Acting on Impulse Read online

  “The Chinese Shawl” was neither improving nor overtly moral, but rather a quiet story of struggle and luck with a little romance thrown in for good measure. It was Heyer’s only short published in The Quiver and it is surprising that her agent, L.P. Moore, should have chosen to submit the story to such a “moral” magazine. In 1923, suicide was still illegal in England, yet in “The Chinese Shawl” the heroine’s father has killed himself after losing all his money in the “smash.” This was the same financial “smash” which had so adversely affected Bride’s father in “The Little Lady” and Katharine Testram in “The Bulldog and the Beast.”

  The economic downturn of the early 1920s in Britain also affected Heyer’s father. The year after his return from France where he had served as an over-age officer, George Heyer wrote a gently humorous but illuminating short story for Punch. It was entitled “Getting Fixed” and was about a man looking unsuccessfully for work after his war service. It was not until 1923 that George Heyer returned to his job as Appeals officer at the King’s College Hospital and the financial strain on the family eased.

  In “The Chinese Shawl” the heroine, Mary, has been left alone and penniless, and must work as a typist in a steel manufactory. Before her father’s death she has enjoyed a life of wealth and ease: “a frivolous, expensive career” with “many friends, many love-stricken young men, delightful days at Lord’s, or Hurlingham, or Henley; enchanted evenings in the murky vastness of Covent Garden; bright nights spent in dancing, with haunting music in the air, the buzz of laughing voices, and the scent of hot-house flowers.”

  How much of this was also Georgette Heyer’s own experience is unknown, though she certainly attended dances and was a lifelong cricket fan who in later years attended matches at Lord’s. When the story opens, most of Mary’s friends have deserted her after the scandal of her father’s death and she has cut herself off from them and from the life she knew before. She feels great bitterness and when a great-aunt sends her an exquisite shawl Mary is cynical enough to believe that “it was rather catty and patronizing of her to send it to me when she knows I’m no longer in a position to wear such things.”

  As always in Heyer, class beliefs are inherent. Her only friend at work is Malcolm, “who was of her class and wanted to be an artist.” Her other friend is Janet, who is never fully explained but who appears to be Mary’s flatmate, speaks the same well-bred language and is sufficiently attractive to become engaged to “an adoring, many-times-repulsed young man.” It is Janet who shows Mary how to make the most of the Chinese shawl and it is this which pushes the story forward to its inevitable happy ending.

  In the Heyer family albums, there is a striking black-and-white photograph of Georgette Heyer wearing an elegant embroidered Chinese shawl. The photo was taken sometime in 1923 – possibly to mark Heyer’s twenty-first birthday – and it is likely that the shawl inspired the story. Certainly there are elements of “The Chinese Shawl” that would later appear in Heyer’s final contemporary novel, Barren Corn.

  “The Chinese Shawl” is rare, or even unique, among Heyer short stories in that it was translated into Danish. On 13 March 1924 it appeared in translation in the Danish (now defunct) magazine Tidens Kvinder under the title, “Det kinesiske Sjal.” There is some suggestion that the story may have been published in Swedish prior to its Danish translation, but to date no such translation has been found. This would be the last Heyer contemporary short story of this kind, for her final short in the genre would feature a much older, quite independent, heroine.

  CONT

  THE CHINESE SHAWL

  I.

  MARY drew it out of its tissue-paper wrappings and allowed the heavy silken masses to unfold themselves, hanging from her fingers in soft-hued radiance.

  “How lovely!” Janet gasped. “How wonderful!”

  Mary shook it out so that it trailed upon the floor.

  “Lovely? Oh, yes, and useless! If my aunt wanted to make me a present—heaven knows why she has elected to do so; it’s an unexpected event—she might have sent me something that I could use. What on earth’s the good of this?”

  “But, Mary, it’s so beautiful! It must have cost pounds and pounds.”

  “I’d rather have the money, then. This reminds me of a cartoon I once saw. The presents rich people send to their penniless relatives.”

  “I don’t know how you can talk like that! It’s so perfectly lovely!”

  Mary laid it over the back of a chair.

  “I wish you wouldn't harp on its loveliness. It’s beautiful, I know. If I were in the habit of going to the opera, and if I had the sort of frock that would suit it, I should think it a topping present. As I’m a miserable little shorthand-typist living in rooms and possessing one ancient evening dress, I don’t quite see the point of it. No doubt I’m ungrateful.”

  Janet picked up the shawl and examined the sprawling pattern with admiring eyes and caressing fingers.

  “I suppose it is rather a silly present,” she sighed. “Still—can’t you do anything with it?”

  “We might use it as a bedspread or a tablecloth,” shrugged Mary. Janet shrieked at this suggestion.

  “Mary, you Goth!”

  “Or I might sell it.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  Mary looked at the shawl. It gave a bizarre air of affluence to the shabby room. It was indeed beautiful.

  " I don't know. If I’m hard up I shall sell it at once. Now, I suppose, I must sit down and write an enthusiastic ‘thank you letter’ to Aunt Felicia. Come to think of it, it was rather catty and patronizing of her to send it to me when she knows I’m no longer in a position to wear such things.”

  Janet felt that this was an uncomfortable topic.

  “She must he awfully rich,” she remarked vaguely.

  Mary had seated herself at the table and had drawn the inkstand towards her.

  “She is; disgustingly so. She rather disgraced the family by marrying a jam-maker. Not that I blame her for that, if she liked him. She got such a surfeit of jam that it made her sour. That’s a paradox. Do laugh.”

  “I don't see that it’s particularly funny. I wonder she doesn’t do something for you if she knows how badly off you are.”

  “She does,” said Mary, beginning to write. “She sends me an embroidered shawl. As a matter of fact, she—very kindly—offered to give me a home when my father died.”

  “You don’t mean to say you refused?” cried her friend.

  “Of course I refused. I thought I’d see something of life on my own.”

  “Rich girls often think they’ll like working for their living,” said Janet, nodding. “They soon find out what it’s really like.”

  “I never had any illusions about it,” answered Mary. “This is a very difficult letter to write. Fold the shawl up, Janet, and shove it in a drawer.”

  Janet obeyed her, but sighed.

  “It does seem a shame to put it away.”

  “It would be a greater shame to leave it lying about to collect the dust,” said the more practical Mary.

  There was silence for a time while Mary chewed her pen, and Janet laid the shawl to rest in the depths of a drawer.

  “Mary,” said Janet at last, “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but why do you never see any friends? You must have had quite a lot.”

  “Um!’ Mary started to write again. “Not so many as I thought.”

  “Why not? What do you mean?” asked Janet.

  “Same old tale. Many so-called friends while there was money and position. Then comes the financial smash, the incidental disgrace, and my father’s tragic death. It’s the only grudge I have against father, that he didn’t stay to face the music with me. Anyway, one of the greatest ‘friends’ cut me dead in the street. Others—just kept out of the way. So as soon as I could I turned and ran.”

  “They couldn’t all have been so—so beastly!” said Janet.

  “I daresay they weren’t. I didn’t wait to see. One or two calle
d. I appreciated their kindness, but I’d realized that—I was no longer a desirable connaissance, so I didn’t see them.”

  “Wasn’t there—anyone special?” asked Janet shyly.

  Mary looked up, smiling.

  “Do you mean, was I engaged to be married? No.”

  “No, not quite that. Weren’t you—wasn’t anyone in love with you?”

  “Evidently not.” There was a note of bitterness in Mary’s voice.

  Janet wanted to know more, but Mary seemed to be absorbed all at once in her letter.

  II.

  JANET’S questioning had awakened memories that were not dead, but lulled by time to rest. Mary Nugent indulged in reminiscence that night as she lay in bed. She thought of the frivolous, expensive career that had been hers for years, not with disgust, but with an ineffable longing. There had been many friends, many love-stricken young men; delightful days at Lord’s, or Hurlingham, or Henley; enchanted evenings in the murky vastness of Covent Garden; bright nights spent in dancing, with haunting music in the air, the buzz of laughing voices, and the scent of hot-house flowers. There had been the sweet companionship of Peter Devril, too, growing almost imperceptibly into something sweeter still. She thought, smiling cynically, of his fascination, of his wit, and of his good looks.

  She remembered the hurt she had felt when he did not come to see her after the smash. Until lately she had kept the formal note he had written her locked in her writing-case. Six months ago she had discovered it there, and had burned it without one tear for the tragic past.

  From Peter her thoughts flew to Bill Corkran, who had gone to America, a year before the smash, to get rich quick. He had been the dearest of all her friends; Mary wondered whether he would have held aloof after her father’s suicide if he had been in England. He had been very fond of her; she knew that. Before he left for America he had said certain words to her that had implied that she was his reason for wanting to make money. She did not know where he was or what he was doing. He had probably returned to England, and certainly he must have heard of her changed circumstances.

  Mary was a typist in a firm of steel manufacturers. She had but one friend in the place, Malcolm, who was of her class and who wanted to be an artist. He was twenty-six—a year older than Mary, but in every essential five years younger. He made no pretence of being in love with her, but occasionally they went out together, when he would pour his hopes and longings into her sympathetic ear.

  III.

  FOR months the Chinese shawl remained hidden in a drawer. Sometimes Mary would take it out (when Janet was absent) and wistfully finger the silken folds. It exercised a strange fascination over her; she liked to look at it and drape herself in it.

  In January Malcolm came to her in jubilant excitement waving a pink and a yellow ticket in his hand. He explained that he had wangled them out of a chap he knew who knew the fellow who was running the ball at the Corinthian.

  “Are those tickets for that ball?” asked Mary.

  “Rather! One for you and one for me. You will come, won’t you, Mary?” cried Malcolm.

  “The annual ball at the Corinthian,” repeated Mary stupidly. More memories of old times—times she had tried to forget—were conjured up. Her eyes lighted. “Oh, what fun!”

  “Isn’t it? On Thursday, Mary, and we’ll dine at that nice little place I found last night. You will dine with me, won’t you?”

  “It’s awfully kind of you, Malcolm.” Her eyes had clouded again. “I’m—I’m afraid I can’t, though. Get someone else.”

  His face fell.

  “You can't? Oh, I say! Why can’t you? Are you doing something else? Can’t you possibly manage it?”

  She smiled crookedly.

  “I can’t go with you because I haven’t anything to wear,” she said honestly.

  Janet sprang suddenly out of her chair.

  “Yes, you have, yes, you have!” she cried. “The shawl!”

  Even Malcolm was dubious.

  “I don’t quite see how you can go to a dance in a shawl,” he began.

  “Nor I,” said Mary.

  Janet pushed Malcolm to the door.

  "It isn’t an ordinary shawl, idiot! Mary will go on Thursday, and you’ll go now. Shut up, Mary, I've got a wonderful idea. Go away, Malcolm. I promise you that not only will Mary go to the Corinthian, but she’ll be one of the best-dressed girls in the room. Go away!”

  “You’re mad,” said Mary, when Malcolm had been hustled out of the house. “The shawl’s all right, of course, but what about my dress?”

  “The shawl is your dress!” proclaimed Janet, dragging it from its drawer. “The groundwork is black, so you can wear your old black satin shoes. And—and you’ll clasp it on one shoulder with a crimson rose, and it’ll be draped over the other. Oh, gorgeous!”

  “Do you really think it could be managed?” asked Mary, taking off her skirt. “Let's try!”

  IV.

  MALCOLM gasped when he saw Mary on Thursday evening. Then he gave a long-drawn, admiring whistle, and said: “By Jove!”

  “All Janet’s doing, the dear thing,” said Mary.

  Janet had coaxed the shawl into Spanish lines. It was draped over one shoulder, but left the other bare. The heavy fringe fell about Mary's ankles; a dark crimson rose was in her black hair.

  They dined at a little restaurant in Soho, where the waiters all wore white aprons and shouted unintelligible Italian orders down to the chef, and where one could have the most perfect French omelettes.

  They drove to the Corinthian in a taxi, reckless all at once, and as she entered the brightly lighted ballroom it seemed to Mary that years had rolled back and she was once more “the beautiful Miss Nugent.” The orchestra was playing a fox-trot; Mary’s feet began to move. She slid into Malcolm’s arms, and they danced.

  “It’s three years since I danced,” Mary said. “I’m out of date.”

  “Rot!” said Malcolm. “Not a bit of it!”

  For over an hour they danced, almost without a pause; then Malcolm remembered that he was thirsty, and that Mary must surely be thirsty too. He took her to an alcove and left her seated on a sofa while he went to collect refreshments.

  Mary leaned back contentedly, watching the maze of dancers. Once she saw a face she knew, but in the vast hall it was well-nigh impossible to recognize anyone.

  Suddenly she became aware of a man dodging in and out of the moving couples and making his way towards her.

  “Mary!” cried this man. “Mary!”

  She rose, trembling, wishing that she could escape, yet glad that it was impossible.

  “Hallo, Bill!” she said jerkily.

  Corkran seized her hands.

  “My dearest girl, this is luck! I was coming along to see you tomorrow. I only got back the day before yesterday, and old Chalmer and his wife dragged me along here. I hoped I might see you. You’re looking ripping! I say, let’s sit down, shall we?”

  “Have you been in America all this time?” Mary asked. She felt dazed, but curiously happy.

  “Rather! I went to get rich quick, as I told you. I went gold-hunting in the Klondyke.”

  She laughed.

  “You didn’t? Bill, how—how mad, and how like you! Did you find gold?”

  “Great Scott, no! That only happens in romance. I gained a whole lot of experience, though, one way and another. In a way it hasn’t been a bad three years, but I’m glad to be back.”

  “And you didn’t make a fortune out there, after all?”

  “Nothing like it. Frightfully tragic thing happened. You know my cousin, Sir George Corkran?”

  “N-no. I’ve heard you speak of him, that is.”

  “Well, the poor chap took a fall out hunting and was killed. Awfully sad, wasn’t it? Net result is, I'm the giddy baronet.”

  “Oh, congratulations!” said Mary, but her heart had sunk.

  “Thanks awfully. How’s Mr. Nugent?”

  She started. Then he didn't know? For her life she
could not tell him the whole truth.

  “He—he—died three years—ago,” she said. The words stuck a little in her throat.

  “I say, I am so sorry!” He was genuinely concerned; looking at him she recognized the worried crease between his brows, and loved it. “Dreadfully sorry,” he repeated, and patted her hand. “Poor old thing! Where—where are you living now?”

  Malcolm’s voice cut into the conversation, to Mary’s relief.

  “Oh—er—how d’you do?”

  “Bill,” said Mary hurriedly. “This is Mr. Trent, a great friend of mine. Malcolm, Mr. Corkran.”

  Corkran rose.

  “How d’you do? ’Fraid I’ve been monopolizing your partner. I haven’t seen her for donkey’s years, you see.”

  Mary started to sip the drink Malcolm had brought her. Desperately she hoped that Bill would forget to ask again where she lived. She felt that she could not tell him, not because she was afraid that he would draw away, but because she knew that he still wanted to marry her, and it was unthinkable.

  Malcolm was talking to him now, making polite conversation. In a minute or two he turned to Mary.

  “They’re playing that topping tune again. We must dance it.”

  “Yes, we must,” agreed Mary, getting up.

  Bill put his hand on her arm.

  “I say, you must dance with me soon, Mary. There's such a lot I want to talk to you about. We’ll meet again after this dance.”

  HOW she managed to keep out of his sight she never afterwards knew. Somehow or other she did it, and when she and Malcolm at last left the hall Bill was nowhere to be seen.