold and jewels. She walked on and
then back again. She stood still. Her heart was in her mouth. Resolutely
she pushed the door open. The brightness blinded her, the sudden
warmth made her feel dizzy. Weakly she sat on a chair. A sympathetic
salesman asked her if he could do anything for her. "No, thank you,"
she murmured faintly, "if I might sit here a moment."
Gradually she recovered and walked out again. The fog was thicker
than ever. The traffic had stopped. People bumped into her with
muttered apologies. Hesitatingly, wearily, she walked along. At last,
she reached another jeweller's. Firmly, quickly she walked in. How was
she to ask for what she wanted?
"What can I do for you, Madam?"
She looked up like a frightened animal.
"I've lost my wedding ring," she stammered. "It was a broad gold one.
I--I don't want my husband to discover it."
How easy it was after all.
The salesman was very sympathetic. She looked at a great number of
rings, toying with them in voluptuous hesitation. She enjoyed fingering
them. At last she chose one. The gold band on her finger frightened her.
It made her feel a strange, different person, rather disreputable and
quite unlike herself.
Miss Wilcox went to the Ritz. It was, she felt, a place where married
ladies without husbands would be neither noticed nor commented on.
There is, after all, nothing so very unusual in a wedding ring and Miss
Wilcox's appearance did not arouse idle and libelous speculations. But
still, she felt safer at the Ritz--there is something so conspicuous about
a quiet hotel.
The next day the fog had been cleared away and the sun, emerging after

a day's rest, sparkled with refreshed gaiety. Miss Wilcox, in deep
mourning, went out to buy new black clothes--lovely they were,
intentionally, not accidentally black, filmy chiffons, rippling
crêpe-de-chines, demure cashmeres, severe, perfect tailleurs. Here and
there touches of snowy crepe gave a relief suitable to deep unhappiness
and her widow's cap, low on the forehead, was the softest and most
nun-like frame to her face. Seeing herself in the glass, Miss Wilcox
blushed with pleasure.
"My husband was so fond of clothes," she murmured to the vendeuse
with a break in her voice, "and he always said that nothing became a
woman like black."
* * * * *
There is a little village on the Seine. An old grey church nestles among
the huddling houses. A platoon of poplars guards the river, and little