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Title: Whipped Cream
Date of first publication: 1926
Author: Geoffrey Moss (1885-1954)
Date first posted: Apr. 4, 2025
Date last updated: Apr. 4, 2025
Faded Page eBook #20250401
This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Pat McCoy & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net
WHIPPED CREAM
BY
GEOFFREY MOSS
AUTHOR OF “SWEET PEPPER,” ETC.
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1926,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
WHIPPED CREAM
—B—
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
DEDICATED TO
BELLE GREEN
CONTENTS
Book One | ||
CHAPTER | PAGE | |
1 | ARMA VIRUMQUE CANO | 11 |
2 | PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN | 15 |
3 | BAROQUE AND PRIMITIVE | 22 |
4 | TEA-TIME | 35 |
5 | KILLING TIME | 43 |
6 | COCKTAIL TIME | 50 |
7 | DINNER TIME | 61 |
8 | LINGER LONGER, LUCY! | 72 |
9 | SHUFFLING | 77 |
10 | IF YOU CAN’T BE GOOD, BE CAREFUL | 83 |
11 | FUTILITY | 91 |
12 | PACKING UP | 103 |
13 | RIPPLES OVER WRECKAGE | 111 |
14 | SUSPENSE OVER COFFEE CUPS | 120 |
15 | FINALITY | 126 |
Book Two | ||
16 | A CHEERFUL MEAL | 136 |
17 | AFTER A CHEERFUL MEAL | 148 |
18 | THE PAPER BUTTERFLY | 152 |
19 | KNIGHTSBRIDGE | 157 |
20 | THE FRESH START | 164 |
21 | THE NEXT MEETING | 169 |
22 | SOHO | 173 |
23 | WHILE THE CARRIAGE WAITS | 181 |
24 | GOOD ADVICE | 192 |
25 | THE LIMBO OF SPENT JOYS | 199 |
26 | THE VIRGIN OF THE PLAINS | 201 |
27 | THE MARGRAVE OF GRATZ | 210 |
28 | PARTIE CARRÉE | 218 |
29 | EXCEEDING THE LIMIT | 223 |
30 | SHADOWS OF THE JAZZ AGE | 228 |
31 | SOCIAL AMENITIES | 240 |
32 | MOONLIGHT | 248 |
33 | AN EDDY IN THE TIDE | 254 |
34 | THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE | 257 |
35 | AT THE PINK LIZARDS | 268 |
36 | NEVER AGAIN | 278 |
Book Three | ||
37 | “NEVER IS A LONG TIME” | 284 |
38 | THE END OF A DULL DAY | 290 |
39 | THE WATERS OF FORGETFULNESS | 295 |
40 | DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS | 304 |
41 | THE NEW WORLD OBSERVES THE OLD | 316 |
42 | ON SWEET WINE | 326 |
43 | THE NETS OF FATE | 334 |
44 | ON BEING HANDLED | 339 |
45 | THE DARK FUTURE | 344 |
46 | THE ART OF THE “FADE-OUT” | 352 |
47 | ORDEAL | 361 |
48 | NEARING THE END | 370 |
49 | CURTAIN | 374 |
WHIPPED CREAM
What the . . . er . . . devil . . . er . . . were their names? What the . . . ?? Damn it. Jorrocks’s horses. . . . Jorrocks’s!! Jorrocks’s!!! Not to be able to remember their names!!! What the . . . ???
General Hawkins turned over once more. Each time he had turned his bed had grown narrower . . . and hotter . . . and shorter, too; or the sheets had.
Damn silly lettin’ a thing like er . . . er . . . worry one. What the deuce did it matter? He’d remember in the mornin’: bound ter! Always like that when one couldn’t sleep. Some damn thing or other kept botherin’ one . . . bobbin’ about, just out of reach.
The curtains were close drawn; out of doors the pale summer night had not yet begun to break; yet the room was not quite dark. General Hawkins, who still retained much of his youthful coltishness, a bony and still rather boyish shoulder against the wall, could just make out the outline of the unfamiliar surroundings, the serious, ruminant tall-boy, the vase of watchful flowers. Oh, damn it! He couldn’t remember the names of Jorrocks’s horses. Damn it! His horses!! Jorrocks’s!!!
Pretty decent memory as a rule, too! Sort of . . . er . . . compensation if one wasn’t brainy and all that. Could remember almost anythin’ he wanted to: dates of the kings of England. Yes, and fellers who’d been in the eleven with one at one’s private school: the cutter at Tom Brown’s: the name of the riding sergeant at Sandhurst who used to keep his cuttin’ whip up the back of his serge jumper, and who had the dark-eyed daughter, whom young Slogins had . . . er . . . : the name of the Pay-Sergeant in the first company one had been in at Windsor. Mathews, that was it. What a feller he’d been! Nothin’ he hadn’t known! What a company, too. Never seen men stand better. That first motion of the “Order”! Splendid! Grand lot, every man of them: even that great hulking Irishman. Wouldn’t ever forget his name. O’Sullivan, that was it.
What a feller he’d been! And what a fighter! It used to take the guard and half the picquet sometimes to “jug” him. And that day he lay out there at Modder River . . . twitching. Poor old O’Sullivan! Seemed funny a bit of stuff, not as big as a sovereign purse, bein’ able to . . . : and one not able to do a thing, and lyin’ there in the grillin’ sun and watchin’ and thinkin’ of all the “drills” and “shows” one had given him. Not that O’Sullivan would have borne any malice. . . . Never a damn! Still! . . .
What a company! Remember nearly every one of them and a number here and there yet . . . yet . . . What the devil were the names of Jorrocks’s horses?
What could they have been? One ’ud forget one’s own name next, or the names of one’s own horses. No one did unless he were certifiable or . . . or . . . Of course, when one got old . . . and damn it, forty-six wasn’t old! . . . prime of . . . er . . . What if one did have a touch of rheumatism (or gout, was it?) . . . But that was only if one had been in the saddle all day, and been drenched to the skin. . . . And wasn’t it worth it?
But . . . very likely it was because one was gettin’ on a bit.
Why, when he’d married Lindy he’d seen the Stopford cousins sayin’, “No fool, etc.,” . . . noddin’ and whisperin’. They would! Hadn’t heard . . . of course not . . . only one knew. . . . Hah!
No damn sense to it. Old? . . . didn’t matter . . . rather sleepy . . . that didn’t mean one was old. Not at all! Course not. Not a bit of it. No, even if one couldn’t . . . couldn’t. . . couldn’t . . . oh, damn it! . . . Damn it! Jorrocks’s horses! What the devil were their names??
Half a mind to just slip downstairs and settle the blessed thing. There was a sort of library place. Had seen it goin’ in to dinner that first night . . . door open. Had wondered about the map of South America on the wall. South America was where the Bovril and dancing partners came from. There must be a Handley Cross in there . . . must be. . . . Yet . . . one never could tell. Mrs. Van Neck was all right: jolly sensible woman. . . . Still, in these modern houses. . . . People read about . . . er . . . Relativity and Czech Art. . . . Czech.
Lindy’d know, of course. She’d read everything: all sorts of stuff. Lucius had seen to that, of course: everythin’ from Horace to O. Henry (easy to get a loose “H” over that). One could remember her, when she’d been fifteen—sittin’ perched in the “winter” armchair at No. 5, cross-legged and recitin’ . . . anythin’ any one wanted . . . real high-class stuff—“Ode to whatever-it-was” or those Somersetshire things, or nursery rhymes or the sort one liked oneself, Horatius and that. Sittin’ up, her chin high, and her voice ringin’ . . . ringin’ . . .
The picture of Lindy rose before him. ’Strordinary . . . her jolly, goldy hair all . . . and, . . . her voice gettin’ deep. Jove! how well she used ter do it.
She could do Jorrocks’s Lectors, too, with just the right voice. Or anything . . . ! She’d know the names of Jorrocks’s horses, of course she would: only . . . well . . . one couldn’t wake her up to ask her some damn-fool question like that: not even if one was allowed to share a room with one’s own wife—which one wasn’t in these modern houses. Even communicating doors seemed to have gone out of fashion. They’d consummate a marriage by wireless presently . . . or broadcast the babies.
No. Couldn’t wake her up even if she were there! . . . Of course not! . . .
She’d be curled up like a little kitten, with her short hair all goldy, and that and the flush she had when she slept . . . like a baby . . . delicate as that . . . and her lips parted. Sometimes she smiled as she slept. Sweet little Lindy! One couldn’t wake her about . . .
Life outside was stirring. The birds had begun to sing in the shrubberies. Something—a swan perhaps—launched itself upon the river.
And there it was starting to get light. . . . Just the sort of thing it would do! Still one ’ud be able to find one’s way downstairs without fumblin’ and foolin’ about for the switches and kickin’ up God’s own din and shindy and . . . One might just as well . . . !
General Hawkins swung himself out of bed, stretched his arms, smiled, and moved over the unfamiliar rush matting, and opened the door of his room.
A faint glimmer from the oval skylight overhead lit the wide landing. It glinted on the chill enamelled walls. A heavy carpet from some other age was silent under his feet.
At the head of the stairs he stopped for a moment.
Some one was opening the door just opposite him.
Was that young Dashwood’s room? The dim light glimmered on the door. Yes, those were young Dashwood’s tennis shoes. Had noticed them the other afternoon: new sort of sole: practical. Funny people leaving shoes outside! Like a hotel! Modern!
They were openin’ the door dev’lish stealthily, whoever they were. Never knew what one mightn’t run up against, stayin’ in these modern houses! Naturally one didn’t want to see who it was. One ’ud keep one’s mouth shut, of course. Not one’s business and all that. Still! Bit awkward next day when one met them, and knew, and they knew one knew.
General Hawkins drew back into the shadow of a column.
The door was opened wider with a final creak: some one slipped out and closed it again. For a moment the some one stood listening, the light falling on her, a small childish figure in her wrap of pink with white fur. In the dim, unearthly luminance her eyes were wide, Delphic, her cheeks wan within the framing of her tossed fair hair, a shadow passing to the Limbo of spent joys: a tragic nymph of dawn.
She glanced quickly to the right and left, and then ran suddenly and silently down the corridor.
General Hawkins stood, still as the column beside him: for the girl who had flitted past him was his wife.
For several moments General Hawkins stood there rigid: a lean, vaguely pink figure in the uncertain gloom. Pyjamas hanging in long, shadowed folds from his shoulders stressed the vertical perspective. This allusion of exaggerated length, and his attitude of arrested movement gave his appearance a Quixote-like suggestion. He might have been some uneasy statue, symbolic of a tense emotion, carved keenly and relentlessly by an old-time master of Toledo. The faint, unchanging luminance, the high lights and the ashen tones, the accentuating dignity of shadows, the high, restrained emotion were—though it would have been Greek to General Hawkins—the very spirit of that haughty Spanish baroque.
Lindy? . . . Young Dashwood? . . . What the . . . ? Could . . . ?? . . . Could?? Must!! His Lindy . . . ?? . . . His own little . . . ??
He fought painfully, desperately, against the realisation which closed in upon him.
She couldn’t. . . . No, she couldn’t . . . not his Lindy! . . . Not that!! . . . Mightn’t Lindy have been only . . . ??? . . . Mightn’t she . . . ??
General Hawkins winced suddenly in a last effort, as if by physical movement to elude reality, and then certainty gripped and held him.
Lindy! . . . Lindy! . . . His Lindy. . . . His . . . ? . . . Not his. . . . Christ! . . . Not any more . . . ? . . . Lindy he’d loved and . . . and . . . All that time . . . before he said anythin’ . . . before he’d realised it even . . . before she’d been old enough even . . . Watched her and waited. . . . Must ask her! . . . Perhaps she’d have some explanation . . .
He struggled against the stranglehold of facts, and moved again in the attempt to escape, but this time his feet took him along the corridor to her room.
Must ask her. . . . Must! . . . er . . . must? Why must?? Why?
The idea broke off short in his grasp, and for a space he regarded what remained of it . . . aimlessly.
Ask her? . . . Why? . . . Why? . . . What ’ud be the use? . . . What could she say? Eh?
His foot checked suddenly on its way to the tread of that first step, and he recovered his balance awkwardly.
No good . . . er . . . askin’! No . . . er . . . good! No good! . . . Then, as his thoughts swung towards himself and became personal. . . . Nothing any good any more . . . not any more. . . . No! By Christ! Finished! Ended! No good askin’ Lindy. What could she say? Or young Dashwood . . . for that matter! Young Dashwood!—young Oliver Dashwood!
He clenched his fists so tightly that he could feel his nails pressing into his palms. And then as quickly his grasp relaxed again.
No, he wasn’t angry with him. A boy! Didn’t even feel it that way. . . . One would have thought. . . . If any one had told him . . . had dared to hint. . . . Yes, by Christ. . . . Every bone in his body. . . . Yet he didn’t go to young Dashwood and do it. Didn’t even want to. And there it was. No, he was not angry—though the reason of it he could never have understood. The occasion was too immense for him. With a physical emergency he could have dealt. As it was, he was utterly at a loss.
Young Dashwood! Those were his shoes outside that door. . . . His shoes . . . the man Lindy loved! He’d never doubted her . . . never! Why should he have? She’d been . . . Little Lindy who laughed and joked with every one . . . teased and . . . of course she was a little flirt . . . had been even as a tiny kid. . . . But . . . but . . . Never even thought of her as a woman . . . a grown woman . . . somehow. Never. . . . Just like a child to him . . . like she’d been when she used to climb the tree in the old orchard and chuck apples to one. . . . “Another! Butterfingers!” . . . spindly legs and her stockin’s slippin’ down. He’d watched her growin’ up and he’d never realised . . . he’d watched her: and he’d thought—some day! Some day, when she’s older . . . And now she’d grown up without his noticing it, and she’d escaped him. He’d never noticed that she’d become a woman . . . a woman who could . . .
Lost her! Lost her! And even now she was only up there. . . . Only an unlocked door between them. Yet he’d lost her . . . altogether. . . . No one ever had two chances! Not in this world!
A sense of universal and devastating futility rose about him like a mist, and blotted out all values. He wandered back unthinkingly, miserably, into his room, and in doing so from night to shrill morning.
It seemed like the end of the world! And yet, in an hour or so, there’d be that footman bringin’ in one’s tray and letters and . . . Not the end of the world! No! The world would go on: it would break in on him. He would have to make up his mind about what he was goin’ to do. . . . He’d got to size things up and see where he was. Couldn’t just stand like that in the middle of the room and wait to be called . . . and let some infernal young footman find him. . . . And just because of that he had got to make up his mind before that feller came. . . .
So many sides of it, too! So many things to be considered. Her father. It would lay poor old Lucius out . . . bound to! Think of what Lindy meant to him! He all alone in the world. Dev’lish rough on him. . . .
And the mere business of it! Questions crowded in upon him. . . . What did one say . . . ? When? How? Who to? . . . And after that?
The idea had occurred to him, unaccountably, as thoughts do in times of extreme stress: that his plan of future action must be made before the arrival of the footman. He’d find one still standing in the middle of the floor like this. Even at such a time a dread of appearing ridiculous remained with him.
He began to dress hastily, conscious of nothing he was doing, but only of an anguish that seemed in part personal, an almost physical pain, and in part external and enveloping, like some universal disaster. And so, presently he became aware of the sounds of early morning.
Out of doors some one was whistling. Too early for a gardener, he decided. Must be some one on the tow-path, t’other side of the river . . . a workm’n . . . or . . . mmmmmmm. . . . He raised his chin higher. . . . Yes. . . . “Mmmmmm,” he murmured, as he drew his razor jerkily down it.
Blade always seemed a bit . . . mmmmmmm . . . even a decent old-fashioned hollow-ground . . . one of a self-respectin’ “One-for-each-day-of-the-week” set . . . er . . . yes. His father’s ivory, of course, and the crest on ’em. . . . Not one of these new-fangled knife and fork contraptions.
But couldn’t expect any razor to shave one decently . . . not with cold water. . . . No fault of the blade if it . . . mmmmmmm . . . seemed only fit to cut butter . . . mmmmmmm . . . or . . . or . . . Phew!!!. . . Hold up!!!
Just like that it would go! Never thought how easy it would be before. . . . Or that one would ever . . . er . . . well . . . feel like doing that. By God! No!
He lowered the razor and regarded his reflection astonished.
It was one way of escaping . . . dodgin’ everythin’ that would happen otherwise . . . and the footman. Hurh! Damn it! . . . ridiculous idea to . . . er . . . Still it only showed what one was feelin’ like that one should have . . . er . . . even . . . er. Made one realise what some poor devils must have gone through . . . before they’d come to it.
Not that he’d care for himself. Nothin’ left to care for. . . . Well, how could there be. . . . He’d centred everythin’ on Lindy . . . and now he didn’t care what happened! Nothin’ left to do . . . only things had got to be tidied up. Couldn’t let them go on like this . . . now one knew. . . . Wouldn’t be fair to any one. Not decent.
Suddenly he laid down his razor carefully on the dressing-table.
Jove!! He’d never pulled up the blind. Of course, one couldn’t shave without enough light . . . and tryin’ to was enough to make one think of . . . anythin’.
General Hawkins jerked up the blind and became in an instant part of the fresh, wakening world outside. This sudden revelation of dawn took him aback. He blinked at it.
Get out of doors! ’Strordinary what things one thought of. But clean, fresh air . . . exercise . . . good tramp . . . that was the thing! One couldn’t throw one’s hand in just because one had taken a knock. Taken a knock! Oh, God!
He left the room and came insensibly under the stealthy watchfulness of the corridor: though now that it was daylight that vigilance had retreated into the darker corners,—something creepy in the . . . er . . . that was how it struck him—the uncompromising doors glistened. They seemed shut against him. Descending the stairs, he passed young Dashwood’s room.
Lindy! It didn’t seem possible: not now in the sane daylight. Lindy! If only it could have been some horrible nightmare . . . if only . . . if . . . And there it was! That he’d never guessed . . . or even suspected anything . . . that was what he couldn’t understand. Yet why should he have? How should he have? She’d always seemed happy with him. He hadn’t been a beast to her: at least not in any way he could think of. And yet . . . there it was. . . . She loved some one else . . . but Oliver Dashwood! Well, he couldn’t be more than four-and-twenty.
He unchained the hall door, and crossing the garden took to the footpath over the fields.
Perhaps she’d meant to tell him . . . er . . . perhaps . . . She’d always been so straight and aboveboard. . . . Always as straight as a . . . But had she been? Had she?
He began defending her desperately against his own suspicions. No! Lindy hadn’t been like that. . . . Not at first . . . he’d swear to it . . . though he might have sworn the same yesterday! Good God, yes! Only yesterday! No! But she hadn’t been like that . . . hadn’t been . . . Not Lindy, with her blue laughing eyes . . . her mocking eyes. . . . Had they mocked him like that? Had they? Had she been thinking . . . ? All the time? . . . Even that night when he took her hair down for the first time and watched it glittering through his fingers under the candlelight. . . . Havin’ her hair down always made her head look so round, and her so little . . . like a tiny girl . . . like he used to remember her. . . . Oh, God! Had she even then? . . . The idea froze him. It was as if his vision of her was a treasure of ice, which was melting between his fingers: the same painful numbness . . . the same emptiness!
Lindy gone. . . . Emptiness!
What would he do? Where would he live? The London house? He shivered at the thought. . . . No. Not the London house! He couldn’t ever sleep there again. No! Couldn’t think of her room with the big yellow bed. . . . Venetian or Viennese, or whatever-it-was bed . . . where she looked so tiny . . . lost. . . . And . . . and him comin’ in to drink his morning tea . . . after shavin’, of course . . . sittin’ on the side of it: and her letters and . . . littered all over the place: and her hair gold against the tawny yellow of the bed back.
By God! He’d got this to tackle before he went back to the house. . . . No one to ask. Some people never at a loss and that . . . No one to ask now . . . not now: except Lucius, and he’d be bound to take Lindy’s side. . . . One wanted to know the best way to make everyone happy all round: at least, as happy as could be expected. One didn’t want to blame or slang. . . . It had happened . . . and there it was! No one to advise. . . . Not a thing one could talk of to everyone . . . of course not . . . unless it was some one one had known for years, some one like Lucius.
Why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he go straight back to the house . . . get a scrap of breakfast before the rest were down . . . leave word that he’d had a letter or something . . . had had to go up to London for . . . oh, anything . . . walk to the station and . . . Lucius was at No. 5. He could catch him and . . . they could lunch together at Arthur’s. . . . Anyway he could tell Lucius all about it and that ’ud be somethin’. Never felt he wanted some one’s advice so much. . . . But Lucius. Why, it concerned Lucius nearly as much as himself! There wouldn’t be any need then for having to have one’s plan of campaign . . . no, not campaign . . . that sounded so damned vindictive . . . no, one’s course of action all cut and . . .
Couldn’t decide a thing like that in a few minutes. Wasn’t possible to . . . not right to either. Lucius! . . . by Jove, yes . . . Lucius! Grand fellah . . . so . . . brainy and that: never at a loss. No. Besides he knew Lindy better even than he . . . if he had really ever known her . . . at all. Had he? Had he? It made one lose faith in . . . er . . . But . . .
No time to be lost if he was to be off and clear of the place before any of the others were down.
He set off for the house. His step had more spring in it now. He had found . . . for the moment at least . . . a physical solution.
Lucius Thornhill looked up from the book which he had been reading just at the moment when his son-in-law, General Hawkins, lank and hasty, was stalking southwards across the bridge in St. James’s Park to visit him. He stretched himself, read another line, and then became fascinated by the beam of sunlight which lit a corner of the book-lined room.
A lazy morning! That was the worst of summer . . . or the best of it! It made one want to bask outside, in the warmth: to lie idle in an altogether shameful luxury. The river . . . drifting . . . with some one else to paddle and do the work if need be . . . : symbolic of most people’s vision of the perfect life . . . wasn’t it? Or alone even, with a favourite book . . . not to read perhaps . . . a classical chaperon on a topical reach: very likely not to read . . . : no, not on a drowsy afternoon . . . with the purr of water rilling over a weir, and sunlight filtering kaleidoscopic through one’s Panama: very likely not to read! Oh, the joy of opening a book for the mere pleasure of laying it down again!
Summer was the season when it was the hardest to concentrate one’s thoughts . . . unless one had to. When one had been young: it had been different: then it had been in Spring that one had grown impatient of walls: a restless time! Now, with the world’s great raptures behind, one remembered only trifles. Rather humiliating to reckon up what one actually did remember . . . at first hand . . . : primroses seen between wan birch stems . . . a stile . . . a little lace . . . the smile of which one could never be quite sure . . . not then! not then, at any rate! . . . the sudden quiver in a glance . . . and . . . and . . . oh! a little background, half remembered, half invented afterwards . . . hedge-birds in ambush perhaps . . . a lark singing in the pale, secret blue. Nothing much! But, oh! to feel again—if one could—those first experiences. To be twenty again, and to know as little as one had known then. If that were possible! But it was gone! What need to conceive other tragedies?
He drew in his breath, and his mouth shut in a thin smile which humour saved from bitterness.
Yes, the spring had been the restless time when one had been young. But now it was on these languid, sunny days that one felt that same vague restlessness.
Still quite early too! Plenty of time to catch a train. Might go . . . oh! anywhere. Lindy was down on the river. She and Harry’d be glad to see him. He’d meet Mrs. Van Neck too. Didn’t she keep dachshunds . . . or was it a racing stable? . . . Something sporting, at all events. She’d affect a man’s collar and tie in a few years—if she had not already—that was her type. He remembered her quite well now. It wasn’t dachshunds or race horses: it was Girl Guides.
There would be a train at, say, eleven or twelve, which would get one down there in time. . . . How far was it?—well! in time for something! There must be a train. Now if he kept an A.B.C., or even a Bradshaw in the house! But he’d be as likely to keep a tame elephant, or a portrait of the late Lord Tennyson, or a Daily Mail Year Book. He’d meant to get one . . . the Bradshaw, of course . . . several times: for years as a matter of fact: but somehow since . . . In the old days Katharine had seen to that sort of thing and since she . . .
The room seemed to him to have grown suddenly very silent. Well, there hadn’t been an A.B.C. in the house for years, and he didn’t suppose there ever would be again.
He could telephone to the Athenæum—better, Hamley could—and ask them about a train. To-day even clubs had their use. A wonderful world . . . on such a morning! Hamley could go out with a telegram. Lindy should punt him. Harry should give them tea at the Boat Club. . . . Guards cake . . . the brown sort with plenty of sultanas. Yet another use for a club. Really the world was suspiciously perfect to-day.
Besides he hadn’t seen Harry for several weeks. He’d be glad to. He always was, of course: but to-day especially so. Just the right sort of day to loll in a punt and listen to good old Harry’s jerky sentences, and to have a guess at what he was going to say next. One got so surprisingly accurate at it. One got to know all the signs—like the way he screwed up his eyes when a topic was “a bit beyond” him (which a good many were). Not difficult to read, even if one wasn’t trying to. Harry didn’t often think of any subject very unlikely or profound. But still there was always a sporting chance! It would be good to see him craning his neck, and trying to see the best of everything and every one.
Harry’d always been like that . . . even at Mitchell’s. . . . Fancy Harry after all these years . . . and Lindy . . . Lindy of all people. He’d have thought Lindy’d have chosen some one younger and . . . more of the modern sort. Yet there was always something a little Louis Quinze about Lindy. No, he’d never understood her—not altogether—not what was at the back of her mind—not even as a child. There’d always been something—so tiny at first, yet so elusive, like a speck of mercury in a silver bowl. No, she hadn’t as simple a character as Katharine had had.
There were traits of poor Katharine’s in Lindy: things he recognized—that way of coaxing “Ah, do”—into “Arh! Der-ooo!”—uncannily like Katharine had done years ago, when she’d wanted to wheedle her old father: though Lindy could never have seen her mother do it: because he’d chaffed Katharine out of it long before. For each man kills the thing he loves. Hah!
He’d looked for other people’s tricks in Lindy too—those of his own relations, and of the other side. And there’d been some of his own that had made him smile the wrong side sometimes. Too like seeing oneself in a distorted mirror—or seeing oneself as others see us. And some people wanted to do that, or said they did.
But deep down there’d always been lots of things in Lindy he’d never been able to ticket, or even gauge. He’d noticed them growing ever since she’d been four. A new, an entirely new, personality had been evolved before his eyes. The infinite variety of types! Incredible! But there she was—bless her—loveliest, lightest, and most delicious of her sex. He’d not realised, before he’d watched her growing, how poor his own gender was by comparison. No man alive was worth her freshness—her beauty—her joie de vivre—the delicate irregularity of her profile—a touch of the Thornhill there!—the way her lips parted—and if her own father could see her like that, no wonder the young men . . . : no wonder!
And she’d gone and married Harry! Well, it wasn’t his business—nor his funeral either—though the gods knew he wished them well. Harry and Lindy . . . the two people left on earth he knew best—or ought to. But did he know them? Did he know Lindy? Did she know herself even? Had she found herself? There must be a good deal to find . . . some queer things . . . one way and another . . . pagan echoes from before Joy died—a pretty wantonness—the age of lace—inherited tendencies (a good safe sound that!), and gifts of the good fairies . . . and gifts of the uninvited one. . . . What fairy had Katharine and he forgotten to ask to the christening? No, there’d be a lot to find in little Lindy!
But Harry wasn’t the x in that equation, at any rate. Harry was a known quantity. Yet given certain conditions—and if once he was taken out of the track of his ordinary life . . . Yes, he might do some pretty unexpected things.
Lucius stretched himself. His gaze descending with satisfaction down the façade of the scarlet-doored house opposite fell suddenly upon the figure of General Hawkins himself, approaching the house.
Talk of . . . ! And coming to see him too . . . ! And not in a top hat, though it was June and the King in London. And Harry so particular about all that sort of chichi. What strides he was taking too . . . longer even than usual! Something up! Nothing but some trouble with Lindy could make poor old Harry look as bad as that.
An unpleasant thought reared itself, and was as suddenly demolished, as is the Beadle by Mr. Punch—
“Heety-teety! Hoity-toity! I’m the Beadle.”
Bomp!
The unpleasant thought lay demolished, and Lucius smiled. Disregard what one did not like! It was the system which had taken him a long time to perfect: it smoothed one’s path through life wonderfully.
General Hawkins was only a short distance from the door of No. 5 now, but so preoccupied was he that he had not yet looked at the house. Lucius Thornhill at his window noticed this, and instinctively retreated a little behind the drawn-back grey curtains.
It was always good to see Harry . . . and yet this morning it mightn’t be pleasant. . . .
He sighed and crossed his thin legs the other way.
One must clear one’s mind before Harry was on top of one. No good starting all wrong. He looked down at his brown shoes and concentrated his thoughts on them. They would do as well as anything else! Very well polished! That was the best of Hamley. He ought to be grateful to Harry for finding him, Hamley, if for nothing else. No one like an ex-guardsman for keeping one’s things. . . . Only he really must buy some sock-suspenders. He really must. He’d meant to for some time. In winter his thick socks kept up better, but these thin grey ones . . . When did that last pair of suspenders wear out? . . . Was it? . . . or even longer ago?
Lucius Thornhill was still absorbed in the question of how long ago it had been that the elastic of those discarded sock-suspenders had finally lengthened into sad and unserviceable pieces of tape, when General Hawkins walked into the room.
Lucius stretched out his hand without rising from the wide window-seat.
“Welcome, Harry,” he said. “I saw you coming along the street,” he added, his eyes helping out a rather whimsical smile.
The other gripped his hand in silence and with much force, shook his head to the implied hospitality and, going over to the empty fireplace, leant an elbow on the high wooden mantelshelf.
Harry said nothing: that was Harry’s way: and Lucius, ever sensitive, had adapted himself to it years ago.
What a rugged chap it is to be sure, thought he.
“You’ve come up pretty early, haven’t you?” Why he’s got his pyjama jacket on, instead of a shirt, and his brigade tie tied round it, Lucius observed. And fancy my spotting it! Pray heavens he never notices himself . . . but goes to bed in it again. Things must be in a pretty way! Poor old Harry!
He repeated the “Poor old Harry” aloud and comfortingly.
His friend gave a succession of quick, scarcely perceptible nods in acknowledgement, and looked at him, blinking and appealing.
“When . . . er . . . did yer . . . er . . . know?” he asked, lifting his chin as if to escape the nip of a too tight collar.
“I don’t.”
“No . . . er?” . . . a little wonderingly. Then with delayed realisation . . . “No, of course not.” . . . Followed by . . . “No, but . . . er . . .” and after a pause, “How could yer?”
Harry scanned the ceiling, and then turning to the chimney-piece again and with his hands on it he bent his head till his forehead touched its high shelf. His back was thin and curiously youthful, Lucius thought, and regarded him for a while with detached interest till for him, as spectator, the tensity became too uncomfortably strong. Then rising, he went over and laid a quick, delicate touch on his shoulder.
“I knew there was something up, of course, Harry, old man. I’m so sorry. Is it anything I can help about?”
Lucius ’ud always been like that. Uncanny the way he knew what one was . . . er . . . thinking of. ’Stonishin’! “Look here . . . er . . . Lucius. It’s . . . er . . . well . . . Oh, God! I don’t know how to start. Don’t really,” he said miserably.
His friend drew back a little and stooped to pick up something from the hearth.
“Poor old Harry. Poor old Harry. It’s about Lindy, I suppose.”
Their meeting glances gave the answer.
Lucius watched the light glinting on the crackle-jar behind Harry’s head, and along a whole row of pale Jane Austens. So he’d been right in that guess at the first sight of Harry striding along in abject gloom! How right!
And what did one say now? What did one? That was what he wanted to know. Something would have to be done. What, one didn’t know what . . . A problem! A problem with all its attendant evils! . . . Solutions! A decision! Oh! Hell! A decision!! Oh, three times hell!
What a fool he’d been. What an easy-going imbecile. Why had he let Lindy marry Harry at all? Why hadn’t he just put his foot down—then at least or—or . . . Oh, often! He might have known. Any fool would have known.
What the Hades was to be done now? Something! No escape from it. And there were Harry and he standing like a pair of stuffed giraffes.
“Let’s sit down,” he said. One couldn’t go on standing like that, saying nothing.
He watched Harry take the “winter” armchair and sit down, his elbows between his knees. Then he returned to his place on the window-seat. For the first time Harry’s problem became eclipsed by his own, and by an immediate angle of it. Could any man be expected to ask what had happened? . . . Could he? Curses! He was her father besides being Harry’s friend. Was it fair? One couldn’t ask what had happened . . . delicacy . . . If Harry couldn’t get started, what could one be expected to do to help him?
Oh, Lindy! Why couldn’t she be careful? That, at any rate! One had the right to expect that, as a parent—even as a modern parent, and even of one’s married daughter. This lack of discretion was the curse of the age. They’d forgotten the very word! No dust sheets over family skeletons. But if one must throw one’s bonnet over the mill, why not wait till it was dark? Why in the gods’ names not?
“When did you know?” he asked. That assumed the discovery, and it was less bald than “When did you find out?” A bit Victorian himself, really! One couldn’t touch . . . et cetera! Exactly! Still, it was an adequate opening.
Harry continued to watch the carpet.
“This morning,” he answered. “It must have been . . . well . . . er . . . about a quarter to four.” His tone was careful, like that of some police sergeant giving evidence: as if it mattered greatly whether it was ten minutes earlier or later.
Lucius flinched. He’d framed his question so as to avoid anything like this. He’d asked “when” and the answer was almost telling him “how.” Harry’d found out at 4 a.m.! The devil he had! So one had been only too right about waiting till it was dark to throw one’s bonnet over the mill—if one had to—but she hadn’t tried to retrieve it early enough. . . .
Heu-u-u-ugh! He shivered. No warmth left in the sun at all now.
Lindy! Caught out like any little . . . Oh, Lindy! Lindy! The whole world had collapsed like a burst bandbox. His limbs felt heavy as lead: his body was cold and stiff. It was like growing old in a second. Astonishing how instantly the body reacted to the mind. Such a damned undignified business being caught out! What had she said? Gasped? Or tried to brazen it out? Oh, horrible! He’d guessed, of course he’d guessed there was something up. But the sordidness . . . the vulgar melodrama . . . like those inane bedroom farces that Paris never tires of. He saw Lindy . . . his little, fairy Lindy . . . Lindy in a dozen situations—all humiliating, ridiculous even. Against the wall . . . cornered. . . . Eugh! Or Lindy bluffing desperately, her chin high and her back to the guilty curtains. . . . Eugh!
And it was his fault—all his. Too indulgent. Too willing to dwell on what humour could be extracted from events. Too tolerant of everything. Too cynical, really. Wrong standards. Wrong anyhow for an immature mind:—or worse, no standards at all, only comments. The Olympian attitude wasn’t any good. What one wanted was a good old-fashioned Jehovah—with chop whiskers and an iron-master’s mouth in His best “The Lord thy God is a jealous God” frame of mind, and hell-fire flaming just round the corner.
Well, something had got to be done now. She’d got to be got out of this mess with as little harm to herself as might be. That was what he’d got to do. And he’d got to set to and do it, whether he liked the job or not. He’d got to sacrifice everything else, everyone else . . . poor old Harry even . . . every one. That was certain! But he must know how things stood. That was the first step.
“What did she say?” he asked.
Harry looked up, puzzled. “What did she . . . er . . . say?” With emphasis on the “say.” Then as it dawned on him that of course her father did not know the details of what had happened, “Oh—er, well—er, yer see, she didn’t know I’d . . . er . . . seen her.”
Lucius leant back, his hands behind his head, and almost closed his eyes.
Well, it was a bit better than he’d been visualising. There hadn’t been a “scene.” That was something. Easier to forget anything than a “scene.” And it was all inconclusive as yet. Harry hadn’t made up his mind: he hadn’t said anything. Lindy didn’t even know she’d been caught out. Nor would anyone else. It was as if it hadn’t happened . . . except for Harry knowing. Except for that! Except for that, it was plain sailing enough. Couldn’t a mesmerist take Harry in hand? Couldn’t the thing be sponged off his memory? What a curse memory was—was sometimes, at any rate! What no one knows—hasn’t happened . . . or as good as hasn’t. If only Harry . . . but there! . . . Was it fair to ask him? Harry’d always been doing things for him ever since he could remember. Probably it wasn’t fair: but he’d got to do it. People like Harry were always giving, and people like him were always taking.
Of course it was up to him as her father to sacrifice any one to her. And he would. Yes, he would. Only, only . . . how should one start asking him? Oh, Lindy! What a mess she’d made of it.
“What d’you think of doing about it, old man?” he asked. That wasn’t a good opening.—One should have tried a little mental suggestion. He leant his head on one side: so, without moving his body, he could see Harry. He watched on his friend’s face, the question being heard, de-coded, considered and answered: four distinct steps.
“What do I think of . . . er, doin’? Think of doin’. Well—er, well—er . . . er, must let her go . . . no other way . . . no other . . . er . . . is there?”
Lucius, unwatched, had withdrawn again into his favourite state of detachment.—How do you know she wants to? occurred to him. But aloud, it would have sounded heartless, though the Lord knew why it should! So Harry was going to let Lindy go, was he? And again why? But that question, too, would not be permissible. Harry was going to let her go! But that was what he’d got to stop.
Then suddenly he discovered a doubt, like a crack in the fabric he had been rearing in his mind. He began to wonder if, after all, he had not been building upon quicksands. Could he be sure if being “let go” was not what Lindy wanted? Was it not possible that would be what she would want? . . . It might be. He could guess well enough who the other man was. It must be that young Lord Dashwood. . . . Yes, without a doubt . . . But what did it matter who it was? She’d told him about him in her last letter. “The sweetest young man,” who was staying with Mrs. Van Neck. But he’d heard all that before . . . sweetest young men . . . scores of them . . . ever since she’d been thirteen. Perhaps she’d found the “real thing,” the grand passion, the thing of which all else was but imitation . . . the thing that transcends all else! . . . If she had! If she had! He looked sideways at the sky.—Yes, of course . . . But one couldn’t know that.
“I suppose letting her go means . . . courts, and columns in the Sunday papers, doesn’t it?”
Hateful pages opened themselves before his mind with all their triteness. His little Lindy! Who’d been a long-legged little angel sitting on the arm of the “winter” chair, only a year or two back. Little Lindy being served up for the Sunday salaciousness of unclaimed postmistresses, with pictures alongside of her of the same shop girl in the same bathing dress and four different caps: and labelled “Seen at Sea View,” “A Bonny Bather at Brighton,” and so on. These for the postmistresses’ adolescent nephews, one supposed. Friends who “took” the Times, and who read the Mirror as a rule, would buy the Daily Telegraph to get it “in full.” The Judge, pretending he didn’t know what “a Canader” meant, and asking if Boulter’s Lock was near Lough Ness, and all the cheap Day-and-Martin-tongued sucklings at the Bar applauding. The ruinous Counsel talking about “the innocent if thoughtless young wife”: and the fellow whose conscience had been hired by t’other side retorting with the “too trusting husband.” Ye gods! What a fool they’d make of poor old Harry—they’d turn him inside out. He’d go on repeating himself, and um-ing and er-ing. Then if they baited Lindy much, she’d be sure to let out . . . she was so quick. Oh, it mustn’t be! It would be dreadful for Lindy at her age. At twenty-eight she could face it—but not now . . . ! And, it would pretty well finish Harry!
Lindy must be made sensible: made to give up this young—whatever-his-idiot-name was. Harry had got to be made to forgive her. That was the only thing for them both: for himself, too. Lindy was too young and Harry—at any age—was too old to face a break-up. He looked towards his son-in-law, who was resting his forehead on his hands.
What aspect of it was Harry visualising? Surely if only he could understand what a break-up would entail. . . . Yet how could one ask him to? How could his best friend ask him? Yet it had got to be done: and at once.
“Need it go to that? Need it, old man?” he asked.
“Need it? Oh . . . er . . . ? Need it go as far as a . . . er . . . divorce? Well, but how not? Lindy lovin’ some one else, and that.”
He was biting his lower lip, Lucius could see.
“By God, Lucius!” he went on, scarcely audible. “By God! . . . Never thought this could happen. Never . . . Lord knows you’d never blame me, but it may have been a bit my fault: mayn’t it? She bein’ so young . . . and me havin’ more experience and that. . . . Ought to have protected her . . . and . . . er . . . and somehow I never thought. . . . I’ve meant well by her! By God, I have! Bitter pill, Lucius. Damn bitter.”
On the window-seat the other shifted uneasily and turned on his side. What a horrible thing suffering was. It seemed worse somehow to watch it in a man. A woman might have cried, and tears did not affect him so much—too many women had cried to him. Far too many!—and their tears wouldn’t have affected him that way, at any rate. It was awkward to have to watch any man when he was like that: but when it was poor old Harry, and when one felt it was, in a way, one’s own fault—and when one had got to ask him to do a thing like that! Oh, damnable! Damnable! Yet there wasn’t any other way out.
“I don’t want to worry you about . . . well, how it all came out: and very likely I’m a bit obtuse: but you’re sure, absolutely sure, that Lindy’s in love with . . . with some one else? Really in love? You know what fools young girls are? I . . . well . . . I don’t know how serious it is. Whether she’s really in love I mean.”
“Er . . . sure? Am I absolutely sure? Well . . . er . . . but of course. Otherwise she wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t have done that. Would she? No woman . . . no decent woman would . . . Her bein’ in love with him’s the only possible . . . explanation. But I’d never suspected, Lucius: never guessed.”
The man by the window moved his lips in some inaudible sympathy. Poor old Harry! Lindy’d take a knock better than him—more rebound to her—wouldn’t take things so to heart. Naughty, flippant little Lindy. . . . How the devil would he ever settle down to another life now? Why, it took him half a minute to trim his sails to a new topic of conversation. He’d taken twenty years to get married. . . . No, he’d wander about his club looking at the empty chairs, as if he’d forgotten something. It had got to be stopped! The more he thought about it the more certain he became, yet the less he felt himself capable of directing the course of events. If he weren’t Harry’s friend it would be easier. Yet he’d got to do it. For a time he wrestled, looking first at Harry and then reluctantly and a little furtively at the sunshine outside.
“Harry, old fellah,” he began presently, “suppose Lindy, I’m only saying supposing—remember that.” (One couldn’t be too clear for Harry.) “Well, supposing that Lindy didn’t want it. . . . Supposing it were all a mistake. I mean, supposing she wanted you to take her back—there are a good many things I’d sooner ask you—but would you do it?”
Harry Hawkins straightened himself in his chair, and to Lucius it seemed as if he were going to answer at once, but instead he leant back and, interlacing his fingers, looked up blinking towards the ceiling. It was the Harry of schooldays, trying to memorise a difficult passage.
“Lucius, old man, I . . .” he started, but broke off and remained silent again, his lips pursing and widening. “Lucius, I couldn’t. . . . You see, well . . . er . . . if I hadn’t loved her . . . and that . . . so much. Yer see, I’d never gone in for . . . er . . . women . . . had I? Didn’t really know much about ’em. So yer see marryin’ had changed things . . . the way one looked at them and everythin’. Not sentimental. Not in ordinary way of things . . . but . . . Lindy’d been everythin’ to me and . . . so . . . er . . . It’s difficult ter . . . Never was good at findin’ right word!”
For a while he relapsed into silence in search of one.
“It’s like this, Lucius. It—Lindy and me, I mean—had been somethin’ different from other things, more . . . er . . . precious (that’s the word I wanted), and, Lucius, and . . . findin’ out . . .” he tailed off miserably. “Er . . . made everythin’ . . . her and me being together and that, seem . . . er . . . shoddy. Like any rotten time one might have had . . . with a . . . er, well, with a poll, even. No. I don’t mean . . . Yer know I don’t mean that! No, Lucius, I don’t mean that about Lindy! No . . . er . . . only the . . . the . . . er, well, the romance (there isn’t any other word for it) . . . knocked endwise, and that. I don’t feel I could face it . . . not livin’ with her. All the time I’d be . . . well, you would be yourself. It’s finished me, Lucius . . . it has really. Don’t care a damn what happens. Not vindictive. Lindy can’t help it . . . fallin’ in love. . . . It just happens to people—I’ve seen it happen—they can’t help it.
“I expect I’m too old for her . . . might have guessed . . . not blamin’ her . . . He’s a very decent boy, daresay. Only—you must see it yourself—I couldn’t take her back. Anythin’ else . . . but . . . no, I couldn’t take her back. No, Lucius, I couldn’t. Anyhow she’ll be marrying young . . .”
The other man shut his eyes tightly and lay back very still. He tapped out a bar or two from “Rigoletto” with the tip of his tongue on his teeth, and presently he lit a cigarette with unusual deliberation.
A taxi pulling up for a second or two before some near door attracted the attention of both men. . . . The same idea occurred to both, and Lucius was aware of this. But the cab drove away, and they heard the door of some other house open and shut.
“I see. Yes. I see,” said Lucius uncertainly. “But . . .”
Lindy’s happiness—her future—was at stake. He must persuade Harry. He must do his best—and he did. They talked on for an hour or more, but without result.
What could he say? What could he? He looked up at Harry’s face and found the answer.
—Nothing!
Nothing! And yet he talked on.
General Hawkins walked up from the station, and it was five o’clock before he again entered the cool, shadowed hall. Recent-day decorators had tolerated or forgotten its dimly green walls, and it retained the original heavy furnishing and arrangement, though for the moment it was littered with a variety of objects.
This disarray gave—though not to General Hawkins—an impression of squandered spaciousness: it caricatured the spirit of the house-party and perhaps of the age.
Beside a darker wall there was ranged a lean sofa of the Balmoral period, tightly covered in its original hassock-crimson rep. But for the moment its discretion had been outraged by a dazzling fruit-stall coloured dust-cloak tossed across it. On a formal mahogany-seated and crest-backed chair lay bunches of scarlet and purple sweet peas, limp and wilting, while vases and a kitchen jug waited on the floor near by. Upon the central table which had once been patterned with gloves and crops, the dish for cards and dust had disappeared beneath rackets, and hats of straw and felt. Half-opened road maps stretched like miniature aqueducts, and some crumpled lengths of orange ribbon drooped across a gay chaos of scarves and sunshades. To-day had thrown an unconsidered comment upon the gentility of yesterday.
General Hawkins, his thoughts on other things, added his stick to the confusion and passed towards the drawing-room, waking echoes. He did not even notice the bust of Charles James Fox, brightened by a hat of rush and poppies. The door was ajar: within were drowsy twilight and an indefinable sense of afternoon. A blue-bottle droned behind a lowered blind: the pendulum of the allegoric timepiece counted the useless seconds.
Empty!
He stood irresolute and, for the instant, puzzled, his lips parted a little—his gaze fixed—his brow puckered. Empty! He had counted on finding them in there. Must all be out on the river: or perhaps—Lindy mightn’t. That pink—er—whatever-it-was with the check on it, that was lyin’ in the hall, was hers, wasn’t it? Anyhow, he’d seen some one wearin’ it or somethin’ like it lately. Perhaps . . . Couldn’t be sure, of course. But . . .
Turning, he strode decidedly into the hall, and mounted the gently rising stairway two steps at a time, yet without any sense of haste. He passed unseeing the door of young Lord Dashwood’s room, the quiet columns in the corridor, the great somnolent Chinese vase. The waxworks of his dramas bore no backgrounds. The great Chinese vase had an air of incredible, patient expectancy, as if it had been waiting for centuries to witness some scene of unheard-of importance. Perhaps as yet it was not satisfied.
On Lindy’s bed lay a crumpled frock and grey stockings. On the dressing-table was a half-empty box of chocolates, the sight of which somehow stirred annoyance in him.
—Drawn blank again! Where the . . . Damn it! But she must be up the river. Up the river with . . .
He bit his lower lip, and stood for a full minute, irresolute, his chin high, his eyes narrowed, still, as one who awaits a distant signal. Here, too, the lowered blind was full of sunlight. The gentle breezes gave to it a happy curve. Then sounds which he had heard for some time began to take meaning.
—Out on the lawn! People—er . . . talkin’ out there. Yes! Out there? Hummm? All of ’em? Must go and—er . . .
But instead of doing so, he went into his bedroom and turned on the hot water.
—Couldn’t go out there at tea-time all grimy. No excuse for that, whatever one felt. Mustn’t let go! Mustn’t! ’Strordinary how grubby one got in trains and that. Had forgotten his gloves: that accounted for . . .
While drying, he craned his neck and peered over the looking-glass and out of the window.
—There they were, taking tea under the shade of the yew hedge. Some of ’em were at least: but Lindy was nowhere to be seen . . . nor Dashwood. No, nor old Hampden for that matter . . . nor . . .
He went downstairs, and out into the garden.
—He’d got to face ’em. Got to do it! What did it matter? What did anythin’ matter now that his Lindy . . . little Lindy had . . . He squared his shoulders. Out of doors the sunlight was dazzling. He screwed up his eyes. They sounded happy he thought . . . lucky devils!
He approached the party from its rear, so that its central figure, Mrs. Van Neck, had her flat, virile back to him. She wore grey whipcord. The hard black sailor hat, tilted over her eyes, might have dated from her girlhood and the nineties. As usual she disdained a parasol, and a beam of sunlight shone across her shoulders, and splintered on the tea-tray before her. On her right, shaded by the hedge, her profile towards him, sat Lindy’s Vera Casswell, with her chestnut warmth of hair and slender neck. Beyond her young “Bo’sun” Smith, the Coldstreamer, talked hopefully to her Pre-Raphaelite shoulder. On his further side, and unnecessarily attentive to a general conversation, was Mrs. Dyson Millar.
On the other side of his hostess were three men, not of the house-party, and the Irish girl whose name Harry Hawkins could never remember. The eldest of the three unknown was a clean-shaven, sandy-haired man with an eyeglass, plump, self-complacent cheeks, and a prim, schoolmistress expression of the mouth. The other two, who sat watching him, had the air of being undergraduates and, till their features and characters became more formed, were differentiated pleasantly enough by the devices on their blazers.
“One is cheyngeng,” the male spinster was saying over a poised teacup. “There is a deestinct meuvement teuwards the Victorian in verse as in other things. We cannot be shewer yet whether it is a reaction or a reform: whether it is part of the general wave or independent of it. Chearlie Prior teylls me . . .”
“Oh, God!” thought General Hawkins, and blinked himself into the party.
“Oh!!! Why! Good morning!” said Mrs. Van Neck to him aside, and indicated a chair with her chin. “Yes?” This to bridge the interruption, and towards the authority on verse.
Harry Hawkins sat down between him and her, taking care to keep well clear of their lines of communication.
The discourse continued.
“Does he really think that? I didn’t know,” asked Vera Casswell with a polite interest across the table, her shoulder still towards the soldier on her right.
Mrs. Van Neck gazed hastily round and, seeing an opportunity, turned to General Hawkins.
“Sugar?” she asked in a quick aside. Then, cheerily, but in little more than a whisper: “Hope you fixed up the business that took you off to London so early this morning?”
“Good Lord! I . . .”
—Harry Hawkins set down his cup just in time to avoid a catastrophe.—“The—er—business? How the . . . Oh! The—er—business. Well . . . er—yes, yes. Didn’t see what you meant at first. Oh, yes. Nothin’ important, yer know. Nothin’ important,” he repeated eagerly, in his relief at having got back into shallow waters. “Not important, only had to be . . . er . . . seen to at once. Business, yer know.”
Mrs. Van Neck nodded as if absent-minded.—Something serious the matter here! Was it about his wife and young Lord Dashwood? Most awkward! And, turning, she freed him from further explanations.
“Haven’t read him myself,” she added to the growing conversation, “but Molly Pintercott is always talking of him.”
General Hawkins swallowed a gulp of tea, and felt kindly towards his hostess. He had not met her until Lindy had brought him to her house a few days before, but he had taken to her at once. Though he had not known it, and would not have understood why, her habit of eliminating the article or pronoun at the beginning of a sentence had influenced his first impression in her favour.
“Don’t much care for summer myself,” she had said to him. Sensible sort of woman, that, he had thought. To prefer winter suggested further admirable possibilities. There was, moreover, a hint of the riding habit in the shoulders of her jacket. . . . Good sort!
The specialist in verse turned his worn-out topic and, undismayed, began to embroider its reverse. Grace O’Hara beyond him was plainly bored. Didn’t people in England ever talk about anything sensible, she wondered.
General Hawkins drank his tea gloomily. Where was Lindy? When would she be back? And they kept on talkin’. How did people find so much to say? And all about nothin’, or next door to it. Real life didn’t affect that sort. Even the War only set them talkin’ and writin’ about somethin’ a little different—and as little different as they’d dared. And one couldn’t even ask when she’d gone out. That was the worst of that general conversation business. It meant some ass . . . very likely quite a decent sort really, only he—er—anyhow, he kept on bleatin’, and everyone else just sat around. All right, if you liked it, but it was like bein’ . . . er . . . er . . . back at school. One just sat tight and . . .
“I don’t know myself,” said Vera Casswell during a momentary lull, “but some one said at lunch time the other day that in Chelsea men don’t seem to think that—the younger men, I mean.”
“Euh! Chhhelllsea!”
There was a distinct pause.
“I like Chelsea myself, yeu kneuw—I positively like it,” the voice added quite charmingly to Lindy’s Vera, with an air of having forgiven her. “It’s managed to keep seu much of its air of being steel outside London. Ev’n in the arts it’s steel parochial. Off the King’s Road they think of Chhhelllsea and London, as one thinks of Paris and Rome—almost. They kneuw better in Chhhelllsea, do they?”
Mrs. Van Neck drew a cigarette box across the trail, and offered it to the speaker.
“No, thanks. I’d sooner smoke a pipe, if you deun’t mind,” he added and produced it and other dunnage from the patch pocket of his flannel jacket.
His shoes were thick, and his knitted tie was evidently not a matter of great concern to him. His eyeglass appeared to be the only unworkmanlike part of his outfit. It was to him what a sword is to a soldier—an insignia, an ornament, and perhaps a weapon.
“Don’t know Willy Troit, do you, General?” she was saying. “Willy, this is General Hawkins who married Lindy Thornhill, you know.”
The men greeted each other.
“I’ve known your father-in-law for a long time,” said the sandy-headed mm. “Ai’m always trying to persuade him to let me include some of his stuff in one of my anthologies.”
He spoke in a quick, rather mewing voice, raising and lowering his face without turning it.
General Hawkins looked at him uncritically.
“Know Lucius,” he said. “Splendid!” and sat down.
Lindy’s Vera tried politely to restart the previous subject, but Willy Troit had delivered himself as much as he intended to do.
“Perhaps” and “I wonder” were as far as he would go.
The two conjectural undergraduates began to whisper behind his back with engaging timidity.
It’s as if he’d shut up the shop for the night, thought Vera Casswell, and turned to the grateful guardsman at her side. Clare Dyson Millar, cheated of any chance of having a man to talk to, began discussing with the girl whose name General Hawkins could never remember the vileness of one or other of the Irish parties or Governments.
“Cold-blooded murderers,” she was remarking.
“Terrible state of affairs,” said Mrs. Van Neck, unable to remember whether Catholics or Protestants had burnt down her guest’s home.
“Shockin’,” confirmed General Hawkins devoutly.
Where was she? he was wondering. Where was she? Could he ask ’em? Would it look . . . er . . . ? Could he ask where young Dashwood . . . ? No, that ’ud be worse than askin’ where Lindy was. Draw attention to . . . er . . . Yes! And it ’ud be admittin’ he . . . er . . . and all that.
The magnetism of an impressive subject having failed, the party resolved itself into smaller groups where one element at least attracted the other. The undergraduates mutually drew together like floating fragments in a basin. The Bo’sun edged his elbows nearer to Vera’s knees, and cut her off from the rest of the party. Willy Troit added his sympathy with the victim of other people’s idealism.
“They ought to peut Ireland under the League of Nations,” he said helpfully.
The Irish girl turned on him quickly. Was he laughing at her? She couldn’t understand these people. Were they ever serious? Didn’t they care about anything? Didn’t they even feel anything? She felt rising in her the savage rebellion of the Celt against the inscrutable humour of the Saxon. Couldn’t they understand anything? Where could one even begin to get contact with these . . . these . . . ? At home people were different, even the other side were human . . . underneath. Had Willy Troit been laughing at her? Did any one know? They were always like that. She looked hard at him. He was probably musical, she decided, and wished she could meet him on a hockey field.
Mrs. Van Neck turned a little on her elbow.
“Where do you think of going this autumn?” she asked of General Hawkins.
“Think of goin’? Well—er—you see . . . er . . .” Dev’lish awkward question, that. Didn’t know where he’d sleep that very night. Why, after he’d seen Lindy and . . . As likely as not he’d . . . and besides . . .
“Not a . . . er . . . notion,” he resumed. “Had meant to take a house in—er—Leicestershire . . . huntin’. Had meant to. Depends on a lot of things, yer see,” he ended more brightly. Hadn’t given himself away after all had he?
Nice man, thought Mrs. Van Neck. Such a change after that tiresome Troit who was so certain about everything. Why on earth had he come over? He was always like that. And one had to be so careful of him, too. He went everywhere and . . . No, she didn’t like him. Pity those boys were so shy. Done that O’Hara girl all the good in the world, if she could have got one of them to pay a little attention to her. Flattery worked like yeast with a girl like that. They got ghastly heavy without it. She wanted taking out of herself—especially now, poor thing. And the O’Haras wouldn’t be able to keep on dining out and staying away on the strength of that burnt house much longer. Pity she dressed so badly. Such a disadvantage to a girl. But there hadn’t been any men in her part of the country, poor dear. And it would be such a great treat even if it were only for one afternoon. Were quite nice-looking boys too! Ought she to ask Willy Troit to dinner so as to keep them? She could put one of the youths on each side of the O’Hara girl and give the people on the other sides a hint. A stiff cocktail would probably work wonders with their conversational powers. Of course the tiresome Troit would monopolise all the talk he could. But she could put him next to Vera, and he could talk about sonnets and whatever he wanted till the cows came home. And Vera was so nice she could talk about anything. She needn’t have him next herself. Anyhow she wouldn’t. She’d put General Hawkins . . . and so on.
“You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you, Willy?” she said.
“Euh, thenk you, but . . .” He looked round at the attendant undergraduates.
Wonder when on earth I’ll be able to speak to Lindy, thought General Hawkins.
Tiresome creature the Troit is, thought Mrs. Van Neck. It would never strike him that he was the “and also ran,” I suppose. Treats them like a sort of harem. Flopping about in the canoe, and making the boys paddle him. Suppose they must write poems, and he patronises them. “Not half bad, Juggins. Don’t mind a few hints from an old hand. Stick to it.” She could hear him doing it. All that talk of his would impress them at their age.
“Of course I’d like you all to stay, Mr. . . . er and . . . Of course you’ll all stay.”
“Lindy isn’t back yet,” she observed to the General. Most awkward if there’s any trouble. I wonder if that pair have really been playing the fool, and if the husband knows it. That would account for his manner . . . does look pretty bad.
“What do you fancy for the Gold Cup?” she asked.
“Gold Cup? Umm . . .”
For the first time that afternoon General Hawkins’s thoughts were diverted from his troubles.
The afternoon was drawing to its close, and General Hawkins, hands deep in trousers pockets, stood by the river’s edge. The hush of early evening had descended and, from afar, there drifted across the water pastel sounds of distant oars and of a just audible gramophone.
—When would she come back? When would she?
A four, out for practice, came jerking up the river, like some lean water-beetle, and passed the garden landing-stage. For a moment the sight held his attention, and half unconsciously he began to time the rowers.
Weee-urk—weee-urk—weee-urk—
Number two was not pulling his weight, he thought. Stroke was getting a bit wild, not straight between his knees. Not a bad lot. Keepin’ it up, too. But just before his half-minute was over, an “easy-all” wrecked his calculations. His interest faded like the trail of a falling rocket.
—Had she gone upstream? Down might mean her not getting back till God knew when! He wondered vaguely if any one had noticed his anxiety. He ought to go back away from the boat-house and the stage. Not a doubt of it! He ought to go, and talk to some one . . . or get a book and read. Read! Read! Good God! Still . . . Couldn’t go hanging about like this . . . for ever. . . . Must take a pull: must really . . . pull myself together. . . . What would people . . . er . . . Besides . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . what did it matter now, when she came back? It didn’t matter now: not really. He’d got to have it . . . have it out with her: find out what she . . . er . . . what she wanted. He’d give her the chance of divorcin’ him if she wanted it like that . . . naturally. People would talk, of course, but people did such queer things nowadays, marriage without any consummation, and consummation without any . . . er . . . marriage. Or there was . . . er . . . separation.
Some craft appeared round a distant bend, skirting the willows: and for a while he watched it intently, but it was only a punt with two men in it.
Lucius had been wanting him to forgive her, but it wasn’t a question of forgivin’ what had been done. No, it was because she’d . . . wella . . . she hadn’t left him anything: not a thing: nothin’ to look forward to: nothin’ to even look back to: nothin’ to remember. The deception, that’s what had laid him out. If she’d come and said . . . or if she’d gone off with that young . . . er . . . Then at any rate he’d still have been able to keep his memories . . . Wella . . . he wouldn’t have lost what had gone before. He’d have been able to think of the times that had been: of that autumn in the Midi: of that day in the vineyard . . . with leaves around her hair . . . Oh, God, with vine leaves round her little golden head: of that night he’d first kissed her lips . . . of the times . . . of the handkerchief and the kitten . . . of the . . . Oh, God!
He swung round suddenly, and began pacing the lawn with long strides that had an odd, rhythmic emphasis. His path lay across the sunlight: so by his side there went that shadow which always caricatured him, which exaggerated his angularity and those jerky movements, and which somehow brought to mind the “slowed-down” film pictures of horses jumping. The falter from which each pace was begun, the gathering speed with which it was continued, and then the long steady stride. Falter—jerk—S-t-r-i-d-e. Falter—jerk—S-t-r-i-d-e— Each phase was distinct and observable like the process of his thought, and like most other things about him. There was some athletism in his movements, yet they were not slurred into smooth, continuous progress. And in the shadow that crossed and recrossed the lawn at his side, these traits were magnified absurdly. Falter—jerk—S-t-r-i-d-e.
A Polish attaché in Vienna had noticed it. He had pointed it out to a pretty Viennese as they sat over their cognac. “There goes the Englishman, l’Awkeen, as my French colleagues call him. One would know that for an English walk, from the other end of the Ring. You see it?” The Pole had marched with his fingers, across from his coffee cup to her liqueur glass, halted them, straightened them with an “urgh,” laughed and waved his hand. “Slavs are too conscious of their shoulders,” he had expanded, “too supple in their knees. Vous avez remarquez ça? Mais oui! In their peasant dances—obviously. Germans, they . . . Oh! they are still too conscious of wearing boots.
“For example; They never forget them: they stamp them: they click the heels of them together. Parade step. What else is it? My boots! My boots! My beautiful Imperially-provided-utterly-masculine boots. Then in the South in Capri or Taormina—— No, I am not going to say anything inconvenable . . . they walk like cats, languidly, gracefully. And, as with cats, the sex is usually a trifle . . .” The Viennese had made a little mouth, and had drawn on her long gloves.
General Hawkins stopped and turned, for he had heard sounds from the river: but again the boat held strangers.
After seven! Nothing in that really: not in itself, no! No reason why she shouldn’t stay out as late, or a lot later. Nothin’ odd in it: only to-night . . . somehow . . . Suppose she didn’t come back till nine or till ten. What ’ud one do then? Hmm? Would one . . . er . . . ? Suppose . . .
He stiffened suddenly. . . . Suppose she never did come back! . . . He swung towards the terrace steps, and towards the house.
Mrs. Van Neck must have succeeded in her plan for the O’Hara girl was taking the undergraduates with baskets towards the strawberry nets. She herself was strolling backwards and forwards with Willy Troit, and was wondering what could be done about the red mullet. “Twelve into nine, won’t go. Twelve into ninety. . . . No, that was wrong. Nine was eighteen halves, and so . . .”
Vera Casswell and Mrs. Dyson Millar were on a seat together. The married woman was talking, and knitting a jumper. Though she did not watch her work, she bent plumply over it: but every now and again she threw a short look towards the girl at the other end of the seat. In contrast to the other’s gossip and industry, Vera sat silent, lovely, and very still, her hands clasped upon her knees, and her gaze on some pale infinity above the poplars.
That pair don’t hit it off, thought Mrs. Van Neck as she passed them. Vera looking sad, too. Was she worrying about her beloved Lindy?
“Do you see anything of the Minton girls nowadays?” Mrs. Dyson Millar was asking, watching her needles working and tunnelling through the dust-coloured silk.
“I see them at the classes,” Vera Casswell answered.
“They were great fun, the classes. I do think one got a real insight into the things one really hadn’t time to read up oneself.”
The needles plied ceaselessly. Mrs. Dyson Millar looked up quickly at her companion. What is the girl thinking about when she sits looking at nothing like that, she wondered. I suppose she thinks she’s very Magyar, like her mother.
“One could do the actual reading oneself, of course,” she went on.
“But then one would miss the allusions and one wouldn’t sit down and plod through things by oneself.”
Vera watched the distant sky. It would be sunset soon. Would it be like that one last night—like those sunsets over the great Plain of Hungary, when each one seemed as wonderful as if it were to be the last of this world? It was very peaceful by this little river. What a strange green shimmer there was under the willows. . . . Yes, it was going to be one of those lingering sunsets—with purple haze rising slowly around the world—and sounds dying out with the light.
For a while the other was silent, but Vera could hear the ceaseless nibbling of her needles.
The O’Hara girl and the undergraduates passed, their baskets laden with strawberries.
“What about that for a whopper?” she called, holding up one of the fruit. “It must be a King George V. We only had Royal Sovereigns and poor old Paxtons at home.”
Vera did not answer. How tranquil it was! Perhaps if she were cut off from the world and its calls, and if there was nothing that mattered to her, and if she loved no one, then she would be happy at sunset. Or if she were able to run about and just live, thinking about nothing, like that jolly Irish girl. Or perhaps if she had finished altogether with the world, if she had renounced everything, there would be only peace in a sunset like this.
The scent of stocks floating on some immeasurably gentle current of air reached her, and Vera drew a deep breath. She would like to sit and watch till the day faded away utterly, to watch till she could creep up to bed. Life was lonely, since Lindy had got married. Really, she would sooner stay out there on the lawn, and then go to her bed. What a pity it was that she would have to go and get ready for dinner, and have to eat . . . and listen to the others. Why should one pattern with meals the little space allowed one of eternity? Still, as things were, one couldn’t do just what one wanted in life. And that was why her Lindy ought to be more careful. Oh, she ought!
“Do the same sort of people still go to the classes? Those odd ones, I mean?” Mrs. Dyson Millar went on. “They were a very quaint crowd when you look back at them as a whole. Though, of course, there were lots of nice people as well. The Minton girls and the Douglases and Lady Pintercott and that lot . . . and Nancy and you and all our sort. But there were others, and there was always an odd feminist under-current, wasn’t there? Oh, yes, you must know the ones I am talking about. Some of them were very . . . odd. There was that old Lumsden woman, with her clodhopper shoes and short hair. Once she even wore an eyeglass. . . . And that pair that lived on the Embankment, Dora Something and Stella Something Else—they didn’t seem to want men in their lives at all—quite a Boston marriage, as the Americans say.” She knitted row upon row. Sometimes she made a triumphant click with her needles, as if some crisis in the construction had been surmounted.
“Are you going to Scotland this year?” Mrs. Dyson Millar asked presently.
“I don’t know. No one’s asked me yet. Perhaps they will.”
“We always go to my cousins, the Sandlings, you know. John likes it. I think it’s good for men to get some stalking, so I go. Otherwise it isn’t very amusing.”
Her cousins and their house were discussed with much detail. Had she any poor relations, and was she graphic about them, Vera wondered. She lost touch with the other’s conversation, and wandered into strange fields, till the scrunch of gravel under tires brought her thoughts back to her surroundings.
“That must be Sir Augustus. He’s been over to Sunningdale. It must be nearly dressing time,” she said, but did not move. “It seems a pity to go in just yet,” she added.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” I will sit her out, whatever she wants, thought Mrs. Dyson Millar. She’s jealous of that young Lord Dashwood. I expect she used to be jealous of the husband.
Slowly the shadow of the giant cedar stole across them.
Vera listened. Could an evening be more still? One could hear, very far away, the lowing of cows . . . and the voices of servants in the back-quarters of the house—the drip-drip from some large-leafed plant which lately the gardener had watered. She closed her eyes and strained to catch every sound. She could hear the drip-drip: but that was all.
I wonder how many jumpers she knits in a month, and what she does with them, thought Vera. Or does she sit up and unpick them at night, like Penelope?
“How old is General Hawkins? Do you know?” came presently from the other end of the seat.
“I am not sure.”
“He must be getting on for fifty, mustn’t he?”
“Not more than forty-seven, I should think, but one could look him up if one really wanted to,” said Vera, more to discourage questions than to annoy.
“While Lindy Hawkins couldn’t be twenty-five yet.”
“She was twenty-three on the second of January, to be exact.”
“Of course, you’ll be able to tell me what made her marry him at all. You don’t mind my asking, I know, and I’ve always wondered.”
“I haven’t ever thought to ask her.”
“Then you couldn’t know, of course, could you?” Mrs. Dyson Millar sighed.
“M . . .” said Mrs. Dyson Millar. “M . . . What a lovely evening it is.”
“Yes . . .” How slowly she is getting it out, thought Vera.
Mrs. Dyson Millar paused, held up her knitting, and approved it with the air of Jehovah reviewing his labours. “Myself, I thought that as Lindy Thornhill was always staying with you, that perhaps she was . . . not of the marrying sort.”
“Well, you were wrong, weren’t you?” Vera remarked, and was sorry she had wasted her time in saying even that. A woman who was such a fool wasn’t worth answering!
Bo’sun Smith was sitting alone in the smoking-room, deep in the ochre-coloured chair, his wrists hanging listless over the arms of it, and his gaze on the blackened ceiling. So sunk was he in its shadow, and so idle was his consciousness, that General Hawkins, stepping through the long French window, was not aware of his presence, and started when a voice hailed him from the gloom about the fireplace.
“Well, General?”
General Hawkins checked involuntarily. “Oh . . . er . . . you! Hal-lo!” He continued his way towards the door.
“I say, General . . .”
The elder man stopped again and turned. What did . . . er . . . Bo’sun want?
“Don’t go up yet.”
Was that all?—“Gong gone! Pretty well time to dress,” he said, going towards the door.
“Do wait a bit. Time for a talk. No particular hurry, is there?”
“No . . . er . . . Wella, no. What is it?” He moved towards the fireplace, and, sitting down cautiously on the club fender, crossed his bony legs.
He would hear Lindy coming back if he was down there sooner than if he was upstairs. Perhaps she’d come in that way. He dreaded to meet her and yet longed to do so. Perhaps it would be the last time . . . perhaps. . . . What did the Bo’sun want? Seemed funny the way people went on just the same way as usual. What did he want? Probably nothing that mattered.
“What is it?”
“Nothing ’ticular,” said the Bo’sun, as if he were holding back for a while some important pronouncement. He offered a cigarette to General Hawkins and lit one himself. He returned the case to his pocket, and overlaid it again. “Well, what about it?” he asked cheerfully.
“What about it? . . . What about . . . what?” General Hawkins blinked. What the . . . ? Nice fellow, the Bo’sun, but still . . . Stopping one from going up to dress and asking one “What about it?”. . . Surely he couldn’t have. . . . How could any one have noticed? . . . But, of course not. And if he . . . er . . . did, it wasn’t any of his business. . . . Naturally not. What about it, indeed! One hadn’t expected anything important: still!
“Oh, nothing in ’ticular. Only just . . . What about everything?”
“Ah!” said General Hawkins, understandingly. “Er . . . yes . . . er”—this in the same tone as if he had been saying “Quite” . . . Nice fellow, the Bo’sun! No nonsense or that! He settled himself against the chimney-piece, and drew hard at his cigarette . . . Puff . . . the smoke drove towards the ceiling. . . . Yes . . . good fellow, the Bo’sun! Knew where one was with him! If there were nothing else the matter, it’ud be a . . . er . . . bit of a comfort sitting with him, and saying nothing about it, of course. But now! Oh—the emptiness! Black emptiness! How could anything make any difference now! Nothing could! . . . Finished!
The Bo’sun kicked lazily at the air with one leg, and flung it across the arm of his chair.
“Funny things, women. Funny things, women,” he said.
General Hawkins, his chin sideways, nodded and waited. What the deuce was he driving at? H’m? He couldn’t have . . . but of course not!
The Bo’sun drew back his head and stretched before he continued.
“I think a lot of Vera Casswell, you know. I don’t mean anything ’ticular: but I’ve always thought a lot of her, I’ve always been a bit taken with her. Daresay you’ve noticed?”
A pause, while General Hawkins strained to catch sounds from the river. The Bo’sun swung his leg.
“Not noticed?”
“No, can’t say that I have,” said General Hawkins. Why should he have, he wondered? Why on earth should he have? ’Strordinary nice gal, and Lindy’s best friend. But he hadn’t. . . . Besides, anyhow, he’d got something else to do besides looking round and noticing who the Bo’sun liked . . . and who he didn’t. No one had said a word to him about it! How the devil should he have noticed?
“Well,” the Bo’sun went on, “I never got much forrader with her, but I always fancied somehow she didn’t care much about men, though she was always very decent about it. We suit each other’s dancing, too, you know. A shade on the stalky side for my height, but silky . . . moves like one’s shadow. Anyhow, I got it fixed in my head she wasn’t the sort that cared a couple of hoots for men. Always thought she only cared for women. Look at your wife and her, specially before you married. Always together: David and Jonathan stunt. Well, naturally, I took it like that, but thought I was really getting on—I mean, taking it as read that she didn’t care for men and all that sort of thing—getting on none so mouldily. It was going well, till that thing like a sandy tomcat that’s been ‘altered,’ blew along and . . . D’you know, after he turned up, she never spoke to me for a couple of hours all the afternoon! Couldn’t get a bally syllable in edgewise. S’pose she really did it only to oblige Mrs. Van Neck. She’s brainy and all that, you see.”
General Hawkins flicked his ash into the fireplace. No, he hadn’t taken to that Troit fellow himself! Still . . . Lucy knew him, it seemed. Probably quite a decent sort, really, only . . . couldn’t help spouting and all that. Wrote poetry, too. Made that way! Some were, one supposed. Women seemed to like that sort, too. One had got used to seeing them about, like one did the Pekingese.
“Clever sort of juggins, I should think,” he said. “Couldn’t understand a word of what he was talking about half the time.”
“Didn’t want to myself. Bleating all that sickening bilge! ‘Eu-Weu-Weu.’ Yet Vera must go and pretend to hang on every word the footler said, as if he was some ruddy prophet. I know his type. ‘Descended from a long line of maiden aunts.’ Bred in a cellar, and raised on pickles.”
General Hawkins was listening to sounds from without. Was that Lindy returning?
“Damn it all,” the Bo’sun went on. “If Vera’d really cared about the poot . . . I’d make my bow. ‘Best man wins!’ Withdrawal with manly dignity—trip over the step—and all that business. On my ‘Sam’ I would! Ra-ther!”
No, it wasn’t Lindy, only that garden boy bringing in the chairs. “ ’Xactly,” General Hawkins threw in.
“Knew you’d understand,” said the Bo’sun earnestly. “Or if it was some young fellah-me-lad, who . . . Well, I don’t pretend to be much to look at, or any great catch, but . . . damn it! . . . You see for yourself! Or if he did things better. But I don’t suppose that chap does anything except sit on his stern, and bleat about whatever it is he does gas about. Seems funny! Not that it matters such a Hell of a lot. She was only doing it to be polite. Still, she might sometimes waste a bit of her time on me! I’m not . . . well, not . . . I’m not in love with Vera: only I like her awfully, and it riles me. Damn it! It would rile any one. Well, what do you think yourself?” . . . Then, with great emphasis, “Do you know, General, I was thinking when you came in—I bet you’d never guess. Not a taker? No! Wise man! You’d lose—I was trying to make out whether I was jealous or not. What do you think of that! Jealous!! Rotten undignified sort of feeling. Hate being jealous, don’t you? Are you ever that way?”
General Hawkins was grasping his wrist with thin, wiry fingers. He gripped it till the skin grew white, his heels swung under him, hitting the bars of the fender. . . . Jealous! Good God! Yet did one . . . No, ’t weren’t like that. No . . . it was . . . too big a thing to be jealous about. It was disaster: absolute disaster: end of everything.
Done for! He’d lost her . . . lost her . . . her and everything she was: everything she’d been: his memories even: things that had been more . . . er . . . precious than. . . . Cleared out! . . . Er . . . Nothing left. . . . And the Bo’sun did . . . and the Bo’sun’d asked him. . . . Dear, good chap, the Bo’sun, one of the best: but he wasn’t the kind that took things to heart. He couldn’t understand a thing like one’s loving Lindy.
“You’re lucky, you know,” the Bo’sun went on. “You’ve been devilish lucky—that’s how I look at it.—You’d never worried much about women till you married, I expect. My father was just like that. I don’t mean he was ‘pi’—or mad—or anything. He went the pace all right at first. Things were different in those days. Only ‘polls’ or getting married. I don’t suppose you cared much about—but you’re married, sorry! But—to continue—things being like that, saved you a Hell of a lot of trouble. Though you missed a lot, too. But things were simpler then than they are for us. Not much jolly old simplicity about things to-day. Give you my word! While with you—you had the Hell of a time, till you were fed up with it, and then you married. See how much luckier you were! Of course your generation had its bally old packet of trouble. Taken as read! Ra-ther! But you see it’s different for us. Well, then you got married, too. Don’t mind my saying it, do you?—No one like her: absolutely not: no one! Pick of the hamper. But there you are! Married! No worries: everything! You’ve got enough to do anything in reason. No anxiety about anything. Nothing to worry about it. Lovely wife. My dear fellow, you’ve no idea how lucky you are!”
General Hawkins leant forward, so that he could see through the window and across the river. No one there! No one!
“Now, seriously . . . cutting out all buck and blither. . . . I’m not in the Adonis line, but I’m a damn’d sight likelier-looking fellow than that talkmonger that blew in this afternoon. Look at his clothes! A grey flannel suit with patch pockets always calls to mind the worthy Brothers Hope—or Schoolmasters on their ill-earned holidays in Switzerland. It had both its socks slipping down, too, and thin white legs, flannel shirt it had slept in—or will next week. I’m nothing out of the ordinary, but damn it, I’m six foot nothing in my socks, while . . . well, there you are! Imagine that thing stripped! A shocking awf’l sight, sort of famine victim with bits of flab stuck on it, and in the wrong places, at that. Yet he talks of every one by their Christian names. I know his mark. Some one’s short of a man, so they ring up the Ministry of Music, or wherever he rests in daytime, and along he comes. A sort of social spare-wheel—inflated and unpuncturable!”
General Hawkins shifted on the fender. He’d be able to see her comin’ from his bedroom window. Wanted to go and change and to have a tub if there was time. Walk up from the station and that! In some unconscious way he felt that the cold water would wash away some of his misery. Couldn’t wait all night listenin’ to the Bo’sun having a grouse. All right once in a way. Good fellow, the Bo’sun. Good fellow to have by one in a tight place and that—got a way with him, too. Charmin’ fellow!
“Yes. I . . . er . . . see that,” he said.
“What do you make of it yourself, General? I wonder what your wife thinks about it. Vera’s her best pal, sort of David and Jonathan feeling. She must guess pretty well what Vera thinks about me. Not that . . . I don’t say I’m exactly in love with her, I’m not. Only I like her, and it riles me when she can’t give me a minute of her time. . . . Well! You’ve seen for yourself. I suppose you wouldn’t . . . think of asking Lindy if she’d put in a word? You don’t mind my asking, do you?”
General Hawkins, with jaw dropped, stroked his chin. The last words still hung in his memory as smoke hangs in the air. What was it that he didn’t mind doin’? What was it he wouldn’t . . . ? Oh, well! What . . . er . . . What the Hell was the Bo’sun talking about?
“Wella . . . I . . . er,” he began.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean anything. I knew you wouldn’t mind my asking. It doesn’t matter at all, really. Very likely your wife doesn’t know either.”
Doesn’t know what? Lindy? Must have missed that part. What had the Bo’sun been talkin’ about?
“Er . . . Tell me again what you said. I don’t think I quite understood.”
“It isn’t anything important, only I thought Lindy might know what Vera thought of me. Not that it matters, only their being such friends. . . .”
“What Vera thinks! Thinks of you? Yes . . . er . . . No reason why one . . . er . . .” He set his jaw suddenly. Good God! What was he lettin’ himself in for? What was he sayin’? Lindy and he’d not be talkin’ about anythin’ like that—never! Never again! Ended! Over! . . . He looked blankly before him.
“By the by, did you notice my service this afternoon?”
General Hawkins shook his head. If Lindy wasn’t back for dinner when would there be a chance of saying what had to be said? Not till every one went to bed. Would much sooner get it over at once. He hated to have that interview hanging over him. He wanted to get it over—over and done with. Afterwards . . . There would be no afterwards for him. Nothing mattered afterwards . . . not now. Finished! Over!
“Hot as cakes, I was, really. Absolutely on the top notch of my form. Absolutely T. N. T. I don’t ’ticularly fancy myself as a male Lenglen as a rule. Not really my game. Fills time in between whiles, of course, slays the sluggish hour, and so forth. That O’Hara gal and I took on two undergrads. They never showed at all. Never had an earthly. The stalky one stood like Ajax defying the lightning, while I sent them over at him just above the net. Never rose! It was regular slaughter of the innocents. Herod clean out of it!”
“Must be getting along, you know. Want a bath.” General Hawkins rose and made his way towards the door. Just before he reached it, it opened. The O’Hara girl entered, followed by the undergraduates, this time carrying trays.
“Captain Bo’sun,” she called out, “Mrs. Van Neck says I can make the cocktails to-night. You’ve got to help. You’re the Cocktail King, aren’t you?”
The trays, clattering with bottles, ice and glasses, were marched past her and set down upon a card table. Grace O’Hara barred General Hawkins’s access to the door.
“General, you’ve got to help, too!”
“Er . . . sorry!”
For a perceptible moment they faced each other. So, suddenly, their wills clashed, the girl’s set on the trivial but immediate purpose, and the man’s on an object more distant but of tremendous importance. His chin, which had been settled on his chest, went up. He looked at her, astonished, without anger and without a smile. It was as if on some vital errand he had been held by a briar. For an instant some unconscious sex instinct urged her to defiance, some unexpected need to provoke, to be chased and rudely handled, drove her to challenge this male creature so regardless of her. And then an equally unconscious perception that here was something on another plane, haggard and unpassable, chilled her. She stood aside, wondering a little. The fairies had not given her intuition. So this forest encounter passed unrecognised.
“Silly old thing,” she thought, moving towards the trays and still puzzled.
“Queer sort of gal,” was the General’s comment. She was a bit shaken and that, of course. No wonder! House burnt over her head. Shockin’! Damn’d shockin’. For a moment the vista of misfortune widened greatly, so as to enclose those charred ruins and that destruction such as in other lands he himself had seen.
The Bo’sun reached out and took a handful of potato chips from one of the trays.
“Stop that, Captain Bo’sun,” said Grace O’Hara. “That’s not allowed till we’ve made the cocktails. That’s all the chips there are. Now what are we going to make?”
The Bo’sun dusted some fragments of potato from his trousers, and swung himself into a sitting position. “Come on now. What have you got there? Any jolly old Vodka? No? No Vodka? Swedish punch? Any Grenadine? No Grenadine! Rotten house! We must let Mrs. Van Neck know the danger she runs of losing us. I was going to introduce you to a ‘Depth Charge.’ It doesn’t work till it’s gone down a good way. Both Vermouths! Good! Lord love us, that shaker isn’t big enough. It doesn’t hold enough to light up a curate.”
Grace O’Hara turned to the undergraduates: “One of you run along and ask for the big shaker, while the other gets the olives out of the bottle. Here’s a fork. Hurry up, you two.”
She turned and caught the Bo’sun helping himself to more potato chips.
“You pig! Put them back now! Come on.”
The Bo’sun ducked behind the back of his chair and then, peeping round the side of it: “Haven’t got a bomb in your pocket, have you?”
Grace O’Hara caught a cushion from the sofa, and with: “This will do instead,” swung it down on the Bo’sun’s head.
“She’s hit me. You’re a witness. You will hear from my solicitor, you will. Nice thing for Mrs. Van Neck—‘Society Scenes. Guest proves to be a female Sinn Feiner and attacks defenceless British soldier. The victim, a handsome young . . .’ ”
“I’m not a Sinn Feiner. I’m a Loyalist.”
“Oh, you’re not Irish?”
“I am Irish.”
“You’re descended from the kings of Ireland, I suppose.”
“The O’Haras were, till the accursed Sassenach came. You’ve never heard of the great O’Hara, O’Hara of the Floating Island, I suppose?”
“We had a coachman called O’Drain, and he was connected with the Great Sewer—on his mother’s side, of course.”
“Ass!”
“Let’s have an armistice. Not a Solemn League and Covenant, but something that will bind even the Irish: we don’t want to spoil the jolly old cocktails, do we now?”
“Stop ragging! And don’t talk about what you know nothing about. Do I put in the ice or the gin first?”
“Upon a sufficient quantity of powdered ice, pour enough gin to drown two white mice. Add . . .”
“Oh, do be sensible.”
“Ice first, then Aunty’s downfall. Not enough! More! . . . Whoa! Stop. Too much!”
“Oh, you are an ass!”
“I say, there! Only put in olives for the men. Women haven’t reached that stage of civilisation, they’re still in the cherry age.”
The cocktails had just been shaken when Vera Casswell, followed by Mrs. Dyson Millar, strolled in through the window. The Bo’sun rose from his chair.
“Hullo, people! Just in time for the great hour. Mrs. Dyson Millar, your glass!”
“It’s rather a lot.”
Vera took hers. She was glad to have something to brace her. Oh, why didn’t Lindy come back?
The Bo’sun struck an attitude and raised his glass.
“Vera, your health,” then, softly: “And your wish—whatever it is.”
Vera shivered and gave a gulp. When would she come back? And . . . Oh, that it might come all right!
“It’s good,” said Vera. “Thank you, Bo’sun. I hope it comes true. You’re nice.”
“What comes true?” asked Mrs. Dyson Millar.
“Nothing. Captain Smith was drinking my health.”
“Ah . . . Oh!”
That woman does hate me, thought Vera. She didn’t want any one to hate her, especially now. Something dreadful was going to happen—had happened, perhaps. She didn’t want any one to throw bad thoughts on her, and so make things more difficult.
“I do love cocktails, don’t you?” she said in an attempt to mollify Mrs. Dyson Millar.
“Occasionally, only very occasionally.”
“I like them always.” All right! If the woman wouldn’t be friendly, there was nothing for it. Though it was silly to let any one who didn’t matter drive one into defiance.
“Have another, Vera,” said the Bo’sun, with the shaker in his hand.
“Yes, pleeese,” Vera answered, her little latent devilry roused.
“Mrs. Dyson Millar?”
“Not for me, thank you.”
The Bo’sun passed on and filled other glasses. “What about dressing?” he asked.
“Oh, I forgot. Mrs. Van Neck doesn’t want any one to dress unless they want to,” said Grace O’Hara.
“I shan’t,” the Bo’sun announced. “I shall go on the river afterwards, I think.” He looked meaningly at Vera.
Mrs. Dyson Millar saw the glance and hid a thin smile.
“I’ll just put on a boating jacket,” he added. “That won’t take a minute. Are you going to dress, Vera?”
“Yes, I think I shall.” It would kill time till . . . till . . . whatever it was that was hanging over her happened.
“All right, if you’re going up now, be a dear and take the General his jolly old cocktail. I’ll stick it in this big glass. Wait. I’ll add a little more gin. He was a bit down to-night, I thought. Didn’t seem interested in anything. Do you know, I told him the story about the bishop and the sweepstake, and he didn’t laugh. Oh, you don’t know that one. Miss O’Hara is so fond of naughty stories. I really must . . .”
“You! . . . !”
“Anyhow, the General didn’t seem in ’ticularly good form. It’s marriage, you know. Don’t you ever get married, Vera!”
“I never shall,” said Vera.
Perhaps it’s like going to Scotland, thought Mrs. Dyson Millar. Perhaps nobody’s asked her.
General Hawkins was late, and the rest of the party were drinking their soup when he entered the dining-room. He looked quickly round. Lindy, still in her day clothes, was there between old Gussie Hampden and the Bo’sun with whom she was laughing gaily. She had her back to the door, and did not notice her husband’s entry. He apologised to Mrs. Van Neck, and took the vacant chair on her right. On the other side was Mrs. Dyson Millar, then engaged in conversation with Gussie Hampden. Across the table he saw young Lord Oliver Dashwood, very smart in his boating jacket and grey silk shirt, his elbows on the table, and obviously, if rather patronisingly, bent on helping a nervous undergraduate to his ease.
General Hawkins set himself to drinking his soup quickly. Didn’t like being late at all. Some people always were—on purpose, perhaps. Not a pleasant trick, not at all. Must catch up. ’Strordinary, sitting down like that with Lindy three places away, and young Dashwood opposite as if nothin’ had happened. Funny the things civilisation made one do. ’Strordinary, the power of it. One could do nothing against it. One just sat there and behaved as if . . .
“Don’t refuse the sherry. It’s rather special,” Mrs. Van Neck whispered to him, and turned again to Willy Troit who was talking on her left.
“It’s a leung raud from Conrad back to Scott again, but . . .” General Hawkins heard.
’Strordinary considerate woman, Mrs. Van Neck was really, he thought. Mrs. Dyson Millar was looking towards him. He must say something to her. What could one say? Could usually think of something or other, but to-night . . . He gulped down the sherry. That might help one to think of . . . Jove, yes! His hostess was right. Something special. Jove, it was! Regretted that he had drunk it so quickly. What on earth was a woman like Mrs. Dyson Millar interested in? . . . Usually seemed to be talking about people. What did one say about them? Hurgh? . . . Ascot? She’d be interested in that . . . the er . . . social part, anyway. But that wouldn’t do. She’d ask whether Lindy and he were going. . . . Lindy and he! . . . God! . . . Golf? . . . She . . . er . . . no! She wasn’t that sort.
“Did you have a successful day in London?” Mrs. Dyson Millar asked suddenly.
“Successful day? . . . er . . . wella . . . it was er . . . business, you see.”
“Nothing nasty, I hope.”
“Er . . . well . . .”—What the deuce was that to do with . . .—“Business, yer know: just business.”
“I seeee,” said Mrs. Dyson Millar, smiling with her upper lip only.
She saw? Did she mean . . . ? She couldn’t have guessed, could she? Most bald way of saying things, she had. She saw! Indeed! If she did mean that? What the er . . . Couldn’t leave it like that. Must pretend not to have noticed.
“London very hot this morning,” he said.
“It was beautiful here: charming by the river . . . or on it. But I’m not too fond of boats. Your wife loves it, doesn’t she? She was on the river all day.”
What was it to do with Mrs. Dyson Millar if she was, thought General Hawkins.
“In a punt,” she added, as a happy afterthought, across a dish of peas.
Well, he was damn’d! He turned and looked at her, but Mrs. Dyson Millar had trained her conversation on Sir Augustus Hampden. Old Gussie’s shirt was gaping as usual, General Hawkins noticed. The cuffs of it seemed longer and more independent than ever. What an untidy old thing he was, po’r old man. He’d been quite different ten or fifteen years back. Had gone to pieces since then. Not really old, either. Didn’t seem to care about anythin’. Po’r old fellah! Perhaps he’d some trouble, po’r devil! Perhaps . . . General Hawkins was wondering vaguely, his gaze on Old Hampden’s straight and scanty tie when, beyond, he caught Lindy’s eye.
“Hullo, Harry,” she said, “did you see father in London?”
Had he seen Lucius? Had he . . . ? “He lunched me at the Athenæum,” he said, astonished at his own facility.
“How was he? Was he tidily dressed? Had he got on the purple tie I bought him? Or that dreadful old garnet-coloured beastliness?”
“I . . . er . . . never noticed.”
“How like you, Harry. That other one of his is a disgrace. He promised to throw it away, and I wanted particularly to know. Did he say anything about coming down here? I’d written to him about it.”
The Bo’sun leant forward, blotting out altogether the undergraduate on the other side of him.
“Does she always dress her father, General? Really, these modern young women . . .”
Lindy turned on him: “Shut up, Bo’sun.”
“Are you daring to abuse women again, Captain Smith?” called the O’Hara girl on his other side.
“I like the way all you . . .” the Bo’sun began before his voice was overwhelmed by attacks from either flank. The undergraduates craned and smiled. Presently his voice was heard singing again for a moment above the noise around him. . . . “It’s a most distressful country. . . .”
“You’ll be distressful when I . . .” came from across the table.
“There! She threw toast at me. That’s assault. I’ve got ten witnesses. You saw her, General, didn’t you?”
General Hawkins blinked at him. Funny? Didn’t seem so to-night—Nothing could! ’Strordinary the way every one went on just the same. Natural, of course. Still! . . . And no one noticed! There was Lindy chaffing the Bo’sun. She was just as she’d been yesterday, a week ago: just as she’d always . . . Had she always . . . ? Oh, God!
She was turned from him. The blinds were not yet drawn, but a candle near threw a cross light upon her cheek, and a glint into the shadow of her fair hair. Her colour had that evanescent freshness of a just-opened flower. Time had not as yet touched nor smeared it. It had the glow that only life within can create, which art, with its dead pigments, fails to imitate on skin or canvas. The curves of the neck were gentle over the vague loom of stronger mouldings. Through the muslin of her frock the lines of her bosom were supple and enticing. How lovely she is to-night, he thought. And she was gone for ever, for ever: as utterly as if the memories of her had been a dream. She’d taken everything. Nothing left! Not a thing! Nothing! In his misery he watched her with a new vision and a sense of final desolation, as a marooned seaman might watch the sails of a ship he had loved, and which had abandoned him. Alone! Nothing left! No hope! No future! . . . Emptiness! Loneliness and an indifferent world!
“How pretty she’s looking to-night, your wife,” Mrs. Dyson Millar said, smiling.
He looked at her, bewildered, like one who had thought himself alone. Pretty? Pretty? The words and Lindy did not seem to link up. They remained sounds, while Lindy . . .
“Thank yer,” he said. “Yes . . . er . . . thank yer.” His voice sounded to him like an echo, as delayed and as involuntary. What to answer! What did the woman think? And . . . what did it matter what she thought? He became lost in thought of the utter unimportance of everything by comparison with the calamity which had befallen him. He didn’t care what happened now. Didn’t care if he lived or died. Yet there she was, almost within arm’s length, eating Canard à la presse. Mrs. Dyson Millar was telling him about some cousins who . . . One went on doing things mechanically, eating Canard whatever-it-was: as if such things mattered! That was what astonished him. The incongruity—that was the word. One had never realised how perfectly the world went on without one. If one was dead it would be just the same. Things would go on. They had before one was there: and they would afterwards. Things didn’t depend on one’s being there. They’d go on if no one was there. He’d never thought of . . . He woke suddenly to hear Mrs. Van Neck talking on his right. Yes, it was him she wanted.
“Going to have a fancy-dress dinner to-morrow night and dance afterwards,” she was saying. “Just ourselves and the Du Boulays. They’ll come over from Bray. Needn’t get anyone else, need they? No proper dresses, of course. ‘Stuff you can find about the house or borrow.’ ”
Dress up! Could he? Dress up! To be dressed up! That was just what was needed to make . . . God!
“It’ll be such a treat for that poor Grace O’Hara,” she whispered. “Such a change from having one’s house burnt down. The Bo’sun has been betting her he’s going to dress up as De Valera, or Carson, or some one of that sort. Don’t know how he’s going to do it, I’m sure. She says she’ll brain him if he does. . . . Wish he wouldn’t tease her quite so much. A little’s all right with that doggy, beagly type of girl. But if it’s overdone, spoils their temper, like puppies. And Irish people never have any sense of humour, have they? But it would be a treat for her after such a horrid place to live in, and that burned down now.” He would promise? It was Lindy’s idea.
Lindy’s! . . . And he for Pantaloon? . . . No . . . er! . . . She . . . Lindy’d never mean to be unkind. What did it matter? Fancy dress! A poignancy he could never have expressed twisted his lips into a thin smile. Why shouldn’t he dress up? But he wouldn’t be there to-morrow night. Still, one couldn’t say why not . . . it would mean explaining everything or inventing some . . . No! Better to agree. No, he wouldn’t be there to-morrow night, nor would Lindy. Well, hardly! . . . What did it matter, anyway?
“What are you going to come as?”
What was he going to go as?
“Don’t say it aloud,” she whispered. “It’s a secret: but it doesn’t matter telling me. Besides, I can tell you if there is anything in the house to help you. My maid’s a most agreeable woman. She can tack up something quickly. Got lots of stuff in the attic—useful at Christmas, you know. Odd the way changing clothes changes people’s characters. Sometimes one sees what they’d really been meant for!” . . . What did he usually go as?
“Go as? . . . Wella . . . yer see . . . I . . . er . . . went as one of those clown chaps . . . a Pierrot . . . once! But that was years . . . Wella . . . yer see, I don’t . . . er . . . do it at all as a rule for that matter.”
Mrs. Van Neck looked at him appraisingly. . . . Yes, she thought, General Hawkins as Pierrot! Ha! . . . Funny, if one thought of it. . . . Some memory of long before flared, rich-coloured, and was extinguished as quickly.
“No, don’t think we’ll let you go as Pierrot. Don’t have that. Think we must really bar Pierrots and Mephistopheles. Ever hear about old Hercules Rumbold who got a ladder in his stocking? I’ll tell you after dinner or some other time. Quite!” She turned to Willy Troit who was insistently available on her other side.
“What are we going to dress the General up as for to-morrow night? It’s a secret, but you won’t be here—such a pity!—so it doesn’t matter your knowing.”
“Is that Harry’s fancy dress?” came in Lindy’s voice from beyond Mrs. Dyson Millar. “He’s to go as a grasshopper ’cos he’s got thin legs. We’re going to dress up Sir Augustus as the Rajah of Bong—though not progressive, he’s most impressive!” She laughed suddenly and gaily, like a child.
“Not really?” Mrs. Dyson Millar asked Sir Augustus.
Lindy was laughing so that her eyes filled, while Bo’sun added fuel. General Hawkins saw poor Old Hampden trying to explain the position to Mrs. Dyson Millar in his fat, breathless wheeze.
“Ha . . . Ha . . . You see, the . . . ha . . . ha . . . good young lady . . . ha . . . ha . . .”
“You’re suspected of having some blessed old bomb on you,” the Bo’sun called across the table to Grace O’Hara, who made a face at him. “We’re going to search you after dinner! We are! Ra-ther! We are, we’re going to toss up whose going to be the jolly old search party.”
“Shut up, Bo’sun. You’re a low person . . .” from Lindy, were the last distinct words that General Hawkins heard from that segment of the table. Hubbub reigned there. Some bread pellets crossed it. Mrs. Dyson Millar was smiling very thinly. Beyond her Old Gussie Hampden appeared more than a little pained, his face like a reproachful muffin.
“Bull!” shouted some one. Loud laughter followed.
“You pig!”
“Low person!”
“What a noise they’re making,” said Mrs. Van Neck. And afterwards . . . “It’s so nice to have happy people in one’s house. That’s why I like fancy dress.”
General Hawkins checked his tilted glass. . . . Happy!
“Yes . . . er . . . of course,” he answered: but she had turned from him again.
Around him people talked and laughed. Just sounds! Sounds that couldn’t have any meaning, unless one took the trouble to . . . er . . . But why should one? What did it matter?
Lindy was there. He could see her, beyond Old Hampden’s shoulder, her chin balanced on interlaced fingers, her eyes wide and blue as pale forget-me-nots.
Lindy was happy—as happy as ever! Still . . . Still . . . mustn’t be bitter! Mustn’t! She didn’t mean to hurt any one. Only she . . . Oh, God! She was enjoying life, every second of it! And there he was, sitting a yard or two from her, and he’d lost her. She was gone, now, already: gone as yesterday was gone. He could hear her gay laugh. To him it was like an echo in an empty ruin. The present slipped away from him!
“There is a Red Indian dress,” Mrs. Van Neck was saying to Willy Troit. “I know I’ve got the feathers somewhere. Marjorie Kingscotte wore them last Autumn. A pair of blankets will eke it out. There are two helmets, silver paper ones, and a Boche trench hat—or whatever you call it—which some young enthusiast insisted on giving me. It’s in the servants’ hall, with the gong made of shell cases, and the souvenirs from Burma. General Hawkins isn’t the right shape for an Ironside, is he? That’s not a difficult one, is it? Or a Turk! There is a bath-towel dressing-gown for that, and a fez.”
“He’s re-eilly very eighteenth century. You know what I mean. Look now! Yais. The sharp, accentuated features: lines a little twisted: a nice etching. John could have done him so well when he was young. . . . When John was young, I mean. Of course, now! . . . Yais. Very eighteenth century, especially in profile. The narrow face: clean-shaved. . . . Oh, practically so. The effect is clean-shaven . . . Those high cheek-bones, weather-beaten: the steady eyes—just the kind they needed then to build the Empire—grey, keen, but not too much expression: horse sense, not finesse! Forehead calm: rather narrow, though. The mouth thin without being hard. Really it twists a little: a specimen example of the dry smile. They called it ‘a dry smile,’ didn’t they? Euh, so eighteenth century, my dear lady: think of portraits . . . not by the masters (I’ve seen a Raeburn face like that), but the ones one sees everywhere: Roger What-you-like, Esq., of Anything-you-choose Hall, Queryshire, in a red coat: natural hair powdered and drawn tight to a black tie at the back. The General’s lanky, too. What would his height be? Think . . . er . . . Sir Thingummy Jig in 1760, aged about forty-six.”
Mrs. Van Neck murmured something. What a lot of ice Old Gussie Hampden had taken, she was thinking. There’d be scarcely anything left for the other two.
“Oh, not at all,” Willy Troit went on. “Eit’s quite natural I should. . . . I used to think I might be able to do a little in the portrait way myself, once. Vain dreams, dear lady. Vain dre-ams! Oh, neu! Not now! . . . Only with words! So! . . . a few quick strokes. . . . Pheugh! . . . no . . . a lost art—like letter-writing—or at least a neglected one. Oh, neu, very nice of you—only the merest tyro, but . . . do yeu really think so?”
Mrs. Dyson Millar across the table caught Grace’s eye and smiled.
“What are you going as, Miss O’Hara?”
“She’s going as one of those jolly old Irish Republicans, of course,” the Bo’sun threw in.
“Oh, Captain Smith!” Grace O’Hara made a face. “Don’t say anything to him, please, Mrs. Dyson Millar. It only encourages him. He doesn’t know anything about . . .”
“About anything,” Lindy interjected.
“You young women are . . .”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up!”
“I shall wear a comb and a veil and call myself a lady of Seville,” Mrs. Dyson Millar confided to Gussie Hampden. “So much simpler. I’m sure that I’m altogether . . .”
“Charming! Ha. . . . Ha . . .” he said. “I knew Spain. . . . Ha. . . . Ha . . . very well. Ha . . . ha. Thirty or forty years . . . Ha . . .”
“Brandy? Please,” said General Hawkins. His glass was filled. M’yes! Good! Very! The wine had had no effect on him. He had not noticed what he had been drinking since that glass of sherry, but this brandy was excellent! Excellent!
“Mr. Troit says you are to make up as some one late eighteenth century—General Wolfe, I think,” Mrs. Van Neck was saying. “In a pink coat. Powder your hair. Willy Troit says that would suit you, and he’s clever over that line of country. Dare say I can find you something in the box room.”
“Er . . . certainly,” General Hawkins answered.—Eighteenth century. . . . Hurh! Lace! Hurh! Eighteenth? That was the time of the Georges, wasn’t it? How’d they find a coat to fit me, he wondered. Naturally they couldn’t. But—er . . . he wouldn’t be there, anyhow. No. No, he’d see Lindy after dinner, and to-morrow they’d just go off as if nothin’ . . . separately, they could. Quite easy! . . . Some excuse. . . . Yes!
“What are you—er—going as yourself?” he asked. One had ter say somethin’, hadn’t one?
“Ah! That’s a secret,” answered Mrs. Van Neck. “You must wait and see, as that tedious old . . .”
“I always theenk eits seu uninteresting of people not teu be more unexpected,” Willy Troit remarked to her. “One would know she were going to be Tory, wouldn’t they?”
“Matter of fact, I’m Whig. My family always were, only there aren’t any more. So I haven’t any politics,” said Mrs. Van Neck. “Only I hate Radicals.”
Willy Troit, with a look enjoining his fork to beware of such views, turned to Vera Casswell who was still listening to some long story of Oliver Dashwood.
“Lord Dashwood is telling me about the trip he made into the Atlas Mountains last winter,” she explained in a sociable attempt to make room for him.
“Where witches come from?” asked Willy Troit across her.
“Never noticed any,” replied the other man, and continued a description of an old Moorish fort.
Had he meant to be horrid, Vera wondered. Men never seemed to like Willy Troit, at least ones like this young guardsman didn’t. It was silly of them, really. There wasn’t any harm in Willy Troit, and he could sometimes be interesting. She caught General Hawkins’s glance across the table and smiled at him.
“Wella, Vera,” he said. Nice gal, Vera, he thought. Sort of, er—understood things. Nice, the way she smiled: kind, and that! Could she have . . . ? But no, she couldn’t . . . and Lindy wouldn’t have told her anything. Lindy wasn’t like that. At least . . . at least . . . But he’d thought so many things about her, and had been wrong about them. Certain of nothing now! Nothing!
How down he looks to-night, thought Vera. I know something’s going to happen. But one mustn’t let oneself think about it. That would only make it worse. One mustn’t. She must pay more attention to what Lord Dashwood was saying. Quite a nice young man, only so wonderfully stupid. What could Lindy see in him? He was nice-looking enough, and smart, but, oh . . . so self-centred. This story about Morocco was worse than the other one about wild ducks on the Danube. It had been the Danube, hadn’t it?
“Did he have lots of wives? The Sheikh, I mean?” she asked.
“Oh, packets of ’em, I expect. Lashions of ’em. Sure to have had. Worked in shifts, I expect,” threw in the Bo’sun from across the table.
Shifts? thought Vera, half attentive. Not trousers?
“The Chief Eunuch clocked them in and out, I expect; but I daresay Oliver didn’t see that side of the outfit.”
“I had a Mauser with telescopic sights that tickled the old boy to death,” Lord Dashwood continued. “You couldn’t miss with it. Why, one day, just to show what I could do with it . . .”
Vera watched Lindy. How gay she seemed! How impossible it was when one looked at her to think that anything dreadful could be hanging over her. Yet, there was! She could feel it, if Lindy couldn’t. Harry knew about it, too, or had forebodings. Poor Harry! What was it? Harry might merely have been jealous of this young Dashwood, but then he wasn’t one who even noticed things. He was never suspicious: too honest himself. And there couldn’t have been a row between Harry and Lindy about him because Lindy was carelessly gay, not defiantly so. There was such an unmistakable difference between those two sorts of gaiety. Lindy was always defiant if things weren’t going well with her. Nothing could break her spirit: not that way. Her danger was a subtler one, it came from within. No, Lindy couldn’t be aware of it, whatever it was. Perhaps Harry wasn’t, after all! Yet he looked so wretched.
Lord Dashwood had finished his story, and was talking about motors or aeroplanes or something very technical, that had valves and springs, with the undergraduate on his left.
“Did you see that article on ‘Witchcraft and Primitive Religions’ in Le Mercure?” Willy Troit asked her.
General Hawkins dipped his cheese straw into mustard. When could he speak to Lindy? Not on the lawn, no! Not till she’d gone to bed, probably. Couldn’t when any one was about—not with any decency. Pray God she wouldn’t cry! Oh, Lord God! . . . sooner the better! It had got to be gone through with . . . and to-night. He’d never seen her looking more lovely—never! That pale pink affair . . . Didn’t look more than a child. . . . That was the frock she wore those pink shoes with, the ones he liked with the ribbons that went criss-cross and showed her ankles off so prettily. Never thought to have . . . ! Never! . . . A few more hours and it ’ud be over . . . over! . . . The only woman he’d ever loved!
General Hawkins was in the act of helping himself to strawberries when the message was given to him—“A gentleman wants to speak to you on the telephone. Can’t quite catch the name, sir.”
“Don’t apologise,” said Mrs. Van Neck. “Shall I help you to sugar and cream when it comes round?”
“Sugar and cream? . . . Er. . . . Yes. Very kind. If yer don’t mind . . . er . . . thank yer. Er . . . thank yer.”
He rose and followed the servant. ’Strordinary thoughtful woman! Perfect hostess! Jove! Yes. Who knew he was down here? He reached the library, and, with a knee on a chair, took up the telephone instrument.
“Er. . . . Yes. . . . Er. . . . Hello! Yes. General Hawkins. . . . Who’s that? Oh! Lucius! Yes. Wait till I shut the door.” He crossed the room. Lucy! What the . . . er . . . could . . . ? Hope he wasn’t going to ask him again what he had asked at lunch. ’Strordinary Lucy couldn’t see it wasn’t possible. Would have ter refuse. And to have to refuse poor old Lucius . . . Damnable! Damnable! He went back to the table, but this time he turned the chair and sat down.
“All right now. Yes . . . er . . . ready now,” he said.
The voice came to him, halting and—in a way that he only half realised—pathetic, across the dividing miles. Where was Lucy, he wondered: alone in Number 5, with the gilded Spanish glasses and the old brown sherry, or in the chilly spaciousness of the Athenæum?
“No,” he said. “Haven’t been . . . er . . . able to . . . er . . . say anything to her yet. She didn’t come in till just before dinner. River, yer know. Yes. . . . Still sittin’ over it. . . . Lucy, yer don’t understand what it ’ud mean. Yer don’t. I know, my dear fellah. Yes, I know. But . . .”
He settled his elbows on the table, his gaze fixed miserably on the dazzle of its polished top. Lucy’s voice seemed at his very ear: Lucy’s soft, dragging sentences and his insinuating pauses which left one time to . . . er . . .
The vision of the glittering table top faded. The hard surface of it under his elbows stole out of his knowledge. . . . Lucius pleading. . . . Never heard him before: not in all the years: not till to-day. Lindy everything to poor old Lucy, of course. And hard on him. . . . Damn’d hard. Poor, dear old Lucy. Awful hearing his voice like that, and not to be able to . . . er . . . do what he was . . . er . . . begging one to. . . . Not one ever to confide except in a playful way. Talking of Katharine now, too. Never heard him mention her name. Not since that night he’d gone in and found him. . . . Poor Katharine. Not in all those years. Poor old Lucius’d been fond of her. Jove, he had! He hadn’t been . . . well, of course, he hadn’t been exactly that: not altogether: he wasn’t made that way. No one could be perfect, but he’d cared for her, yes! Lord, yes! Never quite the same since. . . . Never mentioned her name: never . . . never, till lunch that very day: and to have to refuse him, to have to turn down poor old Lucy. . . . Damnable!
“Lucy, old man. I . . . er . . . it’s got to be done. Couldn’t yerself. No man could . . . not if he loved her. . . . Goodness! . . . I know. . . . Yes. . . . Yes.”
Minutes passed and General Hawkins still sat, with his thin legs bent under his chair, and his lips close to the dark and confidential ear of the telephone. There came the sound of laughter from the dining-room, but he did not hear it. The electric lamp flickered, hesitated and shone on, smooth and timeless: but General Hawkins never noticed the change of light. He set his thin jaw more firmly, and slanted back his face still further.
“No, Lucy, old man. I wish to God I could! No . . . er . . . Not possible . . . it isn’t, really!”
The door opened and some one approached his side.
“Coffee, sir?” said a voice. General Hawkins made a sign. A cup was slid onto the table, and the door opened and closed again. For a moment or two there was some interruption on the line, and then he could hear Lucius speaking more distinctly than ever—could hear the—“But supposing, my dear Harry, supposing the— But, listen, old man.” It wasn’t any good! He couldn’t give an inch: couldn’t! He explained it all over once more. The voice did not answer him. Lucius must be understanding at last that it couldn’t be done, that it wasn’t fair to any one: not to Lindy: not to any one at all. There came no reply. Had they been cut off? Was he talking to no one? . . .
Distance swung back into his ken: the dimensions swept from their lurking place in his own being, out into the ends of space. The magic had been dissolved. London, thirty miles away and more! . . . Must have been cut off! . . . “Hello! Hello! Lucy, you there?” he asked hopelessly of the intervening miles.
“Yes, I’m here,” came the answer at his elbow.
Quiet, he’d been! Had thought they must have been cut off! Funny, funny, Lucy dryin’ up like that: so suddenly, too.
“Listen, Harry,”—one of Lucy’s planned silences followed. They were the unnoticed girder-work of his speech. “Listen. . . . Suppose I asked you . . . a favour. . . .” (What was Lucy going to ask him? Surely he’d agree to that!) “It isn’t to alter your decision. . . . Suppose I did ask you a favour, would you do it for me?” (Then quietly) “No—don’t answer. I-know-I’ve-asked-you-to-do-a-dashed-lot-of-things-for-me-in-my-time-haven’t-I? Yes, I know, you did them willingly. Yes, old man! But that didn’t make it any less good of you. . . . No, I’m not likely to forget what you have done in the past: nor how much I’m in your debt for it. You’ve always been doing things for me ever since we were at Mitchell’s . . . one way or another. . . . No, Harry. I know when to stop asking. It’s your own life: it’s your own affair. I tried to make you see it from a different, perhaps a false, angle this morning, but I’d no right to. Lindy’s made her bed. . . . Yes, yes. I know you would! I know, Harry! There isn’t a man on earth whom I’d trust more. . . .
“It was a strange, strange thing, this morning, to have to ask, but I had to try to get you to give your marriage with her another chance. You see that yourself? You’d have done the same if you’d been me. But I see it isn’t possible. . . . Please, yes: another three minutes, please. . . . Harry? . . . Yes. But listen, Harry, old man! This is something different that I’m going to ask you now: this is something you may do. I think, perhaps, that you will do it. Don’t think that I’m trying to suggest you into doing something. I don’t ask you to alter your decision. Breaking up with Lindy seems the only thing for you, with your temperament and she with hers—if it’s as I think— But that’s the devil. . . . I can’t be sure. You are spared these sort of worries at any rate, Harry. You know things or you don’t. You don’t go hanging on to the edge of ideas. . . . My dear chap, of course. . . . Listen! This is what I want to ask you: Do as you say about breaking things up: all I ask you is . . . don’t do it to-night. Wait till to-morrow. That’s all it is. . . . Why? . . . Listen! I want to come down to-morrow morning to see Lindy before you speak to her. . . . Is it too much to ask?”
General Hawkins sat very still. His hand that held the receiver of the telephone had dropped a little from his ear, so that the voice of Lucius came faintly to him, faintly as the whispers of a sick man. He held his breath to catch the sounds.
Wait? Wait till to-morrow? Another night?
“Listen, Harry, old man,” Lucy’s voice went on. “I’m not as a rule one to talk of the hereafter. I don’t suppose it’s a subject we’ve tackled since we were boys. No, naturally not. No, I agree, naturally, one wouldn’t: but listen. I don’t know that I believe about it at all, but there are times when I think this or that: or again sometimes when I think—just phut, like a candle! But it may be there is something, some vista round the corner. And, Harry, I shouldn’t care to face Katharine, and have to say . . . ‘I knew about it, and didn’t see Lindy first.’ Katharine was to me what Lindy is to you . . . she was once! I wasn’t much of a husband: any more than I’m much of a father. No, I wasn’t—no—any more than I am very much of anything. . . . But . . . you love Lindy: you can guess what it would feel like if I had to face Katharine with that. . . . Yes, yes. I know you do. Yes. My dear Harry, it’s not a pretty game, to put up this sort of business to you, Harry. No, it isn’t: it’s cheap, wishy-washy! And that’s true! And you’re the best friend any man ever had. But I’ve got to say it . . . if it breaks things up between us, after all these years. . . . I know you have! I know you have! No one could have done more than you. But I couldn’t leave it like it was this morning. I want to see Lindy first. I can’t say why. No good to see her? No, I don’t suppose really it would be! But . . . Harry, I couldn’t carry it on my conscience that I hadn’t tried to see her first. Yes, it’s a lot to ask. . . . I swear I won’t ask you to go back on what you’ve decided: I can promise that at least. It’s a lot my fault that things have turned out this way. . . . ’Tis. ’Tis. If I’d given her different ideas—no, you couldn’t understand that, Harry. If I’d seen her first and found out how things were, I shouldn’t feel quite such a failure. Yes, failure! . . . Dabbled at things: a push at this, and a push at that, like tidying cushions. . . . It’s a lot to ask!”
General Hawkins shifted a little and moistened his lips. To wait? To wait until to-morrow? What good could it do? To any one? . . . To Lucius even? . . . Yet Lucy’d asked it: Lucy’d asked him this, Lucy had. Poor old Lucy. . . . Still . . . Lucius sittin’ there all alone at Number 5, and thinkin’ . . . sittin’ there now . . . waitin’ for him to say . . . down and out, and trusting to him. . . .
“I’ll do it,” he said, still as the instrument before him. Another night! Another dawn! Waitin’: wanderin’ about!
He hung up the dark indifferent ear of the telephone, and crossed slowly to the door.
Mrs. Van Neck watched the bridge party draw and sit down. Lindy and the Bo’sun were to play against Mrs. Dyson Millar and Lord Dashwood. Grace O’Hara, who was amusing the undergraduates, was to cut in as soon as Willy Troit and they had left.
The Bo’sun shuffled the cards in the air, cracked them like a miniature whip and placed them on the table very neatly in front of Mrs. Dyson Millar.
“Voilà, Madame,” he said. “Lindy, if I cough once it means I’ve got an ace, twice a king, three times I’ve got a queen and four times I’ve got a dose of ’flu.”
Mrs. Dyson Millar cut the pack and began to unload the contents of her bag on to the table.
“Ena, dena, dina, doe: catch a flapper by her toe,” chanted the Bo’sun, dealing at a dazzling rate. Lindy, her chin in her hands, made a little face at Oliver, whom it seemed to embarrass.
“That’s disposed of five of them,” thought Mrs. Van Neck. “Could count on Old Gussie Hampden not letting General Hawkins go for half an hour or so at least.” She saw the two of them pacing the lawn, black forms in the purple night. Willy Troit was earnest on a sofa with Vera for audience. Grace O’Hara and the undergraduates were trying over some music-hall tune on a piano in the next room. Mrs. Van Neck took up the evening paper and turned to the last page.
About even for the day! But she hadn’t had anything on to speak of. No, just as she’d expected: Gussie Hampden’s tips never were worth anything. And he’d been so positive between those pants of his. “Ha-ha: told me so at Aurthur’s—Ha-ha. Only yesterday. Ha-ha—absolute certainty. Ha-ha.” Silly Old Gussie. She wondered if he’d lost much on it himself: but if he was anything like as cautious with his money as he was with his health he wouldn’t have. Always so careful in the evening. A marvel he hadn’t put on his coat now—the extraordinary covert-coaty one.
Yes, there was something wrong in the Lindy ménage—that was clear. She’d put the husband next herself at dinner on purpose to make sure. They’d been all right when they’d arrived five days ago: she was certain of that. Something must have happened since they’d been with her. If it hadn’t been in one’s own house, one wouldn’t have noticed it: probably not: but in one’s own house one was always watching to see if people had everything they wanted and were enjoying themselves: so she couldn’t help seeing most things. Of course, Lindy was running round with the young Lord Dashwood a bit more than was wise, perhaps, but she’d always some one in tow. Why, even that night at dinner she’d seen one of the undergraduates thinking Lindy was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened. And he’d been asked especially for the O’Hara girl! Lindy always drew the men, whether she wanted to or not. Silly Old Gussie Hampden had left Mrs. Dyson Millar alone most of dinner and had been trying to rival the Bo’sun with Lindy. That had helped make it so awkward: and Harry Hawkins being so distrait, too. Mrs. Dyson Millar wasn’t the sort of woman who cared for being left out of things. Lindy every one liked: she had got a way with her and could go and kitten against them till the sourest tabby purred. But the Dyson Millar woman seemed all claws. It would be very unpleasant, really most awkward indeed, if something happened in one’s own house. And she could scent something in the air: very much so. She loved gay parties and young people: without them she would get dried up. But it would be a high price to have to pay if there were to be a real scandal. Of course, people weren’t perfect, and if one expected them to be, one was a fool: and if one tried to interfere, one was a damned fool. But it would be a great bore to have a scandal in one’s house. Very great bore indeed! It would mean that one would have to have only dull people to stay—oh, for quite a while—tedious people, chosen for being tedious and not just because one wanted them.
It had been her own fault. She had meant to ask Monty Talbot for Lindy, only Lindy’d been so persuasive—“Lord Dashwood was such a de-arling young man.” So one had asked him. Besides, the Bo’sun knew him, and he’d said he was all right. Lindy and her young guardsmen! Oh, dear! But one hadn’t thought it would lead to trouble. Had thought Lindy’d got more sense. And they had, mostly, too! She would have to ask Vera about it. Vera was so intimate with Lindy. They’d been inseparable. She wasn’t very practical, of course—all ideas and ideals—but she could give one the facts, perhaps: and then one could see what could be done about it.
The Bo’sun joined her by the window. She smiled. He did make things go, didn’t he!
“Dummy?”
“Dummy!”
“Come outside till they have finished that hand.” They moved out into the intimate darkness of the lawn. Gussie Hampden and General Hawkins were walking together over by the river. Gussie was giving forth. At a distance his sentences were like the explosive pants of the engine that drove the electric light plant, or was supposed to.
“What’s up?” asked the Bo’sun.
“Want you to do something for me, Bo’sun. Chose you because you’re tactful.” She paused and watched the dark form of a boat passing upstream. People in it were singing softly.
“Ra-ther.”
Men all took that bait. Men were more alike than women were. Better so. Freak men weren’t pleasant.
“Tell you what it is, Bo’sun. You noticed anything wrong with General Hawkins?”
The Bo’sun considered for a moment, but before he had answered she continued:
“Yes? Knew you would have. You notice things lots wouldn’t. Have got an idea what’s up with him, but there’s no need to tell you. You’re quick enough to have got the hang of it yourself. Getting a perfect husbands’ terror, you are: you are! Nonsense! I know you are riding straight. Still, look how she was all over you at dinner.”
The Bo’sun rearranged his shoulders, not without jauntiness.
“You’re off it, you know. Bang off it. Young Oliver’s the lad. Every time!”
Mrs. Van Neck watched their shadows as they passed the open window.
“Some people would think that, but some know a bit better. Do myself, at any rate. Takes two for that sort of thing. No use to me, that story. You may be right about Lord Dashwood liking her. But do happen to know about Lindy myself: and General Hawkins does, too. Now, be a good young man and be nice to him. He’s slow to catch on to things, but he’s fidgeting a bit now. Just buttonhole him when Gussie Hampden goes to bed. It’s past Gussie’s regular time already. When he does go off, get hold of the General and hang on to him: walk him up and down. He’s all raw edges to-night. Tell him some of those stories you’re always threatening that poor Irish girl with: make him buck up. It’s your sort of country. Most obliged if you will.”
“Bo’sun! Bo’sun! Bo’sun,” shouted Lindy from the window.
“Right-ho. I’ll take it on,” he said to Mrs. Van Neck, and ran back to the room.
Left alone, she strolled towards the bed of night-scented stocks. The tiresome Willy Troit would be tiresome in his canoe soon. Gussie to bed. Mrs. Dyson Millar, Lindy, Grace and Lord Dashwood to cards. The Bo’sun leashed to the General. That would leave her Vera. One might be able to manage something yet, and without any one noticing. No good throwing in one’s hand.
Over by the river bank strolled General Hawkins, his hands behind him, his lower jaw tightly set and rather askew, his head bent, his eyes wide but unseeing. At his side, Gussie Hampden, one fat hand in his jacket pocket, the other at times explanatory, unburdened his mind as much to the night as to General Hawkins. Asthmatic breathing broke his speech into short hasty whispers. . . . “The infernal young jackanapes, ha-ha, I told him straight—ha-ha—to take it or leave it. I said—ha-ha—and I meant it, more or less, too!”
General Hawkins, as they turned in their pacing, caught sight of the house rising like a low, dark cliff in the night, and of the open morning-room, a lighted, tinselled grotto in it. Within, the card-players, set as upon a stage, were vivid in the void of the night. Lord Dashwood was dealing. The brass “millionaire” buttons on his boating jacket glinting under the candles. Opposite him was Mrs. Dyson Millar, for the moment rather heavily inert, a green manton about her, her elbows on the table, and her profile hidden by her hand. The Bo’sun’s chair was still empty: so General Hawkins could see Lindy facing out into the night, quick and vital between this attentive pair. She was laughing, and to him very distinct against the purple wrap thrown over her high-backed chair. A cross light from shaded candles and from some invisible ruby-red lamp, glittered on the soft tissue of her dress, on her fair hair: it defined the curve of her neck, the modelling of her throat and parted lips. Then the group rearranged itself and she was hidden. To General Hawkins she had appeared more dazzling than ever before. There she was! There was young . . . ! And here he was, out in the gloom, watching! Why, if . . .
There was, though he did not recognise it as such, a touch of staginess in the gay, brightly-lit scene, darkly-framed, open to the night: to the Universe: and to him . . . To him who . . . who . . . the empty chair that, as if by design, had given him the vision of her: the silence of the night, and the momentary stillness about the table. It was as if they were waiting for . . . Supposing he . . . supposing he strode across the lawn now: he’d be on them all of a sudden. They’d not see him till he came into the open window: not till he stood there breaking in upon their game . . . their faces quickly turned to him: and supposing . . . supposing . . . All at once he recognised it. Melodrama! Incredible! Incredible in this land and class where things did not happen in such ways.
—Lindy, his Lindy . . . sitting there: and that damned young . . . that young . . . playin’ cards! Just as if . . . and . . . and . . . Yet he didn’t go and do it. Civilisation! One was free and yet one did nothing. A man couldn’t be free in this civilisation. Couldn’t. He’d never quite realised before what a slave . . .
He turned and looked at Old Hampden at his side, and beyond him to the river. That wasn’t free, either: tamed: weirs: locks. A sense of captivity rose around him. One wasn’t a man at all: one was an . . . er . . . He threw back his head, as if to break from all this, that held him in, and lengthened his stride.
“Ha-ha: not so fast, please,” wheezed the old man beside him.
“God!” thought General Hawkins. Another restraint! Over in the house some one was playing “Swanee River.” The sound of it drifted over the lawn, it swirled round the vast dark cedars. Swanee River! God, it was enough to break a man’s heart!
Vera and Mrs. Van Neck watched the canoe darken into the general gloom. Once the water showed white along its flank: once a pipe or cigarette glowed, and then the darkness closed in and they saw no more. But for a time they stood listening to the stealthy rhythm of the paddles. The night was still, unnaturally still, Vera thought. Somewhere at the corner of the reach the undergraduates shouted a last good-bye, and then all was silent.
Willy Troit wouldn’t call out, thought Mrs. Van Neck. Then she turned to Vera.
“Don’t like buttonholing my guests and talking seriously, but I’d be uncommonly obliged if you’d come and talk over some things with me. Things I don’t understand are going on. Or perhaps I do understand them. Will you, Vera? Know you well enough to ask you, I think.”
“Of course, when would you like to? Now?” She has noticed, too, thought Vera. She has noticed. Has every one? So it had come! In a way she was glad, now that the period of waiting was over.
“Best go to my room. Shan’t be disturbed there. Bo’sun’s talking to the General. The rest’ll go on playing half the night.”
They crossed the lawn and entered through the open windows of the drawing-room. All was dark in there. A light from the hall shone under the door.
“Like nectarines?” Mrs. Van Neck put the question as she led Vera across the invisible floor. “Take some up as we pass, if you like.”
“That does sound nice.”
What did Mrs. Van Neck know, she wondered. Did she really know anything? Was there really anything to know? Had Lindy . . . ? Oh, had she done something irretrievably silly?
Mrs. Van Neck’s room was upstairs. It was papered in a listless pattern of birds and tulips, relic of some past decade. Against a wall stood a vast bureau, its drop-front open and its pigeonholes crammed with papers. Her hostess took a stiff chair before it and nodded to the sofa. The chintz of it chilled Vera. She shivered.
“Window?”
“Really, I like it better open, if you don’t mind.”
“ ’Xcuse me,” said her hostess, rising again and turning to rummage in the drawer of the bureau.
“Cigarettes somewhere,” she explained.
Vera looked round the room. She had never been in it before. Obviously nothing had been altered for many years: probably not since Mrs. Van Neck had come there as a bride. In a corner, on a draped easel, was a picture of some one in a Rifle Regiment uniform: a dark man with that fixed, walrus appearance which is no longer found sympathetic. Obviously that had been Mrs. Van Neck’s husband. It was the first picture of him Vera had seen. In it he had the air of having been conscious of his coming end: nothing prophetic, only an air of doughy gloom. The fault may have lain with the photographer. Perhaps, after all, a photographic enlargement was not a suitable medium. Yet in its already visible fading there was something pathetic and symbolic of our impermanence. Was even science sometimes merciful? Downstairs all was of the present—deep Sybaritic chairs with topical jazz and Jacobean cretonnes: but up here were the intimate belongings, once admired: photograph frames in inlaid marbles, and in Burmese filagree, mementoes of Granada and of the Lake Como: a “revolting” bookcase, as Lindy used to call it: an Arab coffee stool: a fire-screen with a flight of oil-colour swallows across it. Were men and women really different in that now distant period, Vera wondered.
The cigarettes were found and Vera lit one. I hope it isn’t going to be very disagreeable, she thought, but perhaps her hostess could really help in some way. Mrs. Van Neck sat down on the straight-backed chair, her knees together, her ankles crossed, her hands emphatically on her lap.
“Often known me interfere in other people’s business, Vera?”
“I never have.”
“Or noticed me being too curious about their affairs?”
Vera shook her head slowly. It was like some game in a dream. “Nor that either,” she said, with the flicker of an understanding smile.
“Glad you give me that kind of character: ’cause I’m going to spoil it now.”
Vera nodded just perceptibly, drew deeply at her cigarette and waited. How real Mrs. Van Neck was!
“Going to talk about Lindy—but you know that.”
Vera’s nod remained an intention. The room seemed unnaturally still. She shifted her poise a little and the chintz crackled.
“Her best friend, aren’t you? Yes, I know. Met her first myself at that studio place of yours when she was living there with you. So perhaps it’s not unfair roping you in.” Mrs. Van Neck paused. Vera was fond of her, but there was something rather disconcerting in that steady faded gaze. Mrs. Van Neck continued: “We’re given eyes, but we ain’t told we’ve got to use them. Not my business what my friends do: so I don’t see it, unless I’m meant to, or I’ve got to. But what guests in my house do, may be my business. Yes! Agree with you! Knew you would! Quite believe Lindy doesn’t mean any harm. But it’s what she does, not what she means, that may affect me. See that, don’t you?”
Vera watched the older woman sympathetically. There was something strong, dependable about the straight, humorous mouth, the eyes that blinked, her brisk clipped sentences, the abrupt directness that was never meant to hurt. If everything in life went wrong, one could go to her and tell her, Vera thought. She was like a man, but without that sense of dignity which always had to be considered, and which seemed to Vera so childish. Yes, she was very like a man . . . A man could explain things in just that way, but he’d always be pulling out his own views and measuring everything by them, while most women couldn’t forget their own temperaments.
“I do understand that,” she said. “What happens here must matter to you.”
“There is something wrong with Lindy and her husband. You must have guessed that, same as I have. Whether there was or not when they came, wouldn’t have concerned me. But I’m sure there wasn’t. Or if there was, her husband didn’t know. He does now. It’s a turned card. He was like a spaniel with a broken leg all this afternoon. Don’t know what he went to London for to-day, nor care. But I’ve been figuring it out and could make a shrewd guess.”
Vera thought for a moment or two in silence. One could trust her. She was like a man in that, too, or like what the best men were supposed to be: and without their encumbering platitudes.
“Lindy never told me anything,” she said, “and naturally Harry wouldn’t. But it’s true, I’ve worried. I’ve worried a great deal. You see, I love her: to me Lindy’s like a . . .”
“Quite! Was sure you’d noticed it. Glad you owned to it. Easier that way. My point’s this: she and her husband came to stay here: everything in order. Five days after things are all . . . as they are. Yes! Agree! Now suppose we happen to have noticed she’s been playing the fool with—Bo’sun—(Can say that safely, can’t we? Because we both know she hasn’t.) What’s the inference? Up to after-dinner last night everything all right: up till bedtime, for the matter of that, I’m perfectly certain. To-day General Hawkins goes off to London while we’re still between the sheets, and comes back like a . . . like he is now. Seems clear something’s happened between time we turned in last night and early this morning. Something happened, and her husband knows it. We both know the kind of something that usually does happen at that sort of time. What’s unusual is that though her husband’s found it out, Lindy doesn’t know he has.”
Vera sat very still, her chin on her hand, her head turned towards the window. From where the other saw her, her face was in profile and the line of her throat, caught by some glow of light, was clear against the shadows. A heavy twist of tawny hair hid the nape of her neck and balanced the delicate strength of her chin. Her flower-like lips, parted, were all that showed the tensity of her feelings. There was no stress about her mouth: her forehead was clear. The grace of her poise, the cameoesque straightness of her nose, and some hint of the eternal recalled that calm, fatal beauty of the antique.
Straight gal, Vera, thought the elder woman. Staunch friend by Lindy. Vera’d do anything for that Lindy of hers. One would have to help the little minx if only for her sake.
Without changing her attitude Vera continued:
“I’ve never followed up what I was frightened of to any logical conclusion. I’ve felt Lindy was drifting away from what she used to be. I knew, too, she was stooping, letting herself be cheap. There are all sorts of hard words for it, but that’s how I thought of it. I couldn’t bear to think of Lindy cheap. I suppose I was jealous and didn’t want to visualise the details. I saw Harry was worried, but I thought he was only jealous, too, though differently, of course.”
“Daresay,” said Mrs. Van Neck in a dry tone.
From the lawn below came the end of a sentence and a laugh from the Bo’sun. Vera pictured General Hawkins deep in the gloom, plodding by his side, and Lindy, gay over her cards.
The Bo’sun’s keeping him there all right, thought Mrs. Van Neck. Dependable young man, the Bo’sun. Sound, healthy member of society. Useful person in a number of situations.
“What matters to us,” she said suddenly, “is what General Hawkins is going to do about it. He’ll do nothing at all or he’ll start divorce at once. Ain’t any other ways open. Take it, too, we both hope he’ll choose the first: for our own reasons.”
A pause, while Vera turned her head slowly. Mrs. Van Neck was watching her, her lids blinking, though the gaze of her faded blue eyes was steady. Her hands, firm and disciplined, rested on the edge of the bureau. Why did her evening dresses always look as if they belonged to some one else, wondered Vera. The diamond stars seemed an absent-minded afterthought. What did her maid do? She was a dear, but could a woman such as she possibly understand Lindy? In a way she was like Harry herself, but shrewder. Probably their ideas were about the same: living decently and keeping up appearances at all costs. With Harry it would be traditional and unconscious: with Mrs. Van Neck it would be conscious, because she was shrewder. Did shrewdness help one to understand any one or anything? Especially any one like Lindy?
“Nobody wants a scandal in their house. No exception myself. Though, as a matter of fact, I’m fond of both Lindy and her husband. The sort of man I take to, and I’d be sorry if there was trouble coming to them, quite outside of how it touches me. Agreed we’ll do anything we can to prevent divorce? Agreed, ain’t it? But you’ll be more likely to get information than me. You’ll know how things’re shaping. Quite content to trust your judgment, so do as you’ve a mind to, and count on me to back you in whatever you think best. Shan’t ask any questions either. They ain’t my business.”
Vera thought for a little, then she began again:
“What you say about relying on my judgment is very flattering. And it’s nice of you: but honestly I don’t yet see what we can do. One isn’t sure what has happened.” In her voice was the light tremor of a vibrant string: yet her face was unstirred. . . .
Lindy! Yes, she’d fight for Lindy. If she wouldn’t, she’d be worthless, a mere nothing.
Mrs. Van Neck gave a sharp nod and tapped the tobacco down into a cigarette: then she lit it with manly attention.
“I’ve always been frightened of something like this,” Vera continued in low tones, gazing out into the night. Yes, the thought of it had always been there, at the back of her mind! Almost from the first. It had grown and come to her more often: sometimes like an accustomed sound and scarcely noticed.
Mrs. Van Neck’s dry lips widened a little to a smile—“Took a bit of holding, I daresay. Don’t suppose the young men exactly kept away from your studio on her account.”
“They didn’t—but I did try all that winter when she was living with me to give her more balance, more poise. I tried to show her all the other things there are worth while. She loved the classes we went to—the literary ones. Then she sang quite sweetly and used to keep up her dancing. She’s loveliest when she’s dancing, I think. But those weren’t ‘other things’ to her. For her, they were all part of the same thing: they were all to serve the same purpose. They were all turned to making her more alluring. Just at first she’d be carried away by the thing itself: then one day I’d see her adapting it as if she were trying on a new frock—doing it over to see how it went. It wasn’t as if she only cared for men. She’d got women friends, too. Really, I think, if she only knew it, she was happiest when she was with me. . . .”
Vera broke off, and shivered, a little. Through the open window she could see the soft richness of the sky, violet above, warmed to a smoky purple over some hidden town-glow. She sighed. The naughty shadows of their little play would soon be gone.
“I was glad when first I heard she was going to be married: glad for her, for I thought it would mean safety. Yet I was sad because of it, too. I hate to think of those days . . . even now. But perhaps, really, I didn’t know that I loved her selfishly . . . not till then, myself. Still, Harry Hawkins was a dear, and somehow I wasn’t so jealous of him as I thought I’d be.”
Vera paused again, and for a while there was silence. Some one downstairs laughed and others joined in.
Mrs. Van Neck flicked the ash from her cigarette. Took all sorts to make the world, and two sexes, didn’t it, she thought. Was sorry for Vera. Yet this talk led nowhere. But one must make allowances. Not fair to go too quick with Vera who saw things that way. Must humour her a bit and let it soak in till she saw things as they were. Patience never broke a bone.
Mrs. Van Neck smoked another cigarette before she reached a point from which she felt that she could decently proceed.
“Vera,” she said presently, “want you to do something to help me. Of course, if General Hawkins wants to divorce, nothing we can do will stop him. But there’s no reason for more people to have their names dragged in than can be helped. Can’t ask General Hawkins myself, but I do want to keep my house out of the affair. I suppose, if Lindy wants to marry the co-respondent, she’ll clear off with him. Well, that would be evidence enough, without bringing in this party. Sounds pretty selfish. An old woman gets pretty selfish, and living alone doesn’t help her. But if one’s mount’s going to land tail over tip, no mortal object in not falling clear. Be uncommonly obliged to you if it can be arranged. . . . Ought to be going downstairs, oughtn’t we? I must, anyway.”
She got up, slammed up the front of the bureau and locked it. “Go along to the door and open it, will you? This light turns out over here. Inconvenient, but it’s always been like that.”
Vera crossed to the door and opened it. The passage outside was brightly lit. From downstairs came Lindy’s gay laughter.
Lucius should have arrived soon after ten, but he did not. Harry, pacing the lawn alone, was fretful: he had slept little and had been up since an early hour.
Looks bonier than ever, thought Mrs. Van Neck on her way to join the others on the tennis courts.
“Good morning,” she called to him.
He looked up suddenly, stared at her, between his cheek-bones and the brim of his straw hat, and then took it off.
Nice smile he’d got, like a schoolboy, she thought. S’pose it’s kindest to leave him alone, poor man!
“Off to tennis,” she explained.
Harry watched her pass behind the yew hedge, and then turned towards the river.
He wanted to speak to . . . er . . . Damnable, this waiting, damnable! Wanted to have . . . er . . . done with it: but he must wait: must! He’d promised Lucy he would. But how like Lucy to be late. Missed his . . . er, train. He would miss it at such a time as . . . er, this. Or the car had broken down, if he’d started in it. His cars would break down. It stood to reason. If a man didn’t . . . er . . . take the trouble to . . . er, understand his own car, there weren’t many chauffeurs who’d, well . . . er . . . not even the best of them. Fancy Lucy not understandin’ machinery and all that. One would have thought that . . . er, bein’ brainy and . . . er, all that . . . Damnable, this waitin’: damnable!
It was eleven when the car did arrive. Lucius was looking up at the windows of the house, and it was not till he had descended, lean and queerly graceful, that he saw General Hawkins, still some hundred yards away, striding across the lawn. His grey jacket was unbuttoned, his flat straw hat over his eyes.
Poor old Harry! It was funny how, seeing him all of a sudden crossing that bit of trim turf, took one back to years ago, to another world almost. Changed so little since then. He might have been just coming back to the pavilion, carrying his bat as if it were something light but very cumbersome: a funny catch in his stride as though his pads worried him: the ghost of a thin, awkward smile tightly girthed, especially if he’d put up a good score. Harry, a lank, white-flannelled foal-like figure against a vivid English green. He could remember him swinging into momentary statuesqueness after the follow through of a drive to leg, his best stroke: and that thin smile of his, as if a little puzzled that he’d brought it off. He had scarcely changed, poor old Harry: good old Harry. Life had been so simple then: perhaps because one hadn’t been free. Freedom! What was the ultimate value of it? Hur? There was often value in what one did to achieve it: but in the thing itself, once one had got it? Hur? The freer life was, the greater the complications. One was too free with anything: say, something of some one else’s: say, other people’s wives:—trouble! With anything of one’s own: more trouble! With anything one was born with, one’s own health even: most trouble! Or the end of it! Extremes met: a habit of theirs—not a very consoling one: circles, for those who liked them! Perhaps one began again with a new life, with the simple trouble of getting born, simple for oneself one supposed. Perhaps . . . Oh, nonsense! And poor old Harry hadn’t been too free with anything unless it was trust and good nature. . . . Heavens, he looked forlorn enough this morning! Strange that to meet Harry should present itself as a “situation.” It never had before, not in all those years. How should one start?
“Well, Harry!”
“Lucy, old man! Lucy!”
Lucius leant an elbow on the side of his car and looked down at the gravel.
“I had to ask you that last night, Harry, after I knew you hadn’t spoken to Lindy. I had to. You do realise that, don’t you? I daresay it isn’t any use, but as her father, I’ve got to do what can be done. I don’t want you to think that I don’t see your side, Harry. I do. It’s the only side, probably. And yet, Harry . . . Lindy’s part of me. It’s one of those platitudes that happens to be true. There’s some of me in her: that’s the devil of it: and I can understand her side, or the side people jib at. It isn’t a side, really, it’s just . . . something that can’t be explained: or better not be.”
Harry, his hands deep in his pockets, looked down with great earnestness and then quickly up again.
(Yes, the grass is still there! was the other’s silent comment.)
“I . . . er, knew yer’d not think too hardly of me, Lucy. But yer do . . . er . . . see that . . . wella . . . no man living, no one could . . . er . . . Could he? Not loving Lindy, he couldn’t. By God, I couldn’t! Lucy! I can scarcely realise it now. Can’t understand . . . er . . .”
“Poor old Harry!”
Lucius took his arm and led him delicately towards the river.
“Of course, you don’t understand. I don’t know how any one could understand her just now, except myself. I’ll try and explain how it appears to me. It’s what you can see of Lindy, Harry, that you’ve loved, her loveliness, her youth, her gaiety, her charm. That’s what men love in a woman. They don’t often realise there’s anything else, not till years afterwards. Very often there isn’t. But there’s a lot more in Lindy. What you’ve missed in her is the best of her and the worst. It’s because that you haven’t seen the rest, that you don’t understand what’s happened. I can, because I’ve watched her grow, and it grew with her: and because the worst of her is part of myself. Mine isn’t the proper ‘parent and child’ attitude. She and I are conspirators in a dull, good world. It isn’t just ordinary sinfulness that’s mostly a matter of personal gain, one way or another: it’s something we’ve kept through the ages, from when men got to be snobs, and parted from the other beasts. It’s the wantonness of the first purely deliberate act.”
“She . . . er . . . They’re on the . . . er . . . tennis court . . . all of them,” said Harry, rather at a loss but determined not to be lured from solid ground. Lucy was always like this when anything had to be done: he just talked.
Lucius surveyed the sweep of the herbaceous border. The tones of the blues were too varied: that mauve stock was a solecism. . . . One couldn’t hope to make poor old Harry understand what had really happened. How could he? He’d never got beyond facts, and even those were often “quite beyond him.” Facts were all of the two-dimensional world—or of the three. One couldn’t reduce a Praxiteles to the flat, and figure it up in hands with a horse-coper’s measuring stick. But even if one could make Harry understand Lindy, even if he could see her as she really was, would it help matters? To know all was to forgive all, of course. Such a nice, safe little consolation, when no one could! A great favourite with the pious, though it didn’t seem to apply particularly to their own god. Yet if one couldn’t make Harry understand, there was nothing to be done. Talking to Lindy oneself, couldn’t really help. One could chat with the sunshine, but one couldn’t alter it. He hadn’t really wanted to delay for that, though he had said so. He would have to go through the form of talking to her. He was in honour bound to do that, after getting Harry to wait till now. There were facts, damn them, like a lot of infernal “heads” nailed up on a dining-room wall. Harry liked that form of decoration. There’d been an early tussle over that, hadn’t there? But this sort of trophy wouldn’t go with the rest. No one man cared to hang up horns of that sort, even if he’d earned them. . . . “This one I bagged at midnight in a Congo swamp: this one just before sunset in the Sierra Morena: and these ones, particularly fine specimens, at four A.M. in an English country house.” . . . Ye gods! No, there wasn’t any escape from the facts. One could hang one’s hat on them.
“Harry, look here.” Lucius took a deep breath, but he had made a false start, so he stopped. He’d got to explain Lindy to Harry: so much easier to teach fishes to dance!
“Wish to God,” thought Harry, “he’d go and see Lindy and . . . er . . . and, wella . . . Then it would be done with. It would be over. His Lindy and him. . . . Over!”
“Harry,” Lucius began again. “Look here, I’m not going to ask you to change your mind. Promised I wouldn’t. . . . Yes, I know, Harry. . . . Yes, I know you have. Yes but this is different . . . if you could only understand what Lindy’s really like . . . the secret Lindy.”
General Hawkins tilted his straw hat. . . . The secret Lindy! Good God! Wasn’t that exactly what the . . . er . . . the trouble was! “Lucy,” he said, “it isn’t any good, yer know. Can’t be! That’s straight! Can’t be.” For a long time they paced on in silence, but presently the other, his glance on a far cloud, recommenced.
“Our natures aren’t simple and straightforward, Harry . . . good, bad or indifferent . . . they’re many-sided: all edges and facets. It depends what light catches them whether they show light or dark. Even then it’s only the parts that catch the light that show at all. . . . Well, in Lindy there are a score of different facets: fine sides, brave sides, delicate sides . . . and a side that’s been the cause of all this miserable affair. It isn’t easy to name it. One doesn’t know any name that it won’t elude: because, like the rest, it’s made up of different conflicting parts that play hide-and-seek even while one’s considering them. It isn’t eroticism, or vanity: it isn’t love, even in the Frenchiest sense. But though it’s difficult to define, we all know it’s there: it’s the side that invites pursuit . . . and then wants to escape . . . or sometimes doesn’t. Which—one can’t foretell. Perhaps the stars decide. There may be a good deal more in the old astrology than we think. I’ve been wondering a good deal lately. Mmmmm.”
Harry began to answer, slowly, jerkily. Whatever Lucius said, this thing was really quite simple. . . . Lindy loved some one else. That was all there was to it.
Lucius waited till his friend had finished. “But this isn’t love,” he explained . . . “this is the side there is in all women who aren’t incomplete.”
What was he drivin’ at, thought Harry. That was the worst of . . . er . . . people who were . . . brainy.
“It’s a permanent instinct.” Lucius went on, “the cause of our own permanence—if we are permanent. It always will be there: it always has been. One can’t deny that the instinct, of which very likely we are only a manifestation, exists. In some women it’s ugly, in some it’s secret. (Mercifully?—perhaps . . . I don’t know. Usually when it isn’t, it’s disgusting!) But in the perfectly balanced woman, it should be neither her slave nor her master, but her friend.—Oh, if only we could make friends with our emotions, Harry! . . . Now I’d hoped in Lindy . . . but that doesn’t matter! Well, it’s miserably obvious that if there are all these different sides in a woman’s nature, one man can’t hope to fit them all. It would be like expecting one broken flint would fit another. Of course, if one had the right cement . . . If only we could make friends with our emotions, our jealousy, even. . . . But one doesn’t know how to start. It’s Hell, Harry! It’s Hell trying to placate one’s ego. It’s . . . I’m sorry, old man, I was forgetting.
“As I was saying, Harry, one can’t hope to satisfy everything in a woman—either she’s got to repress what one doesn’t satisfy, which means she becomes incomplete: or else . . . Do you understand that, Harry?”
General Hawkins paused and watched through narrowed eyelids the dazzle of sunlight on the river. Did he understand? Understand? . . . Yes . . . er . . . He understood. Lindy wanted some one else. Too old! And before him the river flowed on like Time. Some light driftwood floated down the stream. No, he’d been a fool not to have seen it from the first. He didn’t blame Lindy. It had . . . er . . . it had . . . happened: that’s all there was to it! Only . . . only . . .
“For God’s sake go and see her, and let’s get it over, Lucy,” he said suddenly and turned away from his friend. “Go and see her and . . . er . . . let’s get it over. Yer don’t know how I . . .” He shut his mind deliberately and remained silent.
Nothing for it! Lucius regarded his friend’s back. Poor old Harry! So splendidly loyal, so unswerving. He wished by the gods he’d lived as straight himself. Yet Fate had hit Harry as badly, worse than it had hit him.
Lucius walked over to the house and glanced in through the open French windows of the drawing-room. No character. Just neatness and a few quite pretty pieces. A hawker might have “done” the flowers. The tennis courts must be over there.
That was the worst of having anything: it entailed responsibilities. One had a wife: one was responsible for one’s elementary inclinations even!—or for alimony!—One had a daughter . . . Oh, curse it! No, there was no escape. It wouldn’t be half as bad really as meeting Harry this morning, when one hadn’t been playing quite fair—not quite, because he had been pretending he had wanted to talk things over with Lindy, while it was really Harry he had wanted to talk over. No, it wasn’t meeting Lindy he funked. Besides, he was angry with her. Why, by the gods above, and below . . . “on this side and on that” . . . couldn’t the silly little jackanapes have been more careful . . . or more moral?
He found his way to the courts. There was Lindy all in white, but with a fleck of pink somewhere. Lucius waved to her. She hadn’t been expecting him, but she’d spotted him before the rest did. Trust Lindy not to miss a new man: even if it were only a father. Oh, Lindy! . . .
She ran swiftly across the lawn and threw two arms around his neck. So, on tiptoe, she kissed him twice.
“Lucy, darling, how beautiful of you to come down. I must dash back. The play awaits.”
She darted off again and had served before he had straightened the felt hat her embrace had deranged. Mrs. Van Neck rose at him from a wicker chair.
“Harry Hawkins told me just now you might be driving this way and might drop in. Stay to lunch, of course, won’t you?”
“I’d so much like to, but I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve really only come in because I must see this daughter of mine on business.”
“Quite.”
Surely he isn’t going to commit the solecism of telling me all about it, thought Mrs. Van Neck. Rather a footler—rather a calf’s-foot jelly of a man, of course, but not as soft as all that, one hoped.
What the Hades could Mrs. Van Neck’s husband have been like, wondered Lucius.
“I’m her trustee, as well as her father,” he said. “Jove, what a pretty serve she has, hasn’t she? I haven’t seen her play this season. You know I like those things they twist round their heads instead of wearing hats—that and the sandals. One can fancy a frieze done with maidens like that. It’s a jolly line, when they take the balls high up, almost out of reach. Oh, thank you . . . but only for a minute or two. I can’t stay, you know.” He sat down. “Don’t think me too rude, will you? But I must be pushing on again quite soon. I’ve got a long distance to go to-day, enormous distance, at least . . . Yes!!”
“Can talk to Lindy directly they’ve done this set. Be over in a minute. Then I’ll call her. Don’t know Miss O’Hara, do you?”
Lucius smiled at the girl. Nothing wanton about her, at any rate. Yet the Irish had managed to survive . . . somehow. They did have a stationary population, though, didn’t they? But, then, with all these scientific improvements, killing each other had been simplified. Still, it bore out his contention of an hour ago that it was only the nymph instinct that counter-balanced our increased imagination, and that without it the race would die out. He watched the play in silence. Must one talk? He resumed his thoughts.—Some people would put up the French and their dwindling families as an argument the other way, but that was purely superficial. French women weren’t wanton—grim—so grim that they had to trick themselves up with graceful manners and pretty frocks to prolong the process of national extinction.
“Yes, I play a little,” he said to Mrs. Van Neck. “I like doing it, then I can shirk my bathroom exercises more lightly.”
Bathroom exercises, thought Mrs. Van Neck. Did he now? Wouldn’t have thought of it, would one? He looked fairly fit. H’m! Not as soft as one would think. Vanity perhaps. Still, the proper spirit. H’m! A good thing, really, that he wasn’t stopping to lunch, or the difficulty of the red mullets would have recurred.
“Finished?” said Mrs. Van Neck and called to Lindy who came running towards them.
“So hot, darlingest,” laughed Lindy, and, sitting down on the grass beside her father, she leant against his knee and looked up at him.
“You’ve got the new tie I bought you on, Lucy.”
“Have I?”
“You know you have. You did it specially to please me. You know you did, old silly.”
“I want to have a chat about your investments, my little Lindy. Be a good gal and take me somewhere where it’s shady. I’ve got to be off again in a few minutes.”
Lindy rose again. Lucius put his arm around her and they wandered away.
“S’pose he sometimes wonders why he couldn’t keep her in order,” thought Mrs. Van Neck, as she watched them pass under the cedars.
It was nearly an hour later when Lucius, returning, found Harry by the river, his back against the tree that shaded him, his straw hat on the grass beside him: the pipe he grasped had burnt out: his lips were taut, his eyebrows raised in the uncomplaining wonder of his type. He turned his head and watched his friend’s approach. But his attitude and expression did not alter. The other joined him on the bank. For a while they sat so, silent. Before them the summer stream drifted, soundless and unrecallable. Harry watched it: a sense of the inevitable wrapped him in its dark caress.
Flowing on, thought Lucius: flowing on: rain of nights before Harry knew: drifting by, glittering in a senseless gaiety that hid no joy . . . like the laugh of a fool: passing on, out of knowledge, to the sea, to join the waters that were before the beginning. Beginning?
Harry and he watched. Poor old Harry! They’d watched that same river so often before . . . years ago. Presently they’d be gone and the river’d go on . . . in spite of even that. In those “Athens” days one couldn’t have realised that. The river had been the phenomenon then, oneself the gauge of the Universe. Now one knew . . . well, one thought differently! Now the river was the real gauge . . . or the shadow of it . . . an aspect of Time . . . a trifling index . . . a measure of Eternity . . . a minute expression of the inexpressible . . . and we . . . !! We were but a flicker . . . a flicker which passed so soon that it could not be conceived even beside the life of the river which was itself but a flash. Which was the phenomenon? Could it be . . . ? Where was reality? Was there any . . . ? But there was Harry! Poor, splendid old Harry, and there was distress: was that nothing? And Lindy? Lindy, who was like a . . . with that glance of the perpetual, as if she were but the sparkle upon a thread of gold, stretched out of the dimness into . . . into . . . : her very wantonness, a link in that chain that had never been broken. Lindy! Lindy!
Beside him, General Hawkins drew at an empty pipe. Far away a woman laughed. It was a “class” laugh, fashionable at the moment. Lucius, hugging his knees, tried to visualise her. Who would have a laugh like that? Not Lindy, whose laugh was like an echo of something taunting the glades of long ago. He’d just killed her laugh: yes, killed it . . . for a time. For how long? For a day? Even then, was it worth it? Why should one strike down the flower of it? It would be gone so soon, lost. Could it ever be lost? Lost in the abyss of emptiness into which Katharine had gone. Katharine had had a laugh, too, and it had gone. But hers had not been like Lindy’s. Curious! Was it disloyal to her, or just appreciation? The gods knew. Did they? Or had they died? Had they, too, been but a purple strand in the web of Eternity? From downstream came the rhythmic throb of a steamer.
Was there a boat running from Windsor to Oxford nowadays? Was that it, wondered Harry. Funny, still using steam. One would have thought . . . Over now. It was all over. And he and Lucius were alone: as they’d been when boys. There’d been so much in between: but it had shrunk away. There’d been Lucius and Katharine, after that Lucius and Lindy . . . all over!
“Wella, Lucy?” he asked.
“I talked with her.”
The steamer, passing the willows at the bend of the reach, beat as with wings upon the air. The shimmer of brass music reached them. Harry tapped out his pipe.
“She . . . er . . .”
“Nothing, Harry, old man, nothing. There really isn’t anything to tell you. . . . Yes, there was one thing.”
“Er . . . yes?”
“She wanted me to ask a favour of you, Harry. She didn’t want to see you before she went. . . .”
Lucius took a cigarette from his case. He lit it, taking pains that both sides should kindle equally.
“She wanted me to say she’s sorry. I wouldn’t mention that, Harry, if I wasn’t sure that she meant it. Harry, it wasn’t a politeness. She wouldn’t care for you to think that of her.”
Strange how simple a thing tragedy was, so low-pitched. At least it was in these latitudes. In the South, of course, people felt things more visibly . . . and more audibly. Ye gods, yes!
“Ah!” said Harry, after a long pause. His voice was as inanimate as the sound of a bough dropping into the stream . . . and as final.
Lucius leant back till his head touched the grass. “She’ll clear out to-day,” he said, watching through the leaves the blue above. “She’s gone up to pack now. She won’t come down to lunch, and she’ll catch a train about tea-time. She’s going to say she’s not quite the thing to-day: so it won’t look too odd (at least not more odd than can be helped). You’re driving up alone in the car: she’s going up by train. You must make some excuse about something having gone wrong with the house, drains or something: anything: ten to one no one will believe it, anyhow, so I shouldn’t worry too much about finding something plausible.”
Poor old Harry! . . . Overhead, the trees rustled, soothing but indifferent. What did Nature care, or the gods? Was it good fun making a Creation, and then watching it struggle, and chucking in a stone now and then, if things got too dull? One would have thought they’d have grown tired of it after an æon or two. Not a very gentlemanly game! Yet, possibly it wasn’t fair to judge Creators Ltd. by human standards, arbitrary and trained ones at that. Very likely Creators Ltd. were really limited, so that they, too, were not entirely responsible: which always opened out an indefinite vista . . .
One had promised not to ask him again, of course, m’yes. Queer, in what honour lay. But should one never desert a blazing principle?—Casabianca? All very well in the “Lakes” period: one must have wanted a pretty strong mental purge after supping with the Regent. The damme-devilry of the Corinthians down at Carlton House! All gone now: all gone except the Carlton House columns, and they’d reformed, too, horribly. Who wouldn’t if he had to stand before the National Gallery, with so far too much merit behind, and Nelson, bereft of Emma, in front. So easy for them, now that every one had forgotten their origin. . . . M’yes. . . . Going down with one’s sinking principles, or getting blown to bits by them might do, but sinking other people, too, was a different matter: Lindy, for instance. Curse it, he was going to ask Harry . . . whatever he’d promised.
“Look here, Harry,” he said.
General Hawkins lowered his empty pipe and waited. . . . A pause. . . .
“Harry . . . I suppose . . . you don’t think you could possibly reconsider your decision? Lord, think what would happen to Lindy if the young man . . .” (Lucius isn’t goin’ ter ask that again, after havin’ promised not to and that . . . surely, thought the General.) “Harry, I don’t believe you can realise what this’ll mean to Lindy.”
The other turned and looked at his friend, abashing him suddenly, and for awhile they watched each other in silence.—Damn it! And after he’d promised! That wasn’t like Lucy.
“I can’t, Lucy: on my honour, I can’t.”
Lucius opened his mouth but said nothing: his purpose crumpled. Futile! There it was! He’d always been futile! His wrists relaxed, his hands fell limply. Harry, watching him, wondered. . . . Perhaps he’d forgotten about his promise: but it wasn’t that. Being her father had made it too difficult. Damn it, it well might!
“I can’t do it, Lucy. ’Pon my honour, I can’t: but . . . er . . . wella, I understand your askin’ me: I do.”
But to Lucius the words came from an immense distance. He had half forgotten to what they referred. He turned a little towards the river. Futile! A feckless soul! Weighed in the balance and found wanting. Any alluring shadow, any comfortable thicket, could entice him from his path. Katharine had known it: his mother had known it: Lindy knew it: Harry knew it: any one who knew him found it out. He couldn’t withstand even the gentlest zephyrs—those least of all: he would wander along with them on their purposeless quest. No good staying here now: no more good than going away. He rose to his feet.
The party on the tennis lawn watched Lucius Thornhill pick his narrow path between the swelling beds of sulphur-coloured stocks, a short cut to his motor car. Conscious of their glances, he attempted a retirement, neither hasty nor defiant. His back view had always given an impression of weakness: he knew it. Those wretched socks were hanging loosely round his ankles! Positively he must buy new suspenders! Positively: in the very next town.
Got a tired sort of handshake, hadn’t he, thought Mrs. Van Neck. Not flabby, of course, got bones all right. Wonder if he puts much into those bathroom exercises. Must have been nice when he’d been an undergraduate like those last night’s ones. Badly wanted starching now: starching and ironing!
What are they going to do with Lindy? what could they? wondered Vera miserably.
Mrs. Dyson Millar glowed darkly. Things were really beginning to move. The golden-headed Lindy wouldn’t be able to scrape out of it all, this time: and that dry-mouthed, ever-lasting father of hers couldn’t help her. He’d flap his moulty wings, but he’d never be able to stop things now. And that Vera Casswell! Eummmm! One wouldn’t know what had actually happened, of course, till it all came out: but one knew quite enough. Evidence is always vulgar, unless one can read it. She was really very lucky: because she had seen everything, but could not be roped in.
Lucius climbed into his car and switched on the self-starter. Would it work? He would feel rather imbecile . . . (But it did.) Once one was facing people it was easy, but turning one’s back made one curiously ridiculous. There must be some explanation for such a general sensation, unconscious association of ideas, no doubt: such as “facing the music,” as opposed to “turning tail”: or perhaps connected with the “laughing-behind-one’s-back” group of phrases. There might be some more ancient belief that our reverse was less dignified in itself than our more expressive obverse: it might be linked with subconscious registration of early smackings and of offensive toes.
He raised his hat before letting in the clutch. Rather effectively disposed, weren’t they! Mrs. Van Neck, straight-backed and tailored, her black straw hat the apex of the group: (the lid on it: wasn’t that the catch?) her severe grey, a distinct centre, and shades darker than that lemon-coloured muslin of Vera’s. Then the crotte de chevaux (such delicacy the French had!) of that woman who watched one over her knitting, balanced Vera on the other side of the centre. And outside the group the Irish hoyden, stretched low in her canvas Trans-Atlantique, and Bo’sun Smith prone on the green, balanced quite nicely the pair on the other flank, old Gussie like an immense peppermint bull’s-eye in his black-striped flannel, and that young man with the sleepy air and the picture paper . . . He must be . . . Heavens . . . He must be the young man . . . ! Oh, Lord, and . . . Oh, Lord!
The car rolled forward, and he changed gear noisily. Accelerating too quickly, he brushed the side of the car against the rhododendrons of the drive.
There, dash it! Dash his rotten car! Dash Lindy! And the rotten upbringing he’d given her! What could one do now? Did one turn to the right for London? Or did one . . .
He wobbled across into the main road.
“Who’s going to swipe the flying flannel?” the Bo’sun demanded presently.
“I will,” said Grace O’Hara.
“That’s why I put it like that. Any form of brutality naturally appeals to the Hibernian.”
“Oh, shut up, will you?”
“You’re getting it right, nearly every time now. A week ago you’d have said: ‘Shut up, shall you.’ ”
“You’ll play Bath, Oliver, of course,” he called to Dashwood, who laid down his paper.
“That’s a perfectly good three. Three in one . . .”
“Shut up, can’t you.”
“All right: don’t fire, I surrender. But where’s Lindy got to?” the Bo’sun asked.
“I saw her go indoors just now. I’m sure I don’t know why,” Mrs. Dyson Millar answered very pleasantly, leaning forward beyond her knitting.
“Old Gussie Hampden’ll play if you ask him,” the Bo’sun whispered to Grace O’Hara.
“Ha, what’s that? Ha?” asked Sir Augustus, his chin undulating as he sat forward.
“Take Lindy’s place, won’t you, Vera?” asked Mrs. Van Neck. One couldn’t tell what might have happened at that interview between Lindy and her father, but one wanted to avoid an explanation. She didn’t want any unnecessary tension. Vera all rough edges about it, as it was. Mrs. Dyson Millar all ears and teeth. But the rest wouldn’t notice unless they were made to. If one could get a game started, that would leave only Gussie, who worried chiefly about himself, and the D. M. woman, and she couldn’t do much harm without an audience. Lindy wouldn’t come out again: practically certain not to.
“Won’t get that set over by lunch unless you start now,” she said to Vera who had risen. Good for Vera too, to be kept occupied! Vera’d be following Lindy in to see what had happened unless one stopped her. If she went in, it would make things so obvious.
“Bo’sun, you’d better take on Grace. So enjoy going for her always, don’t you? And she must have Lord Dashwood to protect her.”
That would put Bo’sun and Vera together. Rather keen on her, wasn’t he? And even if she didn’t appreciate male attention, he’d keep her from worrying a little. Useful man the Bo’sun, quite often. Quite!
Harry rose from the river bank where Lucius had left him. He had got to . . . er . . . er . . . say somethin’ ter his hostess: got ter! Not explain things, of course: but . . . er . . . wella . . . ter . . . It took him to say something, didn’t it? He couldn’t just clear out without a word. Naturally not! . . .
Hands deep in pockets and shoulders raised, he made his way gloomily across the turf. Except for the disposal of his arms his bearing was the classic delineation of grief: the long sorrowful line from neck to knee: the bowed head: the dragging pace: the solemn tread. Even his type, so distrustful of the arts, so intolerant of the histrionic, could not in the hour of stress escape those forms which the ancients had fixed for all time. So for a while the narrow restraint which he treasured gave way for a little to the universal which he would never recognise.
He moved along miserably. All over now! Finished! He wasn’t even to see her before she went! Never again in this world. Unless it was some chance street meeting? Never? . . . The idea densified and took form. Finality hardened upon the screen of his mind. Never to see her again: God! He stopped brokenly. A giant cedar shaded him: he shivered and passed on.
She’d said she didn’t want to see him again: she’d be gone in a few hours and after that . . . a few hours. . . . But damn it, he was forgetting his manners. He couldn’t . . . er . . . inconvenience people: ’specially not his hostess: not simply because he had taken a knock. He must get along and explain to her that he was goin’, that they were goin’: that was how he would have to put it.
He rounded the corner of the yew hedge, and saw Mrs. Van Neck, old Gussie and that knittin’ woman.
Mrs. Van Neck caught sight of him at once, but she remained seated.—If she got up at once, and went towards General Hawkins it would look too pointed—an admission. But as he came up to her she rose. “Very man I want, General,” she said with bluff cordiality: “gardener tells me something’s wrong with electric light plant: wants vetting: engine won’t start, might come and cast an eye over it, will you? Much ’bliged, if you will. Over by the stables.”
“Cast an eye over it? Over the engine. Er . . . certainly! Of course!”
“So awkward, if there wasn’t light to-night! Especially for the fancy-dress dinner,” Mrs. Dyson Millar remarked loudly to Sir Augustus.
“Ha-Ha. Most convenient. I remember—Ha-Ha—once when I was staying in Northumberland—Ha-Ha——”
“It’s usually a . . . er . . . valve,” said General Hawkins as he was led away. “Usually a valve at the bottom of the . . . er . . . trouble. Strictly, yer know”—he warmed a little to the subject as they left the lawn—“one can’t be too careful, with valves! Somethin’ . . . er . . . human about a . . . er . . . engine, yer know: quite . . . er . . . human, like a horse.”
It was some time later when Mrs. Van Neck, after glancing quickly at her workmanlike watch, hurried into the hall, and met Vera in the act of going upstairs.
“Gong not to sound yet! Lunch to wait till you’re told, David,” said Mrs. Van Neck to the footman and led Vera into the empty dining-room.
“Want a word with you,” she said, surveying the table and considering what arrangement of guests would hide the tension best. “Heard anything definite?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Vera answered, “nothing at all. I didn’t speak to Lindy: purposely, I didn’t: because if things went well it would really have been better for her never to have known. I worried it out last night and I decided it would be better to say nothing to Lindy. I do feel that it’s being discovered which harms one’s real self, more even than the thing one’s done does. If one loses self-respect . . .”
“Quite!” Mrs. Van Neck moved a dish of olives. Toast’ll be cold before they come in, she thought. Crisp toast and lobster mayonnaise, such a good combination. What did these generalities of Vera lead to? She was sorry for Vera.
“Sure you are right. Holding one’s tongue’s nearly always the best thing to do. Trouble is, things have got beyond all that now. Just come from talking to her husband and——”
Mrs. Van Neck, hearing voices in the hall, paused for a moment.
Vera, waiting, held her breath. How stuffy it was indoors, stifling. There was a funny sound over in the windows, a bumblebee. The low bowl of scarlet sweet-williams on the table before her was like a brazier of live coals. It glowed. How suffocating it was, and how still.
She sat down suddenly on a chair and leant an elbow on the table. Some one came clattering boisterously down from the landing to the hall without, heavy-soled shoes on the druggeted stairs . . . Clatter-crash: bump: clatter-crash: bump. The air was so close that she could almost feel the impact. It was like being in a shut box, with some one drumming a tune on the lid. The room, being darkened by the half-drawn curtains, made it seem hotter. The silver glittered absurdly.
For a while there was silence. Vera twisted a fork: it turned to scarlet and crimson as it caught the hot reflection of the flowers, flashed scarlet, dulled, and became a fork again. She set it down unsteadily. When would the other tell her what had happened? When? Time stood still.
Mrs. Van Neck considered the chairs. Self at head: General H. on right: Vera next him: old Gussie: then the D. M. woman. That would put her as far as possible from the centre of what was happening. That did one side. T’other side there’d be . . .
“Not going to faint, are you?” she asked suddenly.
“No, I’m all right,” said Vera, very pale, and bit her lip.
Wouldn’t have guessed Vera’d have been like that, thought Mrs. Van Neck, turning to the sideboard. That was the worst of women, even the best of ’em. Quite. ’Um, yes: brandy! She returned with one of the large glasses. A thick ’un: but women didn’t notice that kind of thing.
Vera took the glass in both hands, and drank the spirit unquestioningly, as the sick drink. She gasped a little.
“I’m quite all right really. I’m anxious. It’s so hot and I didn’t sleep last night, worrying. I wanted to go to Lindy and ask her . . . only I knew I oughtn’t to. Anyhow I couldn’t help then. What’s going to happen?”
“They’re leaving at once: this afternoon. Don’t mean the General said anything about what had happened . . . or hasn’t. Only told me he was clearing out at once: both, he meant to say, but forgot to. Hadn’t a notion what to say or what not to: but was trying his damnedest to make it seem natural: a real tryer! Taking it very decently, I thought. Right sort! Lindy’s training up: packing now: started doing it when she went indoors, after her father left. Sent word to me by Coad, the butler—that was before I’d seen her husband. He’s driving back in their car.”
Vera gasped! Packing! Lindy was packing! Then it was all over. Her own Lindy was going out into the world alone. Nothing to protect her now. No more a girl: no more a wife. Her own lovely Lindy, equivocal, a nondescript, fair game for any man.
Vera closed her eyes. Her throat quivered. Then she set her jaw. Lindy’d got no one but her now. She’d never fail Lindy: never: never! Men: men! Men were always like that: they didn’t love like women did. There was Harry: he couldn’t bear the thought that there could be anyone else except himself. If a man thought there was, it was such a blow to his conceit. Harry Hawkins was nice, nice and kind: but even he couldn’t forgive: couldn’t even forgive. Hadn’t she forgiven Lindy for marrying? Hadn’t she? Hadn’t that been anything to her? Now Lindy’d see who’d stand by her: who’d stand by her whatever happened: who’d never forsake her: never: never! She’d go through fire and water for Lindy. . . . A sense of exaltation thrilled her, and Vera drew a deep breath: her half-closed eyelids narrowed.
Ain’t goin’ to cry now, is she, thought Mrs. Van Neck: and, turning, busied herself noisily with cigars and salted almonds on the sideboard. One had to be patient, to go easy with Vera. Jumpy like a nervous colt, but could count on her. Jumpy but thoroughbred.
Vera’s eyes opened to the glare of the sweet-william: but now for her it had paled: its vivid colour had faded.—Lindy packing!
“I must go and help her,” she said. “I must go and find out what she’s going to do. She didn’t say, did she? But she couldn’t, of course, in a message by a servant.”
Mrs. Van Neck shook her head sagely.—“Should wait till after lunch. She’s not coming down. ‘Too much of a hurry,’ she said. She wouldn’t let my maid help her pack. Best give her till after lunch. Let her get it over by herself. Best way always: never coddle anything: unless really ill, of course. Take it from me. Besides, lunch is waiting, and you’d not be down in time. That would mean more explanations to make. Too many for my taste as it is. Husband didn’t put up any talk at all: just said he was clearing out this afternoon: got red and ummed and erred: then said Lindy’d be goin’, too . . . as an afterthought. Have got to invent something to say for him myself. You any ideas?”
Vera leant back in her chair, her grey eyes wide in thought, her long delicate fingers linked on the table.
“I’m not very good at excuses as a rule. I suppose you can say . . . something about business. Business is always . . .”
“Quite! Was thinking of saying the Hawkinses had had an offer to sell their London house if they’d give immediate possession. Americans, or some one in a hurry. The rest’ll take what they’re given!—except Mrs. Dyson Millar. That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
“Yes?”
“Want you to ask me—‘Where’s Lindy?’ as soon as we come in. You can make it sound natural.—Fiddlesticks! Of course you’ll be able to make it sound natural. If not, what in Heaven’s name would be the object? . . . Quite! Mrs. Dyson Millar’ll hear, and can’t pretend she don’t believe what I say. See? Want to work out the seats to keep her away from the General—got one side done. Counting from self—General—you—Sir Augustus—Mrs. Dyson Millar—then Lord Dashwood at the foot of the table. You might lean forward a little, then the General won’t . . . er . . . see? On my left—the curate. (I always have him on Tuesdays. Pretend it’s for him to catalogue the books. Think it helps him in the parish, really. Sorry for curates. Pay of a butler, without their social advantages. Quite.) Um, yes! Curate—then Grace O’Hara—then Bo’sun. And he’s next Lord Dashwood. Every one fixed. Gave Bo’sun the tip to cheer things up. Bo’sun, great stand-by that way. Told him the General had got some trouble on: said, I thought he’d been plunging.”
Mrs. Van Neck, moving towards the door, caught Vera’s eye.
“General Hawkins plunging!” she said, and smiled.
Mrs. Van Neck looked into the hall.
“Bo’sun,” she called, “come in here, will you?”
By the time he had entered, Vera had risen.
“What’s up?”
“Only what I told you. I thought a cocktail would pull the General together a bit. Yours unbeaten! Make that orangey one, like a good fellow. Bit sharper than the last one, if you can. Want a sharp taste: there’s grilled herrings. But be as quick as you can. Lunch late already. Vera’ll help you. Squeeze the oranges, won’t you, Vera? Everything in the serving lobby. Keys here. You know. Good. Only quickly. Shout just before you are ready——” She strode away towards the hall again—“Off to morning-room. Will keep them there till you’re ready. Getting late.”
The door closed.
“Let’s get a move on. Juice of nine halves forward. Thanks. Kindly pour the juice into the worthy shaker,” said the Bo’sun, jingling his keys, and then began to sing a tune she knew. “We always seem to be in a hurry here, don’t we? Lunch late, too! I’ve got quite a worthy hunger-wave myself. Didn’t see those red currants with the sugar on them till they’d mostly been wolfed. Gussie’d opted for strawberries, and divided them on the best plebiscite principle. Took all he could swallow and poured out a few more. Cake in the mornings makes me think of funerals, and nobody ever left me anything! Quite out of luck: the kedgeree at breakfast had been absorbed before I got down. Pretty rotten! What do you say? I’ve starved since breakfast. I told Mrs. Van Neck, but she only laughed. No sympathy for real sufferers nowadays.—Ha-Ha.—The rising generation—Ha-Ha—When I was a boy—Ha-Ha. A shake of bitters? Yaise, I theenk sew. Which reminds me there’s a parsoon coming to lunch. Shall I tell him about the costers in the train?”
“Your stories are really too awful, Bo’sun,” said Vera. Something was expected of her. What did it matter? Biting her lip, she worked at the oranges. Such sticky juice! Why were people always worrying about food and drink? Couldn’t they ever just be still, and rest, except at night? How tired she was, and yet how anxious to go to Lindy. It was horrible being downstairs, with her own little Lindy wretched and all alone: and thinking every one had forsaken her . . . even she. Even if Lindy didn’t love her, she wouldn’t forsake her: never!
Vera cut an orange too many and realised as she added the juice to the rest. She wouldn’t tell Bo’sun, he might make a fuss about the silly drink: what did it matter! What did anything men thought matter? They were children, all of them: kind nice ones some of them, like him, but all children. Harry Hawkins seemed such a dear. Yet deep down he was selfish, utterly selfish. He didn’t really love Lindy: he just cared for her beauty: he just desired her: was sentimental about her: was used to her: his zest kept alive by her waywardness: just regarding her as a possession. Oh! Men couldn’t love. He’d taken Lindy from her: and now, because he couldn’t make her what he wanted, he was going to throw her away. And she’d loved Lindy: really loved her: as only woman could. Men were children. The Bo’sun with his naughty little rhymes and his schoolboy expressions. He must be twenty-eight, and yet he’d never even grown up.
“Ice the glasses, if you’ve done,” he was saying.
Automatically she dropped a lump into each glass, spun it round and emptied it out again. The glitter on the bowls of the glasses blurred and dimmed: and doing so, brought Vera’s thoughts to the present. How ridiculous it was! She’d been away in another world, and yet she’d been drawn back by the fading of the dazzle on a wine-glass: and the mistiness that had called her attention was in its turn already vanishing. Things like that made up the business of life. That’s what men’s lives were, filling glasses only to empty them! That’s what people thought about and worked for. And there upstairs was Lindy, thinking she had forsaken her. And yet she couldn’t tear herself away. Her thoughts with Lindy, she watched the yolky, shreddy mixture rising in the glasses. Did most men ever think of things that mattered? Didn’t they ever feel at all? Was it all just games and guns, and money and making drinks? Lots of them were useful: but cattle were useful. Didn’t they ever come near to the real things of life? There were heroic ones, of course.
While Bo’sun distributed the cocktails along the table and called for the others, Vera drank hers in a gulp. Then she rinsed and dried her hands in the serving lobby: and by the time she came into the dining-room the rest of the party was seated. Mrs. Van Neck was calling her attention to some strange man. She bowed. That must be the curate, she thought, and sat down between General Hawkins and old Gussie Hampden. What was Lindy doing? What could she be thinking of her?
Then Vera remembered what she had to do.
“Where’s Lindy?” she asked General Hawkins.
“Lindy? Where’s Lindy? . . . Oh . . . er . . . yer see . . .”
Mrs. Van Neck set down her glass decidedly.
“Such a shame you’re going up to London, General. Spoils our fancy-dress party altogether. Been counting on you to hop me round. Can’t dance with children like Bo’sun and Lord Dashwood, and Sir Augustus won’t dance.”
“Ha-Ha—it isn’t that I won’t—Ha-Ha—I assure you, my dear lady—Ha-Ha. My doctor——”
“Quite! Lindy’s dress so dashin’, too! Just been looking at it. Tells me you’ve had an offer for No. 20, General. Never knew you wanted to sell. Nuisance if you have to clear out at such short notice. Suppose it’s worth it, but pity coming just to-day and spoiling the party.”
General Hawkins lowered his glass distrustfully and regarded it with suspicion.
“Offer for No. 20?”
Why . . . er . . . scarcely decent starting trying to let the house before the divorce was fixed and all that. Surely Lindy couldn’t have rung up an agent and—(then truth began to dawn upon him)—Mrs. Van Neck must be . . . er . . . helpin’ him out: helpin’ him over the stile: that was it: must have invented it, ’cos it sounded plausible. Wella . . . dev’lish decent of her, he must say that. Did it mean she’d guessed? Or did it . . .
“An American: Lindy said it was,” Mrs. Van Neck added.
General Hawkins saw her glance, bright, steady and shrewd.
“Wella . . . I . . . er . . . Yes: that was what her father said. That was what he came down to tell us.”
Vera heard this exchange as one hears the crackling of one’s fire by night.
“Isn’t it a pity Mrs. Hawkins can’t stay?” said Mrs. Dyson Millar to Lord Dashwood on her right.
“I’m awfully sorry they can’t,” he answered softly. His voice mingled with the breaking of his toast.
“Such a pity, isn’t it? I knew you’d be sorry,” said Mrs. Dyson Millar. “You two dance so well together. You seem made for each other.—Such perfect partners, I mean.”
Without turning her head she looked towards the top of the table: but could only see the profile of Vera Casswell who, her hand supporting her chin, was listening to some story of the curate across the table.
Really most extraordinary way to behave, thought Sir Augustus. That pretty Vera Casswell, with her elbow on the table so that one couldn’t even see her face, and talking across the table to a curate: and that Mrs. Dyson Hyphenson—or whatever she was called—turning her back on one, and talking to that young monkey at the end of the table. Inattention on both sides of one. Really: really! Couldn’t understand Mrs. Van Neck filling her house with such a lot. She’d never have done it in her husband’s days: damme, she wouldn’t. He would not be treated like this just because . . .
“Ha-Ha,” he gasped towards Mrs. Dyson Millar, “you said partners. Ha-Ha. I don’t mind telling you it’s a great pity this system is allowed at all. Ha-Ha—these new dances may have been suitable to begin with, but this dancing in couples only leads to . . . extravagant steps: decidedly indelicate, very much of it. ’Pon my word, they look like leashed hounds—Ha-Ha. I was talking to a French lady—a very old friend and quite the old school—and she said . . .”
“Les figures si tristes: les derrières si gaies,” called the Bo’sun.
“She said no such thing—Ha-Ha. And let me tell you this . . . ?”
Mrs. Dyson Millar beamed, like a personification of the League of Nations. “What did she say, the French woman? It’s so refreshing to get a new point of view.”
The Bo’sun stretched and, pocketing his hands deeply, turned to Grace O’Hara. “My jolly old aunt! Did you hear old Gussie doing the ‘Saul and Prophets’ stunt about dancing? My jolly aunt!” He kneaded a bread ball, and stuck it on two widely spaced matches for legs.
“Gussie dancing,” he said, rolling his creation. “The very breathing, isn’t it? Old Gussie with a leg at each corner. Old Gussie wouldn’t dance with a too obtrusive knee anyhow. That’s one way he can’t be objectionable in, poor old boy.”
“And if he can’t dance, he’s got too fine manners to interrupt some one twice his age—Captain Smith.”
“Methuselah’s dead. Can’t be done! Try again!”
“And don’t they teach manners in the Sassenach schools?”
“Your cat! I give it to you. Your bag for the complete day’s shooting. I bow defeated. Middle stump and first catch. Will you have a cigar or nuts? Your very own cat, shot it yourself. Take it home and have it stuffed. But old Gussie likes being ragged really, or I wouldn’t do it. But it’s your cat all the same.”
“It sounds the nicest possible way of understanding history. Do the children really like it?” Vera asked, keeping up a valiant cross-table conversation, her eyes on the defensive glacis of the curate’s collar, and her thoughts upstairs.
“Difficult, yer know,” said General Hawkins to Mrs. Van Neck, “most difficult . . . er . . . problem. The more compensation you pay the farmers the . . . wella . . . the more they ask for. Fine fellahs, every man Jack of them. But . . . one, er . . . yer see . . . er . . .”
“Quite!”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you just now,” the Bo’sun said, smiling across to Sir Augustus. “It just slipped out. It’s a way it has. You know it yourself.”
“Ha-Ha—don’t mention it, dear fellow. Ha—Not at all—Ha.”
“Will you go to Scotland this year?” asked Mrs. Dyson Millar of Lord Dashwood.
“Don’t know. Depends when I get my leave.”
“I simply love it, don’t you? We always stop with my cousins, the Sandlings. It’s such a lovely place.”
“A most exciting life: one must admit that, at any rate,” said the curate.
“One gets used to it, you know,” Grace O’Hara explained. “Then there’s still hockey, even if the hunting’s quite impossible. Men are the only difficulty.”
“You’ve done them all in—poor devils—I suppose,” said the Bo’sun.
“Shut up. You know what I told you just now.”
“But you aren’t twice my age. At least . . .”
“No one wants to hear your voice at all, except yourself.”
“I suppose the voice of a decent law-abiding Saxon makes you think all the poor devils you’ve sandbagged are coming back to haunt you. You deserve it. . . . I’m a ghost. Wheugh Heughhhh!”
“What is the matter, Bo’sun?” asked Mrs. Van Neck.
“Nothing. I’m only pretending to be the ghost of a murdered Saxon.”
“Quite!”
“Then there’s tennis,” Grace O’Hara went on. “Only as one can’t keep a motor . . .”
It was all over, thought General Hawkins. A couple of hours and . . . er . . . she’d be gone . . . he’d never see her again: never! . . . And she didn’t even want to see him before she went. Finished!—a footman taking away the plate he had forgotten, drew him into the present again.—Very decent of Mrs. Van Neck doin’ all this . . . er . . . tryin’ to make it . . . er . . . wella, easier for him. Nothing could make any difference: but decent of her to try. What beat him was how she could have known. He hadn’t said anything. Lindy wouldn’t have: naturally not. One might look a bit down. One couldn’t help that. No one living could . . . but how the . . . er . . . It wasn’t as if . . . er . . .
“Of course the mother held the baby too close to the bars,” the Bo’sun was saying.
Why should any one . . . er . . . hold a baby? And why was it too close? . . . Oh, yes, of course: what did it . . . er . . . matter: what did anythin’?—But he found himself listening.
“Just before feeding time, it was. The lions had got up no mean hunger-wave. They’d have eaten sago pudding. So a nice, juicy, Mellin’s Food baby was too much for them. So one of them slipped a claw out: hooked it into the cage: swallowed twice, and looked pleasant.”
Only a story . . . er . . . yes.—General Hawkins turned towards his hostess who was talking about apple culture to the curate—Burgundy wash was as easy to make as that, was it? Most . . . er . . . knowledgeable woman and . . . but . . . but . . . He’d never see Lindy again! Never! No good trying! No good! He gave up the struggle: the waters of his misery closed about him. Down below it was all still and calm, a soft twilight of the emotions. The voices about him had grown indistinct. Presently he heard them no more.
“Fond mother shrieked, threw a fit, and got carried out,” the Bo’sun went on. “I tell you she did.” (This to Grace O’Hara.) “I’m telling this story, not you. You don’t even know it.”
“And don’t want to.”
“Stop your ears then. You won’t understand it, anyhow. It isn’t for simple country maidens. Well!—Mother fainted and got carried out to the . . . No, you’re wrong: it wasn’t there they took her. And they didn’t loosen them, because she wasn’t wearing any. They took her to the bun place instead, and gave her brandy. The fond father went wild. They tried to soothe him: they sent for the big poot who runs the Zoo, and he took the father off to his place, and started filling him up with brandy too. The big poot was all out for getting the thing hushed up. It wouldn’t have done the lion any good socially, you see? and it was a very expensive kind of lion. It had taken half a dozen firsts: was in the stud book, and all that business. So he got talking about compensation. Father wouldn’t have any of it: raved and hooted.—The waste of it! That’s what got him wild, he said. So the head poot of the Zoo started trying to pacify him.—‘It’s very dreadful,’ he said, ‘but after all, your wife and you are quite young. There’s no reason why you and she shouldn’t . . . well, er . . . and if an adequate compensation . . .’ ‘—Compensation be damned!’ shouts the ex-papa, a figure of manly grief. ‘Do you think—do you really think that my wife and I are going to all that trouble and expense of another honeymoon, just to feed your blasted lions!’ ”
“Lions always look such nice tame creatures,” said Mrs. Dyson Millar.
Mrs. Van Neck lowered her eyebrows at the Bo’sun. Sir Augustus considered the curate.—A very passable youngster the Bo’sun was, he thought. The father’d been a corker, splendid johnny. But people oughtn’t to make jokes like that before curates. A lamentable lack of tact! Naturally, it would make them think of their religion, and remind them that they weren’t ordinary human beings. Most uncomfortable for them. Perhaps a carefully selected red herring.
“Ha. Who was it in the scriptures—Ha—who lived with a lion—Ha?”
“Oh, fie!”
“Ha— What?”
“A lioness, anyhow. Come now, make it a lioness.”
“That must have been Daniel.”
“Grace,” called Mrs. Van Neck, “Bo’sun’s making such a lot of noise: can’t you muzzle him?”
“What’s the matter with you? Captain Smith, I shall have to sit on your head again.”
“Murderess! Bog-trotter! Yeee-ow! Help! Help! She’s kicked me.”
“Where’s best place to get the punt varnished?” Mrs. Van Neck asked of the curate. “Not going to Hadlam’s again.”
General Hawkins heard a little of the reply. Vera, turning from him, caught sight of Lord Dashwood talking to the Bo’sun. What a weak face his was, good-looking . . . in a way . . . very good-looking: but lacking in any meaning, what had Lindy seen in him, what! What did dancing really matter in life! The Bo’sun was different. The Bo’sun had drive and life, but Lord Dashwood! There wasn’t enough of him: nothing of him: just a good forehead, and hair that grew nicely, and eyelashes that ought to have belonged to a woman. He was soigné and not exactly effeminate: but there was nothing of him beyond his dancing and those low confiding tones that always suggested that he was saying something very important to the only important person in the room. Things like that couldn’t satisfy any woman for long, least of all Lindy. Yet now . . . if he didn’t marry her . . . she’d be in a most difficult position . . . impossible for any one like her who would never be careful.—Vera watched him smile and turn towards Mrs. Dyson Millar. He’d got nice manners; too nice really. But . . . to think Lindy would have to marry him. The waste, the wicked waste. She wasn’t jealous. How could she be? If it had been some one more vital, any one almost,—she would have been.
Every one was on the lawn taking after-lunch coffee, every one except Lindy who was still upstairs, and General Hawkins who had stolen away as the party had risen from lunch.
Vera, who had chosen a place nearest to the house, was wondering when she could escape without obvious inferences being drawn. On her left the Bo’sun, the centre of the party, or more geometrically the tangent from which the circle depended, spread himself physically and metaphorically with elbows over the arms of his basket chair, and cup and saucer in outstretched hand, and a spoon in the other, he punctuated his story with slight and confidential gestures.—No one else could be quite so confidential to a crowd.—He lolled low, smiling at the party over his crossed knee: the angle of his toes suggested aptly a few minutes to three.
The cup skidded warningly about his saucer. That was the worst of having coffee handed round, thought Mrs. Van Neck, opposite to him and very upright. The shoulders of her speckled tailor-made were high: her elbows and weight wore on the arms of the chair: her wiry fingers, with wedding ring loose and alone, were interlaced: her knees were tightly together: her ankles crossed: her long heelless shoes were severely brushed like those of a man.
One of the cups from Otterspool, she reflected. Hoped he wouldn’t break it. Tea-time, pouring out gave one a chance to bale a drop or two under the cup. ’Noying if Bo’sun broke one of that set. Only eleven cups and fourteen saucers left. Better to give people Uncle Gregg’s Wedgwood after lunch. They weren’t real: Uncle Gregg had always been wrong about everything. Must speak to Coad about it. What a nice boy the Bo’sun was. His father had been just the same at his age. Poor old Andy. Poor old Andy’s moustache had been a bit fairer, softer and a subject for fingerin’ between the stories: but then it hadn’t been docked: more of the weeping willow variety, that was written of as “silken”: that, and cigars instead of cigarettes, and checks instead of flannels: more starch and less go about him. Poor Lady Killing Handy-Andy. Would the Bo’sun carry on the good work too? Would she watch a third generation of them?—She smiled grimly, that smile which reduced the curate to panic and which made General Hawkins consider her—“An . . . er . . . ’strordinary sensible . . . er . . . sort of woman.”
Between the Bo’sun and her, Lord Dashwood nursed a cup and considered the turf, or his shoes. It was possible he had heard his friend’s tale before. His hostess watched him for a minute or two.—Well turned out: well groomed: nice manners: quite! But what could young Lindy Hawkins see in him? Scarcely a word to say for himself. Might have something in him, of course: but anyhow it didn’t show. Danced well: handed round cups. For herself, give her some one with more spirit. Bo’sun Smith now—though perhaps he hadn’t the mettle ’Andsome Andy had. Men’s voices deeper then. Only fancy, perhaps. Had been young oneself. Quite!
On Mrs. Van Neck’s other hand the curate, heels apart and knees periodically touching, stirred his coffee. He took sugar of course, and a spare lump (possibly a temptation withstood) was melting gradually in his saucer. Mrs. Van Neck noticed it, and nodded to herself.—That was the way things did happen with him. Presently he’d wake up an old man, and find his life had just melted away, while he’d been thinking of something else. Rather a decent young fellow. Pity! And in this case, a waste of sugar. Quite!
On her left Mrs. Dyson Millar watched the Bo’sun. The knitting for once lay dormant on a lap that gave no hint of its construction. Sir Augustus was interested in spite of himself. Perhaps under the ever-crackling skin of his pomp there was left a boyishness in him, though additions had robbed him of all sprightliness. His plump legs, balanced over the edge of his chair, suggested that they might at any moment be waved to swing an expostulatory body upright.
Grace O’Hara, accidentally pretty under the softening shade of her hat, sipped and listened. England was impressing her, against her wishes. How rich every one was—(and seemed to take it for granted)—how wonderfully polished the silver was. Would they have some outlandish new stuff to clean it with, she wondered. Or would it be that perhaps that McLoughlan . . . But she reined back before such disloyalty.
A steamer with harp and harmonium throbbed, splashed, tinkled and giggled, drawing away the river, down towards its approaching screws. Aboard her, lovers laughed and bantered: not till nightfall would serious work begin. Every one on the lawn watched it.—Sir Augustus and Mrs. Dyson Millar with less kindliness than the rest. To Grace O’Hara, to her at any rate, it seemed reasonable and jolly.
The distraction enabled Vera to escape. In the hall General Hawkins was screwing Lindy’s racquet into the frame.—Nothin’ . . . er . . . spoilt a . . . er . . . racquet like leaving it about loose. She never could remember till she wanted it next time: then it had . . . er . . . warped . . . and he’d . . . he’d never be doin’ it again!—His chest felt heavy and bruised as he tightened the screws, in turns and a little at a time so that the pressure might be evenly distributed. He was holding the racquet and frame on edge to see if it was true, when he noticed Vera. She smiled quickly and instinctively.
General Hawkins loosened a nut a fraction of a turn. Queer sort of . . . er . . . gal, Vera, was his realisation: but this picture of her remained inexplicably with him. Vera was like . . . er . . . pictures one had seen, that one didn’t remember and yet . . . Queer . . . —His thoughts lost their direction, wavered and ebbed from this quality of the eternal in her—She was goin’ upstairs to Lindy. She was goin’ to see her. And he wasn’t to. . . . No good-bye: nothin’: just passing out of his life like . . . like . . . er . . . wakin’ up from some dream and findin’ an empty room. . . . And this was the end.
He watched Vera mounting the last steps, her shoulders so decided yet graceful, the thin neck, the firm and rather melancholy chin, the heavy looping of her darkly copper hair—now almost inky in the sepulchral light from the dim glass dome: its wall-flower tones were lost altogether. A pale ankle, that chilled any emotion that it raised, passed, too, beyond the corner of the classic railing, and she was gone.
She was goin’ up, goin’ up ter Lindy’s room. She was goin’ to see Lindy: and he wasn’t ter. . . .
He wheeled round, drove his hands deep into his trousers pockets and considered the frozen, arching foliage of the cornice.—Not ter see her! Why not? Pretty painful. . . . Yes, of course. God, yes. But . . . Wella, if he didn’t, how’d he find out what she wanted? Divorce, or separation, or what? One must give her a chance ter . . . er . . . mend her life best as she could.
He looked again at the racquet: it had lost its importance. Toys weren’t life: for a moment the realisation remained with him. He set down the racquet rather noisily upon the table. Echoes woke, and as they did so, he heard the door of Lindy’s room open and close. The echoes passed beyond earshot: and again the hall slept.
Outside on the lawn the party had rearranged its attention. Sir Augustus, while the tinkling of the excursion steamer was still within hearing, could not forget it: on his right Mrs. Dyson Millar, her thoughts on what might be happening indoors, smiled sociably over her needles.—One so seldom came across such things in real life oneself. One wasn’t there at the right moment. It was most interesting: most. After all, one couldn’t expect to hear what they were actually saying indoors: but one knew more or less, if one was sympathetic and intuitive. It would be a good set-off against the stories her cousin Muriel would be sure to have after that big-game trip. One would be able to hold one’s own very nicely this year at Dalghenny.—
Beyond her the curate, prejudice subdued, listened broad-mindedly.—Distinctly a new point of view! Yaise: distinctly a novel view. One wouldn’t have every one the same, would one? It took all sorts to make a world!
Sir Augustus wriggled his plump shoulders, elbowing his way through his thesis.—Ripe and seasoned experience still deserved respect everywhere. He begged to point out: “Much damage to the riparian owners’ interests should be considered. If lock charges were higher—Ha-Ha—that would tend to localise—this excursion steamer nuisance.”
The Bo’sun leant across towards Grace O’Hara. “Dare you to! I will if you do. You can have a towel too. Not a bath-sheet, though.”
Lord Dashwood, assailed by melancholy apprehensions, listened without interest, bit his lip and blinked. With the back of his hand he smoothed the sleek hair above his ear.—In point of fact he hadn’t meant to go so far: in point of fact he hadn’t meant anything. His infernal luck! What would his mother say? . . . Oh, damn! If it came to that . . . One didn’t know yet what had come out . . . or how. Properly in hot water, this time.—He lit another cigarette: and smoothed his hair again. . . . Damn! Damn!! Damn!!!
Between these two groups Mrs. Van Neck sat very upright, very still. Sometimes with one toe she beat a slow, scarcely perceptible time.—Awkward, so say the least of it! Who’d one have to have for next Ascot! Nothing but Gussies and Mrs. Dyson Millars! Would have to be as careful as that!
“Police’ll lock you up, if you do go into Maidenhead like that,” she threw in.
“But it’s perfectly proper. Sir Augustus lolls about like that at Paris Plage all August. Don’t you, Gussie? Own up!”
“What’s that?”
“A white bathing dress, with stripes round it. You know you do.”
“When in Rome . . .”
“Naturally! I didn’t say you did it at Brighton. Might meet your stockbroker with his little bit.”
Mrs. Van Neck refused Mrs. Dyson Millar’s glance, and looked towards the open, empty drawing-room.—Had always kept clear of any real scandal. Even if one’s guests played the fool, they hadn’t done it here: or if they had, it hadn’t come out. Didn’t matter for oneself so much. One’s own reputation. . . . One advantage of being a bit long in the tooth! . . . But it wasn’t fair on the house itself. . . . Of course Percy’d never take any real interest in it, when it went to him. Still it wasn’t fair to the old place. Had taken a deal of trouble to keep it up to form. Percy’s got a sound house: roof vetted only last autumn: garden walls pointed eighteen months back: glass bedded down and painted lately: that electric light plant . . . bit of a roarer. Had everything ready for Percy, in case . . . That was due to their side of the family. After all it was really theirs. Only a tenant for life herself. And had no business to let the place get talked about. Oughtn’t to have let people have their head so much. Not that one could do anything now! Could only sit and twiddle one’s thumbs, while poor General Hawkins and Lindy and Vera fought it out inside.
A double sculler, fluttering over the sunlit water, came into view and passed again behind the cedars: a punt with gay sunshades drifted down: a pair of elf-like wantons graced its afterdeck and dipped their careless paddles.
“Look: aren’t they pretty?” said Grace O’Hara.
“Super-gems from one of the super-Chori. Shure and you wouldn’t be afther seeing the loikes of them in the County Clare.”
“We would not.”
Lindy sat on the window-seat, a little breathless, waiting. Her hands, so often the indication of her mind, rested light and listless on either side of her, finger-tips spread upon the cushion.
Vera must have been gone a good ten minutes. Harry’d be there directly and she’d got to face him somehow. Oh! Oh! What good could it do, their meeting? It would be dreadful—dreadful. Yet it wasn’t any good putting things off for ever. If she ran along to Vera and said she simply couldn’t see him, . . . but, no, that wasn’t any good, and it wasn’t fair on him. She’d been a beast: she’d been unfair enough as it was, on poor Harry. And if he wanted a last interview . . . well, she couldn’t add that. She was going to face things. The art of life wasn’t merely avoiding the mauvais quart d’heure, as Lucy always did.
She crossed her knees and gripped her wrist: the pressure on it tightened until it hurt her. She hadn’t meant any harm, hadn’t: hadn’t really! And yet she couldn’t explain it to Harry . . . or to any one, unless they were like that themselves. Poor Harry wasn’t. He’d just stand and watch her with grey eyes so kind and fathomable, like shallow waters. One would feel more of a beast than ever. He’d just look at her and look, till she’d want to hide herself, to hide herself from his eyes, from the shame. Oh! Oh! The shame! Not of being wanton—she’d been born like that, but of having been a beast to Harry. Not a vestige of excuse, not the teeniest bit of one. And now in the drowsy afternoon with all the watchful beckoning spirits of the night gone, it seemed the impossiblest thing to have done, the impossiblest. Why had she? Why? . . . Oh! Oh! If Harry’d been horrid, or if . . . No. Only, of course, Oliver was a darling with that dark smile of his, that way of looking at one which one does not understand—not quite: but that was no excuse.
She strained to catch sounds from the hall, from the stairway, but heard nothing: only from the garden came the soft undertones of summer-time. What was she going to say? What on earth was she going to say?—(The future and eventual issue were far and out of reach, beyond her care. The present was her perplexity.)—What could she say? He’d just watch her. He wouldn’t even mean to reproach, but she would see his eyes, like something defenceless that she had harmed. And she wanted to tell him she was sorry. But how could she say it? One said one was sorry for the tiniest, trivialest things one did. There was something ridiculous in the word “sorry”! But she was, really, sincerely. Yet there weren’t the words—at least there were, but one couldn’t use them to Harry. Using them to him would sound . . . unnatural . . . theatrical. They didn’t belong to him, or his ways of thought: they’d be too apt, a little uneasy . . . even a little underbred. . . . Nice Harry. Such a dense, darling Harry. Oh . . . ! And she’d loved him. She did. Though who’d believe it now? She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. She’d only thought of herself then. It had all been this living-in-compartments and thinking-in-compartments. One couldn’t keep different sets of thoughts in different little tubes, and just squeeze out the one wanted. They’d mix inside one and . . . Lucy did it, but it wasn’t much good to him. The colours were bound to mix and then . . . : the funny unexpected chromes and the carmines and magentas. The things one did and the things one thought had got to fit . . . or nearly fit. She couldn’t be the nymph of her father’s fancy and the wife Harry’d pictured. Harry and Lucy. She hadn’t kept straight by Harry. No sophistry could make it otherwise. Harry and Lucy were different: their gods were different. The pretty fabulous ones Lucy talked of so much, and the one Harry believed in, and would never mention at all. She’d tried to be wife and dryad: and somehow dryad had come easiest. In reality she’d tried to be whichever she’d wanted at the moment. And it had led to this! Oh! She’d wanted to be a good wife: she had really: often. She’d been so fond of dear silly Harry. She loved him . . . as much as she could love any one. It wasn’t her fault if she couldn’t love more. One didn’t make oneself.
If people could only see it, the thing itself—though it was dreadful—wasn’t so bad: it mightn’t have hurt any one. It was the hurting some one else that was wrong. . . . But Harry knew, so she’d done both. It was . . . yes . . . irrevocable: irrevocable!
Irrevocable?—She opened her eyes very wide, conscious all at once, and perhaps for the first time, of her futility before facts. Irrevocable? Could it be? Oh, the tyranny of cause and effect. (Wasn’t that Lucy’s phrase?)—Then her youth and wilfulness struggled on a little longer against this pitiless wall of reality. No! No! She’d scarcely started life yet. She hadn’t known: really she hadn’t. Surely one must be allowed another chance, one teeny chance—, starting fair. She’d never meant to go so far. She was different from anything she’d ever dreamt it possible for herself to be. She hadn’t guessed it would lead to that. Never that!
It had been such a nice hot bath and she had done her exercises so virtuously, and she had been coming back—all soft and relaxed and doozey. It had been that comfortable warmth, and the touch of her clean things dangling against her—touch—touch and then nothing, as she came along the passage: . . . and the kittening cling of marabout against her neck. It had been mere fate that had made Oliver be opening his door just as she passed. It had been all dark and still, as if the world was dead, and as if she and Oliver had been the only ones left. And she’d felt the sudden need of being petted. She hadn’t even thought. . . . No, she hadn’t: never: . . . not at first at any rate. It had been so nice being kissed behind that half-closed door: a little wicked, of course: but so, all the more exciting for that. She hadn’t meant anything else.
Before her eyes the door swung open with all the unnatural, simplified clearness of a slowed-down film. She saw the panels glint through a shaft of busy sunlight.
She sat there, her breath coming quickly, her heart all of a sudden tremulous. She’d nothing ready: nothing. And there was Harry, his head thrown back, his chin high, his kind, weathered lips tightly opened, his teeth set, and in his grey eyes the uncanny remoteness of a sleep-walker. He had closed the door behind him with the carefulness for detail which in times of crisis comes to some, and had turned again . . . and, oh . . . she had nothing ready!
Harry, jerky and angular, swung over to the fireplace and stood attentive, rigid, a lean shoulder against the wall. Instinctively he had gone no closer to Lindy.—That would have looked like a . . . er . . . or a . . . No! He could never be close to her again. And she’d been the only woman he’d loved. . . . Woman? . . . Girl. . . . Child almost. . . . Even now she didn’t look much more. She didn’t . . . And yet to think that she’d . . . God!—That side of existence was gone: had slid out of life as a sinking ship slides down and leaves an empty sea. That side of life was gone. Just one woman! He’d hoped . . . he’d thought . . . but . . . not bein’ clever at understandin’ things the way they did . . . He couldn’t have hoped to have held her, lovely, young. Luck! But, by God, he’d tried.
No! He’d lost her: That . . . that . . . er . . . knowledge was between them. No one would think, watchin’ her . . . no one! Just simply fate! And now it was over. No more times together: no more listenin’ to the slam of the front door, and to Lindy trippin’ to the stairs, her footfalls soft on the . . . er . . . plum-coloured carpet . . . that carpet they’d both chosen . . . : and Lindy singin’ as she came up to the landing: her happy little song growin’ clearer and clearer and her laugh— Involuntarily he caught his breath: his lips and his thin cheeks were controlled, but his throat trembled—Never! He’d been lucky to have had it at all: and now it was finished, over and done with, never to return.
Lindy, watching him and waiting, felt herself suddenly very young. If only he’d speak—curse her—anything. Her self-assurance had melted before this test. She’d never seen Harry suffering before. She’d thought of him as being too . . . Oh, too grown-up, too disciplined. Harry suffering like that! Oh! Oh! Oh, poor Harry! . . . She had known that Lucy was human, too human, and felt things like she did: but Harry! If only he’d say something, upbraid her—anything. She’d never seen him like that before, looking past her, through her . . . at nothing: with emptiness before him, his lips twisted, his jaw set, and his thin hand opening and closing on his chin. The knee that was not bearing his weight trembled. And seeing this brought home to Lindy his weakness—Harry. Her poor dear Harry! She couldn’t have believed it. Oh! Oh! She wanted to run to him, to kitten against him, to console him. But she couldn’t—not now: she hadn’t the right: she’d forfeited it.
Harry shifted his balance, and drew a deep breath with which to begin. Outside the afternoon glowed: the sun-blinds slept, limp and rosy.
“Lindy . . . I . . . fact is, I know. I know it all . . . and . . .”
Her eyes, blue and tender as the farthest heavens, and her face, a little upturned to his words, came as if from nowhere into the emptiness before the molten carmine of the window-blind. And as the vision of her hardening had drawn his attention, so too it drew his thoughts from their course, and broke the train of them. He stopped and gazed at her, . . . his Lindy:
“Lindy, I want . . . er . . . ter know what you want done. I don’t want you to think . . . I blame you, no: I . . . er . . . well, I don’t. . . . It’s my luck, and that. I thought . . . I had thought that . . . er . . . I’d be able . . . I tried my best . . . I er . . . did: by God, I did. You did make me ’stonishingly happy. Nothin’ like it before. Nothin’. And I thought . . . I . . . er . . . thought it could . . . last.”
He looked suddenly from her, and bit a corner of his lip. Lindy watched, saw his mouth twist queerly, his thin cheek harden.
“Harry, I’m sorry I hurt you. Perhaps you won’t believe, but I’m so, so sorry.”
“I don’t . . . er . . . blame any one. I swear I don’t blame yer, Lindy. Just luck! No use grumblin’. I might have known it wasn’t . . . er . . . likely: not with me. See it now, clear as . . . clear as daylight. But lovin’ you and that, I thought . . . At first, of course, when I knew . . . any one would have been knocked pretty hard by it. And it happenin’ like it did. . . . Yer see I’d not had even any . . . er . . . well, I hadn’t even thought of it. And that made it seem . . . I hadn’t even dreamt of it. But later, when I thought it out, and I saw any one might have done it that way: not comin’ and tellin’ me straight out, I mean. It was that part that was the worst for me . . . at first. Afterwards . . . I saw how you must have felt about it. Dev’lish nasty thing to have had to come and say to one: dev’lish.”
He narrowed his eyes, and remained for a moment deep in thought.
“Daresay no one would have done it: come and said it straight out, I mean. . . . But . . . Lindy . . . I . . . er . . . Lindy: I wish ter God it had never come ter this: Yer see . . . Lindy, I hadn’t even . . . No, I hadn’t even cared for anyone else. But it isn’t any good goin’ over it now. Just luck! Just one’s luck.”
From the lawn came voices.
“I’ll jump it if you do first.”
“Good!” | |
{ | “Well done!” |
“Wundershön! Bravo! Bully! Merveilleux!” |
“There!”
“Do it again. You’d funk it a second time.”
“I would not.”
“Oh, come on, both of you. Fifteen-thirty.”
Lindy heard nothing— What could she do? She couldn’t go to him, and look up at him: She hadn’t ever thought things like this could happen to her. She had thought that scenes like this would be different from the rest of life: that their tones would be deeper: that the mere intensity of feeling would lend a fluency. And yet things were just the same as ever. And there was Harry, with his bony shoulder against the chimney-shelf, his one hand hidden in his pocket, the other, dark and sunburnt, hanging loose from the narrow white cuff, his chin set, his lips open and a little puzzled, his eyes screwed up in thought, that slight nod that came unexpectedly in a pause, and that showed some problem solved within his brain. She’d seen him like that a thousand times. There was nothing to show this was different from the ordinary routine of their lives.
“Thirty all!”
General Hawkins stirred, drew his hand from his pocket, and placed it high upon his hip. The outline of his elbow was sharp: but the dark grey flannel of his jacket softened the angularity of the pose. He moistened his lips and began.
“It isn’t any manner of good goin’ over it all. Painful! . . . And . . . er . . . No good now! But lots of things have got to be settled and that’s why I came to yer at all about it. Got ter make up our minds now, Lindy, yer know. What do yer want ter do now?”
The answer that rose in her made her catch miserably at a laugh, and changed it almost to a sob. What did she want to do? Ha!
She bit her lip. She wasn’t going to cry, anyhow.
“Eh?”
“Nothing, Harry: nothing. . . . I don’t know what I want now. You see . . . I . . . Nothing, oh, nothing!”
“Er-oh-er-yes.” (One must give her time! She’d not have anythin’ ready, not planned out and ready.) “Yes! . . . well . . . er . . . Where are you goin’?”
“To Vera’s.”
“Not home? Not to No. 5, I mean. Surely your own father . . . But it’s not my business.”
“To Lucy! Oh, Harry! Lucy’s a darling: and I adore him, but not just now. He isn’t any use. He’d be as helpless as a child now. He’d only go over and over, thinking about how it affected him: and then apologising for not thinking of me: You know! You know he would. And I want to be with some one . . . Oh! different altogether. Vera’ll understand. I don’t mean she thinks I’ve been anything but a beast: but she won’t go on crying over spilt milk, like Lucy would. I don’t mean it beastily about him: but he’s like that. You do see that, Harry?”
“You’ll go straight to her place?”
“Yes. My packing’s nearly done. For to-night anyhow we’ll be there. Then perhaps we’ll go away: abroad perhaps: I don’t know. Harry, I don’t, don’t, don’t want you to think I’m not sorry for how I’ve hurt you. You will believe that, Harry dearest, won’t you?”
“Believe yer? Er . . . yes . . . I . . . er . . . do believe yer. I’m sure yer didn’t mean, didn’t mean ter hurt me. Just luck, Lindy! I ought ter have known, but then it might have turned out right. Just luck! Luck!”
General Hawkins watched the sun-blinds lift and sink with a languid air. The almost rhythmic patter from the tennis court mixed with the droning of summer-time.—Every one happy! The world goin’ on just the same!
Lindy saw him wince from a thought. Poor Harry! What a beast, what a hateful little beast she’d been. Oh! She watched his lips close as his thoughts returned to some practical matter.
“You’ll want ter . . . you’ll want me ter arrange for yer bein’ free: er . . . divorce. And then you’ll be able to marry him.”
“I’m a little beast, Harry: that’s all! It isn’t any good you trying to understand me. You’re decent and good. Yes, you are, Harry! You ought never to have married me. I’m no good. I didn’t know it then, of course. I was very young, and it all seemed delicious. And I did love you, Harry: I did: or anyhow as much as I can love. It isn’t my fault, that. I’m light. I’m just nothing. I’m no good. But you were a darling to me, Harry, and considerate, and I was so happy. And that makes it worse, doesn’t it? And you were such a dear to me, Harry. I do thank you . . . now . . . now . . . that it is over. I realised at the time I was happy. I did have that saving grace: knowing when I was happy, I mean. You were perfect to me, Harry. I’ve been a devil to you: but all the same, I’m going to thank you.”
For a moment he looked towards her.
“Happy . . . er . . . yes. Me too. I was happy too.”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t love you, Harry, I did . . . at least as much as I’m capable of. I don’t know how much other people can love, but I’m sure I couldn’t love any one more.”
“It took me ter have . . . er . . . watched over things: it took me ter. You bein’ so much younger, and no mother, and . . . But no good goin’ over it now! Lindy . . .”
“Harry, don’t.”
“Goin’ to Vera. I’ll get anythin’ yer want sent there: or . . . go to the house yerself, if yer prefer. . . . I shan’t be there, not at all, not for more than an hour. I’ll be at my club: I shouldn’t care ter . . . er . . . Yer go to the house whenever yer like. Get Vera to come and stay with yer, if yer like. No reason why not, not really. Not till autumn. I’ll be sellin’ the house by then, I expect. Thought it all out this mornin’. You take the things you care for. Mine’ll go back ter store. The rest had better be sold. No good keepin’ things one’ll never use. I shan’t have a home again. Things in your room all yours. Furniture and carpets and the Venetian bed you . . .” He changed his breath quickly—“Anythin’ out of the drawin’-room except Aunt Agatha’s cabinet. The dinin’-room was Uncle Tom’s. I’ll keep that. Everythin’ else had better be sold. Best, isn’t it?”
Lindy let her hands fall slowly to her lap. Everything to be sold! Sold! Even if she hadn’t realised the magnitude of the break-up before—! What a waste: everything to be scattered. And it had been such a task—such fun really—getting it all together: poking about for it all. The Chinese mats that went with the nattier blue: the two pedestals that flanked the drawing-room doorway: the Coromandel screen. It had all been such fun, and now it was all to be scattered. Her home, and Harry’s!
“I’ll . . . er . . . be at my club for a bit, anyhow. If there’s anythin’ you want . . . But it ’ud be easier for you to get your father to let me know. You’d better write it down, too. Write it down, or Lucy may . . . er . . . yes, he’d be sure to . . . Yer’ll be all right for money. Yer settlement and yer allowance and that . . . er . . . stands, of course. No! No! I . . . of course it does, and if yer want anythin’ . . . But I’ll talk to old Franklins about that. I’ll go and see him, and get things put straight. Yes, I’ll explain and er . . . about . . . er divorce and that: You’re going to Vera’s: and I’ve explained about your things and money, and I’m ter see old Franklins and I think that’s . . .” He paused, reining back from the sudden view of finality.
The sounds of play and leisure, borne from below on the idle air came to him. There was nothing to wait for, no cue of sombre music, no muffled rolling of a drum. This was the end.
“That’s all!”
That was all! Finis! It had begun—years back, really: when she’d been a child—cross-legged on the back of Lucy’s chair: the same blue eyes, the same . . . and this was the end! He’d say “Good-bye,” and he’d go! was going. No last good-bye. No! . . . Not even a handshake. Nothing!
He turned towards the door.
Alone in the yellow room of No. 5, Lucius Thornhill stood with his back to the high painted chimney-piece, waiting: and as he waited he faced, where it hung upon the wall opposite him, his favourite Wouwerman, a hunting scene.
A lasting joy! A source of permanent pleasure! Yes. . . . Seen from here, especially so. A meet for hawking. Such painting! Such gallant, gentlemanly stuff: no rude daring then of style or subject: what delicate richness: discreet, yet warm and joyful. Just what a hunting scene should be. What a sense of the occasion they had then: what sumptuousness: what gaiety! The fruit, the goblets, the flagons and the pie: the guitar with the ribbons, the trumpet and the drum. Compare it with whatever corresponded with it to-day: tweeds, tumblers and tin-openers . . . on some draughty uncouth mountain: sandwiches! They understood the art of living then, that lost art, that greatest . . . ? Perhaps!
A hunting scene: the chase: the chase before mere slaughter and efficiency thereto had elbowed themselves into such indecent and unchivalrous importance. What atmosphere! The gallant splendours of the gentlemen, the lace, the brocades, the tassels and feathers. The charming suitability of the ladies. Suitable! Just the word! Gracious, adaptable and accommodating—they were still that, thank God! Suitable! Then, women’s rôle had been to suit. The very notion was fossil now, lost, out-classed, discarded: or had been forgotten in some grenier. For antiquaries to expertise upon: gone for ever! Dust to dust—that comforting phrase for the bereft—gone with the scarlet sash of the tall fair youth: gone with the banner, and the hawk and the jolly prancing Flemish horses: gone with that plinth of warm, carved brickwork, and its crowning flower baskets of stone—set there on the hillside to tame the wildness of a park. Perhaps that remained there still: that, and the gay sunlight of those distances: and the brave confidence of the sky: and the repose of the shadow. Shadow! All shadows, now! And living all alone one often . . .
Big Ben, striking the hour, called him back from his fancy. He counted idly.
“Eight!” He’d known it would strike eight. One usually knew, but one counted. That very human weakness for proving one was right. Eight! Harry late, actually late. Poor old Harry, as bad as that, was it? Curious how he’d always come to No. 5 in times of crisis, always. He’d dined there that night before he went to South Africa. It seemed ages ago now: like the Wars of the Roses: as long ago and as purposeless. Yet it had been the same Harry . . . younger, yet the same: the boyish chin, the lean neck, the eager grey eyes, the lank slow smile. So full of schoolboy valour, of martial ardour, and of the certainties of youth. There’d been Harry and himself and Katharine that night, that night before Harry’d sailed for Africa. And they’d drunk that silent toast.
And in ’14 Harry’d dined there, his last night. He and Harry alone then. And Harry, grim with the knowledge of what lay ahead: steady, dependable but grim: no smile then! Lindy had crept down from upstairs in her dressing-gown, and had stolen in with the coffee. And Harry’d been going through the weight question all over again—“One pair of . . . er boots . . . er, five pounds seven ounces. Shirt, one pound one ounce. Two pairs socks . . .” Those boots! Those boots had been the trouble. They wouldn’t get lighter. One had to have ’em. And so on and so on, not knowing Lindy was standing there in the doorway behind him, watching: and seeing a knight-errant going out to slay dragons in Boche helmets, her blue eyes full of wonder, and her hair loose upon her shoulders, very willing to be chained to a suitably upholstered rock, while Harry sallied forth, a Perseus of the present. Lindy . . . still a child, but with the woman in her looking for a hero: And Harry . . . looking for how to save some ounces of kit. Always thus! Perhaps the Lacedæmonian at Thermopylæ had grudged the weight of their immortal combs.
And Harry was coming back again! Back to what was always his home. He did flatter himself, that deep down below Harry’s consciousness No. 5 was his home. And there he was!
The door swung open and General Hawkins strode past Hamley without looking to right or left, and crossed the room to the “winter” chair.
“I’m . . . er . . . late, Lucy. I’m . . . er . . . sorry.”
For a moment he stood, as if trying to remember something of importance, and then unexpectedly sat down. Looking down at him, Lucius laid a hand on his shoulder. For a while there was silence! Then Harry nodded.
Dinner was announced. They drifted in, Lucius slipping his arm through Harry’s. They passed the dapple of Japanese prints.
In the dining-room it was already dusk. The dark walnut-painted panelling threw back no light. Outside the open windows the fig tree stretched its screen of calm leaves: behind them, and within, all was dark and mysterious: above, the sky paled to lemon. For a moment the two men stood—as if by some consent—with linked arms, watching those remote distances. Then Hamley closed the door behind them, and they took their chairs.
“Sherry, sir?”
Lucius saw Harry’s hand shake as he lifted his glass. He looked pretty bleak to-night, pretty bleak. The trout had too much lemon over it!
Candles were lit and the curtains drawn. Hamley’d brought in the guinea-fowl. They ate it in the silence of friendship.
Turning his head, Lucius saw the room reflected mistily in the Murano mirror. How superior was candlelight to any other, how kindly, how well distributed: unessentials left dim. Just the four patches of luminous colour: a glitter on silver, and on the patina of the table, on the bowl of a wine-glass which caught a rainbow from nowhere: their two faces not too distinct, but silhouetted into proper dignity against the hint of dark walls.
“Brandy with your ice, Harry?”
Did Hamley guess? It didn’t matter. Probably he had got affairs of his own to think of!—Lucius emptied his glass of port in a gulp, and refilled it to the pretty. Harry let his glass be refilled. The decanter glistened as it was swung in its orbit around the candles.
Nothin’ really ter live for! Yet . . . yet . . . No! One couldn’t give in.—He tilted his chin, craned his neck through his tight collar, and set his lip.
The two men sat very still, alone with their thoughts. About them the silence had crept out of nowhere, and had grown almost perceptible. The drone of the city had ceased. The candles glowed soft and even: above them in the drowsy gloaming a carved frame emphasised a central panel: and General Hawkins saw within it the half-cynical glance of some long-dead Thornhill, meeting his own.
Lucius shifted in his chair, and helped himself to wine. But instead of raising his glass, he turned it slowly between his fingers.—Gift of the gods, undoubtedly: and yet to-night . . . Could one ever decently drown a sense of failure like some blind-eyed kitten? Even if one could, wouldn’t it steal back to haunt one? Wouldn’t it be there to watch with one the warming shadows of the dawn? He’d failed, failed at everything. He’d failed with Katharine, even. In the end she’d seen through him: in the end she’d known him. She’d never said anything, but something had gone out of her eyes. And he . . . as usual, he’d done the easiest thing, he’d looked into other people’s. Afterwards, Katharine had passed, slowly. He’d watched it all in merciless, critical impotence. She’d said her few lines, such a pathetically small part: she’d made her little gesture: (what a brute one was!) she’d waited a space, and then she’d gone. And he . . . he’d watched! He’d failed by Katharine, and now he would fail by Lindy. . . .
“Harry!”
General Hawkins turned a little on his elbows, and faced him.—How little Harry’d changed in all those years: the thin, kindly lips: the moustache, scarcely more pronounced than the day when he’d first put on his frogged blue coat, and slipped the crimson sash over his shoulder, and buckled the white sword-belt. One had whistled Patience at him—“And I said when I looked in the glass.” Patience! Good Lord! They’d dined at Jimmie’s that night. Jimmie’s had vanished ages ago: and yet . . . yet Harry’d scarcely changed: his cheek a little leaner, his skin no longer downy, a grey streak or two above the ears: and to-night there was . . . No! No! That look in his eyes would pass: it wouldn’t stay as it had in Katharine’s. No, Harry still believed in him, Harry didn’t see through people: bless him! If only one could be like Harry.
“I talked to Lindy on the telephone.” Lucius took a slow sip of wine.
“Yer talked to her on the . . . er . . . telephone . . .”
“She told me about this afternoon.”
Big Ben boomed out. Harry lit a cigar and watched its grey smoke drift upwards.
Lucius waited. That frown, that blink, meant that Harry was considering something.
“And, Lucy, about . . . er . . . about money. Lindy’s got what you give her, and I’ll continue her allowance. Naturally . . . any one would. No, of course, I shall. I’ll get it tied up on her for the time. Of course when she gets married, she mayn’t want . . . probably she’d sooner not. Young Dashwood . . . Fancy he’s decently off.”
Lucius drew at his cigarette till it crackled. When she married! When she married!! And young Dashwood! Why on earth should she marry young Dashwood? Of course, to Harry it would seem obvious. But, seriously, would she? She’d be pretty certain to marry some one. Her looks, her laugh, that sudden infectious little laugh of hers with the childish catch still in it, her eyes of that happy blue. She’d marry! . . . And he’d have a new son-in-law. A son-in-law . . . some young jackanapes who’d treat him as an old man, who’d very likely try to humour him! Humour him!! That was the way they had now. They weren’t impressed by age any more. Quite right, too! Quite right, too!! There wasn’t anything particularly creditable in pausing on a landing—and he’d caught himself doing that the other evening, when he’d been to call on Dulcie. All the same, one didn’t want to be humoured by some young jackanapes who’d drop in at some unsocial hour, and expect port and cake: who wouldn’t even respect the port’s age, either. Perhaps he’d be like that last young man of Lindy’s—or was it the last one but one?—who always sat with his knees above his chin, and wore horn-rims, and smoked his cigarettes as if he were conducting an orchestra.
He’d have a new son-in-law, would he? That would be the next development, or the next but one. One had never thought of Harry as being that. Why should one have?
“Best if I . . . er . . . went out of London,” Harry was saying. “And if she went to the house for a bit to collect her things and all that.”
“Where would you go, Harry?”—It did not matter, but it would be interesting to know how Harry’s type would seek solace. Would it be golf, or big game? Would they take it out of a ball or beast? Really one hadn’t an idea which.
“Where’ll I go? Where? Weller . . . I was wonderin’ if you’d come along, Lucy. No plans, yer know . . . just . . . er . . . anywhere. You know where it’s best ter go and that sort of thing. I’d be dev’lish glad if . . . Lucy, it’s a break. By God, it’s a break in one’s life. One doesn’t know how to catch hold of things again. One’ll grow used ter it, bound ter. . . . But at first . . . I’d be uncommonly grateful if yer’d come.”
Lucius twisted a bunch of twin cherries.—Of course, he’d go with Harry. That was the least he could do. He’d go wherever Harry liked: somewhere to distract his thoughts. Nothing could be better for him than a change of scene: some quiet little place, preferably abroad: fresh surroundings, the influence of the external, fresh landscape, a different life, an unfamiliar cuisine: they all helped. Delightful in this weather! There was no reason why they should stay in one place. The more they travelled, the better for Harry. They could take the car: Harry could drive it. It would keep him from his thoughts. No need to take Hamley. Just they two. But where?—North Italy, now . . . charming at this season: a little hot, but that would mean they’d have it more to themselves. The subtle, healing quality of the sun, mellowing one’s conceptions, drying up the poisoned memories, till the very scar would be but a dim white line, hint of some romantic sorrow. Italy! What were two human griefs amidst those gracious eternities, those sacred hills, beneath the three centuries of some dark ilex, beside some long-loved Tuscan stream? What place could make one forget oneself so easily? Those valleys so full of ancient elegance. A delightful idea. There’d be no need to go far in a day: just dawdle along: pause in the heat of mid-day to rest at an inn: a meal beneath the vines, festooned above, across the columns, all patterned with sunlight, and dark-eyed children watching and wondering The mere joy of living such a life! The colour, the glare on pink-washed houses, the simple campaniles of those village churches, the cypress and the pine, the effortless Italian arches, the fountains in the centre of each little town, honoured relics of great days, the air resonant with little bells, the gay clouds, like playful shell-bursts, the stark magnificence of the sky!
How it all came back to him! That first view of it all. The maps were still in the Yellow Room: they were in the Spanish chest—or should be. Harry and he would take that itinerary he’d followed the second time, the time he’d gone with Katharine. She’d been Lindy’s age then. He could see her now, in the grey and lilac dust-cloak. How pretty it had seemed then. Katharine! Katharine in those first days! He’d never forget that night by the river, nor that afternoon they’d left the carriage, and climbed to reach the shrine: and afterwards Katharine racing down the terraced slopes, and he chasing after her. Had she let him catch her on purpose? Odd, how the details were fixed for all time. He could see her again, the colour of her cheek against the tender horizon, her breath warm and secret against his ear. . . . Then Lindy’d come: and next year he’d gone alone. And . . . . Ah, yes! . . . And Katharine had faded and passed on, and he’d written that little thing . . . perhaps the only thing he’d done which mattered. . . . It would be a delightful holiday, and Harry could . . . well, Harry could . . . What was there for Harry to do? No golf: probably no fishing: no . . .
Lucius ceased suddenly the unconscious marshalling of his cherry-stones. “Where shall we go, Harry?”
“Where shall we go? Where . . . Weller . . . I . . . er . . . was thinkin’ that perhaps we might . . . But it don’t matter! Anywhere! But if I can count on yer ter come, Lucy, I’ll be . . . er . . .”
“Of course, Harry. I promise you I’ll come. Let’s see! We can probably get away in two or three weeks’ time. We can arrange where we’ll go, and the details. I’ll take my car. There’s more room in the back for baggage. No letters! That’ll be part of the cure. No letters at all! Do you know, Harry, this growth of correspondence is one of the greatest curses of our age. There is something to be said for the telegram: it enables one to be curt without rudeness: it enables one to consider a matter with decent deliberation, and yet to reply in time. But cheap postage! Take obvious advantages. Would one’s tailor send in his bill so often, if it cost him any reasonable sum? Would unremembered acquaintances cadge for their pet charities?”
General Hawkins, head on one side, nodded at the candles.—No letters? No letters at all? Not to hear from any one? There was a good deal in that. Not a doubt of it. One wanted ter forget.
“Like old times, Lucy: you and I . . . er . . . goin’ off together.”
“The trip to Norway was the last, wasn’t it? Do you remember when you broke that rod, Harry? And the German schoolmarm? What year was that? Lindy was quite small then. It must be ten or twelve years ago, or more—probably more—it usually is nowadays! I wonder what she’ll do this summer? Hah? Harry! Have you ever thought what Lindy’ll do next?”
Had he ever thought of it! Had he! Of course he had: naturally. Naturally he would. What did Lucy expect? He turned towards his friend.
“She’ll . . . she’ll . . . When she’s free she’ll marry. We haven’t fixed up how she wants it done yet. That’ll have to be seen to before we go.” General Hawkins talked on. Lucius listened: presently he answered:
“Lindy’ll be on her own now: and being on her own will be a new factor. Before, she’s always had some one, me, and then you, some definite anchorage. Of course, she’ll be with Vera, and Vera’s dependable. Yet now . . . ! There’s nothing, nothing in the world—mark you—excepting her own inclination to prevent her packing her trunks and going off to-night to God knows where: and with God knows who. Have you ever thought of that, Harry? No? But it’s true. How do we know what she’ll do? She’s got Katharine’s courage, but she hasn’t got Katharine’s balance: she’s got twice the brain and four times the imagination. It’s all dangerous. Supposing in a week’s time she’s gone and made some unspeakable, irretrievable blunder: supposing—at, say, Deauville—she’s picked up, and gone off with—or worse, supposing she’s married some infernal Cosmopolite, some hotel haunter, some . . . lounge lizard . . . Think of Lindy, tied for life to some cheap fiddler, or some Argentine Tango expert—one of those pervert monkeys, powdered. . . . Think of it, Harry! What will we feel like then?”
“But she’s got Dashwood!”
Lucius continued, unheeding the interruption.
“What does it matter whether she marries them or not? My dear Harry, she will get so entangled that you’d be faced with the congenial problem of whether it was best to divorce her and let a Montmartre Egyptian make an honest woman of her, or not divorce her and so prevent that particular scoundrel permanently living on her. A cheerful outlook, but it might happen. Women are notoriously bad judges of a man, till they get to an age when it doesn’t help them. How can we tell what she’ll do in a month’s time, when we’re enjoying a trout and chianti at Pisa or Urbino. She may . . .”
“That’s . . . er . . . in Italy, isn’t it?”
“Or when we’re in Berlin or Baghdad for that matter. What could we do to stop Lindy making an ass of herself? How shall we be able to avoid thinking of her? The thought will recur like a leitmotif all through—‘What’s Lindy doing? What’s Lindy doing?’—till really it would have been better to have had letters and known for certain. How shall we be able to have an easy or a pleasant minute?”
“But she’s . . . er . . . goin’ to marry young Dashwood.”
“How do we know? She can’t marry any one till she’s free, as you were saying. How do we know she’ll want to then?”
Harry stiffened and frowned.
Would any decent woman have done it if she hadn’t loved the young man? . . . Lindy loved him: loved young Dashwood: and . . . Oh, God!—Harry’s eyes closed. In the darkness he could hear his own breathing.—Lindy! He’d never loved anyone else. Oh, God!
Lucius refilled their brandy glasses and lifted his.
“If she were more stable, my dear Harry, or if she weren’t attractive to men. . . . Isn’t it a strange thing that it’s the Lindys of this world whom men love? Have you thought of it? They’re not good wives: probably they’re not good mothers: yet she’s the type that from the beginning of time has been able to go its own way. You make laws, you devise Utopias, evolve a religion: but you’ll be impotent to alter or control the Lindys. Despite sense or reason, they are the women whom men desire. It’s the type that reproduces itself. It persists or recurs, according to one’s views on heredity. Other types are transitory. They are the taste of a generation or a year. Why has monasticism died out? Because it was ascetic and remained sterile. Nuns didn’t breed, wantons did. Perhaps, with all this birth-control business, the process will reverse itself. There they are, . . . the Lindys! There’s something in their eyes, something half guessed in their smile, or curve of their neck, a . . . We can’t escape from this eternal tyranny of sex. If we’re not fools we bow . . . and try to enjoy it. Lindy’s lips were the apple of Eden. If she were some one else’s daughter, and I met her, even at my age . . .”
Lucius leant back, his shoulders pressed against the top rail of his chair. He stretched his thin arms in conscious luxury. Did love bring happiness? What did? One sought after it, and it escaped one. A favourite theme to be tedious upon! Some said that one found it in work, or in living for others. What a trite blasphemy! What was really found in such things was forgetfulness. If that was all happiness meant—if it were only a negative state—one found it best in dreamless sleep . . . or in . . .
He turned quickly to his question again. Did love make for happiness? Harry’d loved Lindy: it hadn’t made him happy. He still loved her. Curious! There was nothing to be said for one’s own character, yet one could have forgiven her in Harry’s place.
They sat on in silence. Lucius watched Harry for a moment.—What was the use of worrying? The past was unalterable. Nothing a man did or thought could restore the purity of his daughter or his wife. To forgive was really the pleasantest course. “Until seventy times seven,” He had said. Unanswerable the wisdom of that philosophy: so wisely planned, its application appeared universal. Even the most selfless idealist, the wisest hedonist, the merest seeker after happiness—all agreed for their so different reasons—with the line of conduct it laid down. For oneself—peace of mind, one’s preference for forgetting the unpleasant, and in the end realisation of the futility of any other course. Everything pointed to forgiveness as the way to serve one’s own happiness.
Time passed. Presently Harry stretched in his chair.
“It’s past eleven, Lucy. I’d better be gettin’ along. I’ve got a lot to see to to-morrow: got to.”
“Harry, why aren’t you able to forgive Lindy? I can’t understand why you can’t.”
Harry’s lip stiffened. Surely Lucy wasn’t goin’ to reopen . . . er . . . Not after he’d promised not ter.
“Really, Lucy, yer . . .”
“Oh, I’m not trying to persuade you. Don’t be frightened of that. I realise that you’ve tried, Harry, and that you can’t bring yourself to do it. I was only wondering why it was you couldn’t. To me, you see, it would be easy. Perhaps I haven’t enough strength of purpose to persevere for long in anything, not even in indignation. So your point of view interested me: that was all! I hadn’t any ulterior motive. Tell me, Harry, what prevents you being able to?”
Harry turned towards him a little. “I’m not sure that I know why myself, Lucy. It isn’t a thing one . . . er . . . works out. It’s like . . . weller . . . like when one’s hungry. One doesn’t know why: one is, and one knows it. It was not telling me that cut. It isn’t that I can’t forgive her, Lucy. It sounds so damned patronising, but I suppose I do forgive her, really, anyway, I don’t blame her.” Harry stopped, and for a while they sat in silence, under the domination of the disaster.
“Poor old Harry,” Lucius said. It was curious that Harry, who was so little subtle, should be able to put himself in Lindy’s place. But Harry often achieved surprising results: slowly, hesitatingly, step by step, no exultant leap of fancy: but a painstaking, almost invisible process and in the end Harry achieved it.
“No, Lucy. It isn’t a question of forgiveness. It isn’t that. I’ve been thinking it over. I . . . er . . . can see that now. It’s this: I don’t think she’d want to come back to me: but even if she did, I couldn’t. No man with any self-respect could, Lucy. They wouldn’t, old man. One ’ud always be thinkin’. . . . The idea that it might happen again. It ’ud always be there.”
Lucius nodded. “Yes. I see it, Harry. I understand how you feel. You couldn’t bury the past.”
Harry leaned back, deep in thought.
“It isn’t only that, Lucy: not the point, I mean. Lucy, one couldn’t ever be sure with her again.”
“You wouldn’t be able to trust her, you mean? So it’s really the future prevents you. That’s reasonable, unanswerable . . . Let’s go into the Yellow Room.” They rose: Lucius snuffed out three of the candles: Harry moved to the door and opened it. The dimly lit panelling of the passage glimmered and glistened outside. Lucius blew out the last candle.
Unanswerable!
As he passed the long weather-glass on their way from the dining-room, Lucius tapped it unthinkingly. What did it matter? What did it matter whether it was fair or foul to-morrow? Anyhow, the machinery inside was probably all wrong and out of gear. He’d kept it for its case: a jolly fiddle-curved glass. Probably too old to be any good inside.
They entered the Yellow Room. Harry took the long chair, and lay low and pensive in it, with knee crossed high. Lucius sat straight and spinster-like in the corner of the winged “winter” chair, his ankles crossed, a hand below his elbow. His dark clothes were lost in shadow, but his face and cinder-coloured hair were clear against the scarlet of the chair back.
His glance drifted to the clock, and Lucius saw that it was not yet midnight. Then the clock faded out, and he saw behind it the picture of the overmantel, the “Dead Hen.”—Why hen indeed! A superb cock, bird of some Flemish farm-yard. The hand of Hondecotte seemed clearer than ever to-night. The greys and browns upon the wing, the neck plumage, the black and greens—shot like a dragon-fly, the white markings of the limp head, the reds and crimsons of its crest, the uncanny cleverness of the dark cord from which it hung—distinct but never assertive against the dull background.
Lucius stretched himself.
“No, Harry: I suppose no one could expect you to take Lindy back, if you couldn’t trust her. That’s just it. Yet there’s no reason for supposing that you wouldn’t be happy. Lindy ought to have learnt a lesson. It’s funny to think of a daughter of mine having been incautious, isn’t it? That’s Katharine’s character coming out in her—or my own mother’s.”
Harry did not answer. Lucius watched him. If she were discreet in future, there was no reason why she shouldn’t be happy, and Harry too—if only he’d take her back. No one would have any right to say things: and what they thought wouldn’t do much harm, despite the prudes and Puritans. What satisfied the husband, satisfied his world. An intelligent point of view. To secure marriage as the basis of society, that was the object of morality.
“It isn’t the past that matters in most things, is it, Harry? It’s the future. She’s very young: she hasn’t had much experience: she’ll have learnt her lesson now.”
Harry shook his head. “I can’t, Lucy, old man, I can’t.”
“Poor old Harry!”
Lucius repeated it to himself. One could fancy him in a few years. It was horrible to think of Harry disillusioned. He was wretched now: he’d adored Lindy. One didn’t see how he’d find any new interest. He’d never been in love before: it was scarcely likely that he would be again. He’d grow bitter: he’d lose his illusions: and in them most of Harry’s happiness lay. Yet, if he’d only take her back, he’d be happy—in the end.
“Harry, and after all what is trust? Just a state of mind, created and destroyed like any other. Why shouldn’t it be restored, why not? Supposing that she wanted to make a new start.”
“She is sorry, Lucy. She is . . . er . . . sorry for me and . . . er . . . that. She said so.”
“Well: and supposing she said that if you’ll take her back she’ll promise—— No, Harry, don’t interrupt for a minute. I’m not going on with what I was discussing just now—— It might be the turning-point in her life. She may have learnt her lesson. She’s fond of you, Harry, whatever you say. Probably this young man was a momentary infatuation. She may be sorry now that she ever saw him. She may feel that if she had one more chance she knew enough now to turn over a new leaf. She’s tried the other and she sees what it’s worth. That may be her state of mind now. If she’s left to her own devices now, she’ll have no one to whom she feels responsible, no home, nothing to risk. Heaven knows what she mayn’t do. And all the while she might still make you the very wife you need.” His voice trailed off softer and softer in the twilight of the room. “You were happy, weren’t you—you were, weren’t you, Harry?”
Silence.
General Hawkins watched the empty grate, his teeth held his lip.—God, how happy he’d been! If only— He wished to God— Yes— He nodded dismally.
“You’d be happier if you could give her another chance, Harry. It would steady her. She’d know you’d done a fine thing: she’d feel she couldn’t go back on you. Women don’t take a mere marriage service very seriously nowadays. Our faith has weakened: nothing has taken its place. When they’re older, they see the sense and plan behind our social system: but when they’re very young they think of the marriage service like buying tickets to get a home of their own, or to live with some one. Besides that, frocks and presents have obscured the religious aspects. But that doesn’t mean that girls have no hearts nowadays. And the mere marrying of a woman one’s in love with isn’t in itself conferring any great favour—— But if Lindy felt you’d done something she could hardly hope to repay, surely she’d try. She’s been wilful and silly, but don’t you think she’s got enough in her to change? Don’t you think that now you could trust her?”
Harry lay very still in his chair.—She was young. She had had a hard knock. It was all true what Lucy was sayin’. Oh, God! If only he could trust her!
General Hawkins sat very still. Lucius, watching him, could see his expression slowly changing.
“Lucy . . . if yer really think . . . (no one can know for certain, of course) . . . but if ye really believe that I could trust her . . . yer know, Lucy, I love Lindy: and if I could believe . . .”
Lucius was turned to him, all attentive. At last! At last one had done something. After all, no one could know for certain: Harry’d admitted as much himself. One was justified surely in saying anything to help her. Perhaps after all she might, she might change.
“If yer told me yer really believe it—that I could . . . er . . . could trust her, I’d . . . I’d . . . You’re the best friend I’ve got, Lucy . . . and I’d take your word for it, and I believe I’d take her back.”
He was Harry’s best friend and—Oh, damn it! One couldn’t let him down. Curse it: curse it!— Lucius drew a deep breath and remained very still, his fingers for the moment clenched.
The silence in the room grew acute. Lucius drew a quick breath as if to speak: but he said nothing.
Harry rose suddenly from the chair and stood looking down at his friend.
“Yer mean you believe she might . . . might do it again?”
Lucius grasped the arms of his chair tightly—— It was now—or never!
“Yer mean that, Lucy? That she might do it again?”
Lucius swallowed—and then very slowly nodded. Somehow he couldn’t lie to Harry. Damn it!
For a while Harry stood, watching the darkness with unfocussed eyes, then he turned to the fireplace.
“I’ll be goin’, Lucy. I’ll be . . . er . . . goin’. Don’t trouble. I’ll let meself out.”
Without looking round, he moved towards the door.
“I’ll see yer soon, Lucy, and . . . and . . . er . . . thank yer.”
Lucius heard him pass out into the hall: and presently the front door opened and closed.
Long after Harry had gone Lindy sat watching the door which had closed behind him. She watched it with dead eyes. Harry’d gone! Finality! So this was how things happened, so quietly, without the tragic gesture, without the tribute of effective lighting. Harry’d gone out to face his future alone: just gone out as he might have gone out to some game of golf. She had fancied such a parting as being utterly different from any other, keyed to some solemn note: in an odd way, wan and livid and sombre-shadowed, like a Grecco.
Harry’d gone: and nothing she could ever do, nothing that any one could ever do, could bring him back. She’d betrayed him, and she’d lost him. It was all her own fault. And one didn’t get the second chance.
Finis! She’d never had to face the irrevocable before. It was like a door of steel. She’d been allowed to think of the world as a playground for spoilt children, arranged ever so, despite the Puritans and dull, dreary people: a pleasant Cosmos, ruled according to one’s need and mood, by a very lenient and very beautiful Madonna—or by the old gods—who by their own epic misdemeanours had lent a sort of royal patronage to one’s own little wrong-doings. But these kindly gods no longer ran beside her. But before her, stark and freezing, was finality, more final than death, for beyond death there might be some dim continuity. Lucy himself often thought so.
But this . . . Clash! Finis!
Before her feet lay a drift of, for the moment, meaningless chiffons—and her trunk. Unthinkingly she knelt before it and began to pack, stretching, folding and smoothing with mechanical deftness. Through the open windows came the languid sounds of afternoon. Lindy heard them and caught her breath—Oh!!—— She dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
Out in the passage some one was coming towards the room. Lindy listened. It was Vera. She drew a piece of folded tissue paper through her fingers, and paused with it taut between her hands. At the first step she had caught her breath for she had fancied that it might be Harry . . . returning.
Vera entered, and stood, tall, poised and graceful, her hand upon the opened door. Her chin was lifted: against the tinted twilight of the corridor the slenderness of her neck seemed to have some classic and virginal quality. Her lips were parted with the quickening breath of pity. The warm halo of her hair lent—in the shadows—a pallor to her skin.
Slowly she closed the door behind her. Lindy, on her knees, nodded solemnly—twice, as if in answer to a question. Then she bent her head, and hid her face in her hands. Vera came to her softly, with unhurried steps.
To her Lindy was a child again. But there was nothing to be said or done as yet. If she could find tears, that would tire her till the physical side would rule. Then when she was worn out she could be comforted like a child. Or if she were to be a woman, she must find her womanhood for herself. And in the wisdom that is also pain, she watched Lindy.
For a time, and in silence, she stood over her, while Lindy bent low over the big open trunk.
Later she would be wiser, sadder too, with added knowledge! But as yet she was all youth—youth facing for the first time the facts of living.
It would have been difficult for Vera, who loved and understood her, to have stepped back to judge. Very young! Her shoulders had still a likeness to those of a boy. Her neck was softly supple, childish. And now with her face bent over her hands, and buried in the sheet of tissue paper which they still held, the pink paper, and the gold and straw of her hair seemed to lend her a special tint of innocence . . . an air of being something altogether of the tissue-paper world—unblameable—a little paper butterfly. But, blameable or not, Lindy had to make that first step to helping herself. To Vera, patient and very still beside her, it was as if she could feel Lindy’s spirit bracing itself for that effort. Presently Lindy sat up on her heels.
“I’m all right now”—her voice was thick.
Vera went down on her knees and began to help the packing. For a little they worked on in silence, laying into the box the playful travesties of clothing, the pleasant obvious graces of seduction, which had been chosen for mere daintiness, but whose very fragility would incite the rough uncareful handling of them: and which—now that their treason had been achieved—and discovered—seemed to mock regrets.
Presently they heard the Bo’sun come up the stairs, two steps at a time, whistling, in his invariable high spirits. A door banged.
Lindy sat back on her heels. Vera in a slow glance saw that she was biting her lips. She could not give Lindy her strength: she must not help her: yet kneeling by her side, she shared in Lindy’s struggle.
Outside in the corridor the Bo’sun emerged from his room and clattered downstairs, singing as he went. If he had heard of Lindy and Oliver’s escapade, and of Harry’s discovery of it, it was not on his mind. The tune he was singing drew to its end, and he began a not very recent song:
“Are you from Dixie? Yes, I’m from Dixie
Where the . . .”
The words faded out as he entered the drawing-room, and faded in again—this time from the garden—as he passed out into it!
“If you’re from Alabama, Tennessee, or Carolina,
Any place . . .”
“Oh, come on, Bo’sun, we’re waiting for you,” came in a bellow of impatience, and with its slightly Irish flavour, from Grace O’Hara.
“Don’t interrupt—this is England, and young women here behave themselves.”
In the bedroom Vera turned and sat sideways, her elbow on the edge of the trunk. She was grateful to the Bo’sun for his interlude. It would help to bring Lindy back to the present. Vera heard her gulp. . . .
“I’ve been a beast. It’s been all my own fault. I’ve made a hash of my life: and that’s that. . . . But I’ll be brave.”
Her chin was raised, her gaze fixed: her words came jerkily as though she had committed them to memory. The thought that it was like a child reciting its lessons, came to Vera, yet Lindy was entirely in earnest, she knew—
“Yes. I’m going to start again. I’m going to be clean, and I’m going to be as clean and decent as I can be. I cheated Harry who was always a darling to me. He believed in me. I’ve spoilt his life. I can’t ever make it up to him. I won’t ever forget that. I won’t ever forgive myself. But I will be better. I will. I will.”
This was her prayer, Vera knew, the unself-conscious prayer of her not yet distant childhood. To Lucius, Vera felt, there would have been something pathetic in such prayer—it would have stirred his strain of kindly irony. Yes, he would have found penitence pathetic, in, as he saw it, its futility. . . . But to Vera the sight of Lindy on her knees before her unknown God, brought Lindy closer to herself than she had ever been before. For once Lindy also felt the need of something beyond the material, and Vera let herself sink into that state, just beyond consciousness, which was often her resting-place.
For her—the room widened into a calm twilight, like that of grey lofty aisles of Spain’s cathedrals. Before her closed eyes there might have hung some tortured, frozen Christ upon His Cross. And to her—yet without bringing her back into touch with the corporeal world, of which they treated—came Lindy’s words. . . .
“I will be better. I won’t do thoughtless, wicked things. I wasn’t fit for Harry; I loved him—I thought I loved him, but differently: then Oliver came: and he attracted me: and I didn’t think. I never meant to: I never planned it. But I didn’t deserve Harry, and I’ve lost him. And now I see it: and I’m sorry I was wicked. But I’ll be different. I’ll be good. And when it’s over, and I’m married to Oliver, I’ll be a good wife to him. I won’t think about myself. And we’ll be some use in the world, and not only just enjoy ourselves. . . . And now . . . now I’ve got to be brave.”
For a while there was silence in the room. From the garden drifted up the sounds of play, and the labour that went with it.
“Played!” from the Bo’sun of the tennis court. Then the regular tap-tap of volleying . . . the long pause . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . and “Hard luck! Oh, hard luck!”
“Fifteen—thirty” and slow crunch of gravel under a roller.
The two girls knelt in silence side by side.
“Help me to be better,” Lindy whispered, looking straight before her.
Vera slipped her arm about her.
It was nearly eight that evening when Lindy and Vera reached the house beside the park. The shops had been closed a full hour. Their shutters were down, their lures hidden. Shoppers and shop-girls had departed: but the diners-out were not yet upon their way: so for a while the stream of buses, cars and taxis had slackened. At times, indeed, the roadway was quite empty: then over its parched wood pavement the long shadows stretched undisturbed: and Knightsbridge was an avenue full of splendid light, leading to Turner-esque distances, and a golden West.
Vera and Lindy passed quickly through the gateway in the railings, and across the little flagged yard that separated the pavement from the house. As they approached it Sari, Vera’s old Hungarian maid, opened the door. She had received notice by telephone, and was expecting them.
“How do you do, Miss Lindy? So you are here with us again.”
“Yes, Sari. It’s like old times.”
Vera took Lindy’s arm, as if to welcome her home, and led her to the big hall table. On it stood a great bowl of dark roses: the room was full of their perfume. Lindy leaned over the bowl, and closed her eyes upon the flowers. The scent of them was very heavy—the world and herself floated in it.
Her father’s tag found itself in her memory—the most ancient and aristocratic of our senses—that was what Lucy used to say or quote of scent. A tenderness she did not always feel for him invaded her. He was rather pathetic, was Lucy—with all his scholarship, his lore and his taste, all gone to dilettanteism—his little frailties, which, because he had never been their master, had become his . . . all alone there in No. 5. . . . He’d be worrying to-night.
She rose, and looked around the familiar hall. Yes, this was more home to her than was her father’s house. Home was where one could creep back to when one was beaten.
“A gentleman telephones for you since a quarter of an hour,” Sari announced.
Vera felt Lindy’s fingers tighten on her arm.
“Who was it?” she asked for her, for she knew what had come into Lindy’s mind.
“It wasn’t any one I know,” said Sari. “And at first I couldn’t understand his name. . . . He had to say it two times . . . and now I think I forget it. . . .”
“You must help me carry the boxes up the stairs,” she said to the taxi-man who appeared in the doorway with an instalment of the luggage.
“He was a lord,” Sari threw over her shoulder as she stooped to reach her handle of the trunk.
Vera laughed to Lindy, “It’s Oliver she means,” then to Sari, “Lord Dashwood, was it?”
“That was it; I remember now. He said some other thing also: but I forget it.”
There was no object in going to their rooms till the luggage had been carried up, Vera decided, and led Lindy across the hall and past the pantry. Before them through the open dining-room doors could be seen the little garden, and the trees of Hyde Park beyond it.
“I remember what the gentleman—the Lord whatever his name was—said,” Sari shouted after them. She was carrying one end of Lindy’s trunk, and her breath was short. “He telephones again presently.”
Lindy’s hand trembled on Vera’s arm. She hastened her pace a little: she and Vera went out through the dining-room window, down the wooden stairs, and out into the garden. The narrow beds between the flagging had been lately watered. The mould looked cool and grateful. The flowers showed pale, for the garden was already in shade—though the sunlight still caught the tree-tops. The house rising cliff-like shut off the drone of the mechanical age: and from the park floated lightly sounds eternal and unchanging, the shouts of the boys at play, the laughter of soldiers and girls at courtship.
“Let’s go up to the seat,” Lindy said to Vera. “I want to watch the people.”
They climbed the steps of the garden room which rose against the boundary-wall of the park, and passed through it, to the narrow neglected little terrace beyond. There, at either end, under a Byronic willow—quarter grown—was a forlorn seat. Leaves of the past autumn still rested there, and a subtle sense of melancholy. . . . The place, left so, pleased Vera in certain moods. She and Lindy sat down. Beyond a margin of lawn stretched the park, grass, flower-bed, people, trees, and above them the summer sky. Two young guardsmen were stepping out, their scarlet tunics and white belts gay against the melting tones of the evening. They hurried along, taking with them a sense of jauntiness and of coming adventure.
“It wasn’t that I don’t care for Oliver now,” whispered Lindy.
Vera touched her hand. She understood.
Within easy earshot a young man with a pipe was talking banteringly to his dog. Then becoming all at once aware of the two girls on the wall, he grew self-conscious, changed his tone, and hurried on. Lindy leant forward and settled her chin between her hands.
“It isn’t that I don’t care for Oliver now, it isn’t that: really it isn’t. Only seeing Harry this afternoon, when . . . when he came to tell me that he knew . . . you see he was so wonderful about it. He even tried not to make me feel a beast. . . . I’d been a perfect fiend . . . I’d nothing to say. But he didn’t blame me. And his being so generous . . . I . . . Vera darling, would it sound dreadful if I said I couldn’t see Oliver to-night . . . just not to-night.”
“It wouldn’t sound dreadful to me. Besides, it is . . . perfectly natural.”
“It is, isn’t it? Because, you see, when Harry was so wonderful about it all it would seem disloyal. . . . Oh, Vera, what hypocrisy that sounds, but I do mean it. . . . He left me such a feeling of his being splendid and generous, that I want to keep the memory of it—and let it fade out slowly. I don’t want to see some one who wouldn’t understand . . . who’s . . . Harry’s rival . . . and so who would break the mood I’m in.”
Vera watched without interest a passing racing car. This sentimentality, of which Lindy was half ashamed, seemed to Vera to be precious. After all, it was an aspect of idealism: it was a tribute to a standard which she could not reach: and it had the value of all romantic illusions. Life would leave Lindy few enough of them if things went on like this.
“I’ll speak to Oliver . . . when he does telephone.”
Lindy’s lips moved as though she would speak, but she kept silent. Her finger-tips were restless on her cheek.
“No,” Vera went on, reassuringly. “Of course I won’t say why you don’t want to see him to-night. I shall . . .” She watched the tree-tops now hardening to a silhouette against the paling sky. Then, as if she had found her answer in them,—or beyond, she continued. “I shall say that you are tired, done up with all that’s happened.”
“He couldn’t mind that. You see, I mustn’t be horrid about it to him: because, you see, it was all my own fault, wasn’t it? . . .”
Vera was very still . . . remote amongst her thoughts.—Lindy was such a child. It didn’t seem fair that men should wage their sex jealousies over her. She wasn’t fit for it as yet. And there they were, the two men who loved—perhaps they both did—yet so differently—Harry, Oliver. Harry was fine—fine, and he loved finely, as a woman might, though so differently. Yet even he couldn’t forgive. That was the difference between him and herself. If needs be, he would have suffered for Lindy: but he would have had no joy in suffering . . . while, for herself . . . And Oliver—Oliver was nothing. Oh, good-looking, self-centred—self-contented, under a reasonable disguise. If he succeeded in whatever meant success to him—he’d grow into a little tyrant, a rather surly M. F. H. who’d take a secret pride in his surliness, who’d help his sons as long as he could be proud of them, and who’d stint his daughters in everything. If he failed, he’d develop into one of those sharp, proud, dark men who are good diners-out, and are silent and sarcastic to their wives. He might become either: as yet he was only in the chrysalis stage. None of the generous instincts of Harry, or the generous energy of the Bo’sun!
Slowly the light faded. Beside her the boughs of willow veined the lemon sky. The place and the evening drew a gentle melancholy about Vera: the memory of other evenings stole up to haunt her—the picture of her mother’s home in Hungary, the reluctant sunsets of the Great Plain, the long, sad twilights, the shrill loveliness of a first star, the keen of a violin quivering from far away on the still air, the growing gloom, the homely peasant lovers with their hot, innocent kisses. Years ago, when she had been scarcely more than a child, she had envied those farm-girls emotions she would never know—their femininity, their ability to accept, to enjoy without fastidiousness, to yield. And to-night, again, she envied them the simple orthodox problems of their lives. For herself—life and Harry’s tragedy had lent her Lindy—for just a space. Afterwards . . .
Lindy broke in upon her mood. “It would be sweet of you if you’d talk to Oliver when he rings up. He’d ask me questions, and to-night I . . . Oh, I don’t want to talk about it.”
The sun had sunk below the ragged skyline. In the park the hour of strolling was over: and the lovers had taken to the chairs: a kindly dusk stole out to hide them.
Vera brought herself back to the needs of the present. “Oliver will be telephoning soon. . . . If I am to talk to him, it seems to me I must know when you last saw him—alone, I mean, of course . . . and what your agreement was, because you see I don’t know how things stand: and to help I must know that . . .”
The darkness was closing in upon them. Vera was glad of it. She was glad, too, that these things should be dealt with there, rather than indoors, so that the memory of these matters should not cling to any scene of her daily life. Lindy looked away to answer.
“I haven’t seen him alone since . . . not since that night. He knows, of course. He couldn’t help it. Of course Harry wouldn’t have said anything to him.”
Vera’s fingers tightened on the edge of the seat. She’d begun with it: she must see it through.
“You and Oliver hadn’t made any plans, before that?”
“No, you see, I hadn’t meant to do it. I hadn’t! Really I never did.” The youthful earnestness of Lindy grew vehement. “If I’d ever thought . . . ! It . . . Oh, it just happened. Of course Oliver and I were in love. We’d danced together. And down on the river two nights before he kissed me. I oughtn’t to have. It was horrid. But I never meant to go further. Oh! . . . darling, I’m a beast . . . a beast.”
Vera let her talk herself out, and heard her check herself at the verge of sobs. Emotionally she was honest: that was a lot, Vera felt. Presently she put her arm round Lindy, and led her back through the garden room, and towards the house. Lindy’s feet dragged like those of a child. In the dining-room the candles were lit, the table laid, but the walls and ceilings were lost in amber light. Behind the Cordova screen which backed her chair and hid the door, Vera paused where ice and glasses glittered upon the serving table.
“There’s everything ready. I can make you a cocktail if you like, darling?”
“Not to-night. I’m not in the mood.”
“Very well, . . . I won’t rob you of your melancholy: it’s better so.”
They passed the brightly-lit pantry, and were lost in the shadows of the hall. Lindy stopped; she twined her arms round Vera’s neck, and hid her head against her shoulder.
“I’ve been awful, awful, awful. But you’ve stood by me . . . I’m home . . . I’m with you again. This is home to me: and, oh, I’m happy to be back.”
Vera stood very still, scarcely breathing—Lindy was happy to be with her again. It was the answer to a question she could never have brought herself to ask. They had given her back her Lindy—for a while.
“Never mind, little Lindy, never mind. In the end . . .” Her voice had a ring like the echo of tears. “In the end it will all come right. There! there!”
Lindy nestled against her.—Vera was wonderful . . . so, so wonderful. She loved her! More than any one. She whispered to her.
“I’m no good. I’ve come home like a beaten dog. . . . I didn’t mean to! I couldn’t help it, ’cause I’m no good. . . .” From down in the basement came Sari’s talk, and the clatter of dishes. “I’m no good: no good! I don’t deserve to be loved!”
Vera led her to the stairs. “Whatever happens I don’t want you different. I love you. I’ll always love you. You’ll go away: you’ll be happy. I’d lose you gladly to see you happy—but I’ll be here, always, always waiting if you need me, whatever happens. I don’t want you different. I love you because you’re you.”
Lindy was awakened next morning by Sari setting down the breakfast tray beside her bed. The curtains had already been drawn back, and through the widely open window came the fresh, gay air of a London summer before the season has grown stale. Outside was the morning sunlight and the tree-top skyline of the park.
Sari shuffled about the room in those slippers which never quite came off. She murmured to herself, carried out some clothes, and brought back from the passage outside the two flower vases. They were filled with great spires of dark delphiniums, Sir Douglas Haigs, Lindy recognised. They had been brought up the evening before from Mrs. Van Neck’s garden. The sight of them was like a shock of cold water to her: it chilled her with the sudden recollection of recent events. The sense of healthy, careless happiness with which she had woken was swept away all at once.
The night before, in the soft abetting glow of lamps, with Vera’s comforting arm about her, and with the pleasant, venturous sounds of traffic from the street outside, it had seemed different—awful, naturally, but unpremeditated, a thing that had just “happened”—almost an accident—for which, of course, one was prepared to pay. Still, last night there had seemed to be a saving lightness of touch about it. But in the sane light of morning the shame of it all seemed unbearable. She’d cheated Harry who’d always been sweet to her, who’d never suspected her, who’d not even been jealous and tiresome. There wasn’t anything to be said for her, nothing! It wasn’t as if she’d determined to go to Oliver, and had run away with him. They just “played round,” and they’d been “caught out.” At the time she hadn’t seen it as it was. Just a kiss here and there hadn’t appeared to be very awful: and that was all she’d meant it to be: and that night . . . At first she hadn’t thought how it would turn out, hadn’t guessed. She’d deserved it! deserved it! But to be found out! Could anything seem as humiliating as an intrigue discovered!
Sari had asked if she would like her bath turned on, but had reached the door before Lindy had understood what had been said.
“Please, yes: please, I’d like it now, Sari, dear,” she called after the old maid. Bed had lost its morning charm. She turned to her breakfast tray. On it was a single letter—from her father, the writing more than usually indistinct.
“. . . Harry dined with me to-night at No. 5. He wanted you to know that the coast is clear for you at the house for the next week at any rate. He’s got his things, and won’t be going there: so you can go there without worrying—or you can live there if you care to. He’ll keep on the servants till the autumn. They’ve been told you’re both on visits till then. He fancies that will keep the thing dark as long as possible.
“Haste,
“Lucius.”
She read the letter through a second time, a half sheet of Club paper covered with Lucy’s lean, vertical scratchings, and written at high speed with the usual fine steel pen, held obliquely.
A mere note! No “My little Lindy”! . . . no “Dearest of daughters”! . . . no ending! No love! No nothing! Just a note like he used to leave on the hall table in the old days when he wouldn’t be in at some expected time.
She let the note fall. He might have taken the trouble to write one nice thing—just “love” or something. He might have known—in fact he did know—how wretched she was about it all. And it wasn’t any use Lucy pretending to be shocked about anything. He might be annoyed and worried. Probably he was. But . . . Lucy might have been a little more considerate, for he hadn’t the excuse of not understanding. He was as intuitive as any one—man or woman. Horrid of him! She wouldn’t have been like that with him, if it had been Lucy himself who’d been in trouble! No!
And . . . there was no letter from anyone else to take the taste away. Not that any one, except those of the house-party, would have known where she was. But Oliver—Oliver knew—he’d telephoned the night before—he might have sent her a line saying—oh, just something!
No good!
She sat up quickly in bed, and set her teeth. Her out-thrust chin made her look like a defiant little girl. She ran her fingers through her short, fair hair. Breakfast had no attraction for her, and in this new determination, she sprang out of bed on the other side, and, just as she was, scampered barefoot into the bathroom next door. The sunlight was slanting in through the window, the white china walls glistened. Still and faintly green, the bath water looked cheerful and inviting.
Well! If Lucy chose to be horrid! And if . . . ! She’d not be “down.” No! She blinked at the sunlight. A lovely day out—June! A . . . “all on a summer’s day.”
She slipped her nightdress over her head, and threw it at the clothes basket. There it hung, the sunlight warming its translucence to a mere pink gossamer. She felt the water with her hand—hot!—she wanted it cool—invigorating. And while the cold water ran in, she “did” her exercises. She had neglected them for days, weeks perhaps. Now she needed them. Flat on her back, on the bath-mat, she raised her legs, and held them raised, lowered them, raised them again. She could still do it twenty times, with no heel taps, as Lucy used to say. Not too bad! She was always pleased when she did that exercise, to see the straightness of her legs. Her knees were lean, like those of a boy: and one had the white scar where she had been cut when she was thrown, the scar she had been so proud of showing when she had been in her early teens.
She would bet Lucy wasn’t doing his exercises that morning. She’d inherited her slimness from him: but after all Lucy was getting on! If he gave things the slip, especially as he played no games, he’d be getting a tummy. She felt her own, with set muscles. Firm! Flat! She turned over to do her “press ups,” and then jumped quickly into the bath, and “ducked,”—ooough! cold!
In a few minutes, wrapped round in her orange bath-sheet, and still drying, she wandered down to Vera’s room. The cold bath and the exercise had swung her mood into a physical one, and, as she went down the stairs, she hummed a thin, little tune.
Vera was still in bed, the halo of her rich chestnut hair on a low pillow, her thin arms outside the sheets, and a novel propped before her.
As Lindy entered, she laid it down. “Shameful! lying in bed on a day like this.”
In profile, with her lips parted, and dark lashes half lowered, her face had a quality, perhaps of yearning. Her nose, lean and a little pronounced, was expressive of her sensibility and quick distaste. But as she turned to Lindy and smiled, her expression softened.
“How are you, darling? Sit here.” She smoothed a place beside her on the bed. Lindy bent down to receive her morning kiss. Then she sat up and went on with the final stages of her drying. She raised her chin, and reached behind her arm, and towards her back.
“Every one’s a pig-dog,” she announced.—Phrase of schoolroom days when she used to be brought and fetched from tea with Vera’s mother by the “Super Griff.”—“Every one’s a pig-dog. Lucy’s written me a note without any end or beginning, and not a word of love.”
“Perhaps the reason why Oliver didn’t write was because you didn’t want to speak to him on the telephone last night. He was annoyed, I think. He seemed to imagine he had a right to talk to you, and to hear . . . about everything.”
Lindy rose and moved towards the window. She watched the early riders without interest. “What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
Lindy turned and faced the bed. “No, I want to know exactly.”
“He said that if you were tired and worried, he’d got as much to worry about as you had.”
“He said that?” Lindy stared and opened her teeth in half-comic rage. Then, in a sudden change of mood, she went round and sat again on the empty side of the bed.
“That isn’t true, Vera darling. That isn’t true. Whatever I’ve done, I was very fond of Harry. Very, very, ever so. And now he’ll always hate me . . . and . . . I mind that. It isn’t the same, is it? Is it?”
“No, of course it isn’t. Only naturally each person sees their own difficulties clearest.”
Vera patted her hand. Lindy nodded.
“I did care for Harry. You believe that?”
“Yes.”
For a little there was silence. From below, in the roadway of the park, came the tramp, tramp, of a company from Knightsbridge barracks. The drums and fifes struck up a tune: the tramp of the soldiers sank into a rhythmic accompaniment: the company passed the house: the rattle of the drums and the shrill of the fifes melted into the morning energy of the park.
“Finished with your breakfast?” asked Lindy, as she scrambled suddenly over Vera to the tray and table side of the bed. She buttered thickly a piece of toast, and spread a lump of marmalade on it.
“Did they forget to feed the little animal this morning?”
“They brought its food,” munched Lindy, with her mouth full of toast, “only the little animal wasn’t in the mood for it. Not then!”
Lindy waited in till twelve that morning, then she went out. Soon after that Oliver telephoned: and after lunch she in turn tried to get in touch with him. But his flat gave no answer, and at his club he had not been seen all day. It was not till six o’clock that he rang up again. He made no reference to her having sent Vera to the telephone on the previous evening. Lindy suspected from his voice that he was annoyed, but could not be sure. Obviously there was some one else in the room with him: and he spoke guardedly.
He’d expected to have been able to call on her that morning. According to orders on Monday night, when he’d got back from week-end leave, it did not “take” him for anything special next day. But some one had got “crocked up” at polo: and he’d been “shot” for guard at the last minute. And there he was “Buck House” officer, kicking his heels all day in the Guard Room at St. James’s. He’d been guard mounting and “that stuff” till well after eleven. Then there’d been breakfast at eleven—the captain happened to like the old ideas—and he’d missed her in the morning. What had happened at “the interview,” he asked. Harry had been wonderful about it, Lindy told him. But what had he said? What was he . . . er . . . going to do? Lindy was very conscious of the personality or personalities who could hear Oliver’s questions. His voice grew hurried.
—Harry’d been . . . very, very generous about it. He hadn’t blamed any one. But one couldn’t discuss it properly over the telephone. When could they meet?
Eventually dinner next night was chosen. He’d call for her at eight.
—Dancing after? . . . Well, . . . they could talk about that, he said: and with a hurried “Good-bye, and love—and all that stuff,” he rang off.
Eight struck. Vera rose from her seat and crossed to the open window.
Eight! In a few moments Oliver would be coming to claim Lindy for the evening: just as in a few months—when the divorce had been granted—he’d come to claim her for ever. Only as a loan! Fate had brought back her Lindy to her, but only as a loan.
Outside in the park the evening was very calm. The trees, already dim and mysterious, stretched up to reach the flushed sky. From the distant bandstand came occasional strains of music: and these had drawn most of the casual strollers. Beyond, in the quieter glades, were lovers—waiting, perhaps unconsciously, for the darkness.
Close beside her was Lindy, curled up in a big chair—polishing her nails, and tending the little vanities. She hadn’t changed, not in the least. She was just as she had been five years before, all through those wonderful months when Vera had had her to herself!
Vera settled herself on the arm of the chair, and watched Lindy arranging her bag. “I think I’ll go up to my room. You wait here till Oliver comes.”
Lindy finished recolouring her lips. “Must you?”
“Oh, I needn’t. But you’re late already: and he’ll feel bound to stay and say a few politenesses, if I’m here.”
“I’d really rather you were. You see, darlingest . . . I haven’t been alone with him since . . . not since the night . . . when . . .” She turned and looked up at Vera, “You do understand, don’t you?” Vera nodded slightly. For a while, with narrowed eyes, she remained in thought.
“I’ll go and see about some cocktails. They should help us over the first minutes. You stay here, or . . . no, you come too. It’s no good my letting Sari make them. She’s incurably Hungarian, and won’t measure anything.”
Lindy jumped up from her chair. “Isn’t she just too wonderful, my Vera. She’s always thinking of the wonderfullest things!”
The tray was brought from the pantry to the big hall table.
Oliver arrived, was admitted. He came over to Vera, hat in hand.—He was afraid he was rather late: he was ashamed about it. Could he help?
He shook hands with Lindy with a shade of deference—which a stranger would not have noticed—and began to squeeze the grapefruit.
He’d nice manners, Vera decided. He was nice-looking, too, in a dark, rather Latin way. But there was a—what was it?—a grace about him, perhaps. It showed in the way he moved, a feline quality, almost. He was intelligent, she imagined, though of course he took care to hide it. He did not say the first thing that came into his head, as the Bo’sun did. For one so young—twenty-six—she supposed—and for a soldier, he was rather cryptic: at fifty he might even be sinister. His eyes slanted a trifle: he was well-made—even elegant: his wrists were thin. Yes, she could understand what Lindy saw in him—looks—a shadow of reserve, that might hide anything—a slant of conscious, rather ruthless selfishness—and a rather “slinky” charm.
In the pantry near by, Sari grumbled over the ice. Presently she brought it. Lindy chilled the glasses: Oliver drew up his cuffs a little, and began to shake the cocktail: Vera watched him.
The mixture was poured out. A little was given to Sari—to taste. She liked wine. It stirred memories, and in this strange land the memories and forgetfulness were best.—She was very Hungarian. She set down her glass and shuffled away, past her glittering pantry, to her interrupted work in the shadowed dining-room beyond.
“Lovely,” Lindy announced, taking a sip of her cocktail in advance of the others, and intent only upon the instant. For a moment they stood with glasses poised.
Vera watched Oliver. He must be aware of the depth of her concern, she felt. It forced their accidental grouping into the tensity of an occasion. And, though so invariably at her ease, she was not at the moment. Would he make Lindy happy? That was all she asked. Lindy was all she’d got.
“Here’s to us all!” said Oliver, a little too conscious of the situation, thought Vera. She, too, tipped her glass.—To Lindy’s happiness was her silent toast.
“Why don’t you come with us, if you’ve nothing to do?”
Vera smiled faintly. “Some other time I’d like to, but to-night . . . I’m busy!”
“Sorry”—a smile.
“It was nice of you to ask me”—banteringly.
Lindy’s spirits were higher now. It was in the present that she lived. That was the source of her trouble—and of her courage.
Vera drew a long deep breath. The dusk had taken on the calm of things eternal. Yet soon it must merge into night. Soon it would be gone. Life was like that. She would not have it otherwise. To ask for eternity was to ask for quantity. Quality was what mattered. Lindy’s youth had quality—fleeting, vivid, perfect. Would she waste her little day—she who could live so fully?
For an instant Vera envied her: envied her that eagerness for life, that desire to experience, that generosity in giving: envied her that . . . that very lack of fastidiousness.
—Would he be good to Lindy? She herself needed her, wanted her . . . even as he did . . . almost. But she could afford to give: men could only afford to take. Would he be good to Lindy? . . . that was all!
“You’ll be late?” she asked in as ordinary a tone as she could, and purposely not to either of them directly.
“Oh, no,” said Oliver. “Just dinner, you know.”
“I’ll come and say ‘Good night,’ ” Lindy told her, as she made her way to the door.
Vera, her empty glass still in her hand, watched the front door open and close behind them. She set down her glass. Then, very slowly, she went into the dining-room. The candles on the table were lit. She passed by them, and into the dim twilight by the open windows.
Outside them, the air was utterly still. The sunset had dimmed to a mellow, orange glow: the trees rose dark against the sky: under them were misty glades, and the suggestion of vast distances. The evening was exquisite, yet faintly tinged with melancholy: it was in a way in tune with her own mood.
No decent woman will risk her tidiness of mind or matter on the way to dinner: so man should let her find her own way to it. Take her home—quickly, or very circuitously, according to his chances? Yes! (A cab has its uses beyond mere transportation!) But to drive together to dinner is like arriving at a play before the curtain has risen.
Lindy, her hands in her lap, sat back in her corner of the taxi, thinking of that dawn when last she had been alone with Oliver. It seemed ages ago . . . part of a different, of a forfeited existence. And in the purity of twilight, the whole adventure seemed unthinkable.
“Vera’s a darling,” she said presently.
“Yes . . . Of course.” Oliver buttoned and unbuttoned his kid glove.
“You’re looking really nice to-night. A pretty frock that.”
“Thanks.”
At Hyde Park Corner, the flow of traffic had just turned against them, and their cab drew up close behind the damming policeman. For a long while they watched the motors streaming through the pigmy arches, in and out of the park. To Lindy their silence became a strain.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Princes, I thought—downstairs.”
“Oh!” Lindy felt her spirit drooping. Downstairs! Yes, in the circumstances! She supposed so! And so original!
Oliver must have guessed her thought, or come upon it by himself independently of hers. “It does sound rather ‘sealed pattern,’ I suppose.”
The policeman drew aside, and their cab was first to get away: it passed Park Lane. Before them Piccadilly dipped and rose again. The line of arc lamps, vivid in the last twilight, stretched above its empty roadway. They were like a chain of Chinese lanterns hanging from hill to hill, came to Lindy. They were beautiful, and, considered like that, bizarre. She was glad of any gleam of unreality. This would never do as a beginning, she decided. If Oliver and she started like this . . . !
“Can’t we go to one of the cleaner Soho-eries?” she asked.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Oliver responded, himself relieved. He gave a new direction to the cabman.
“I’ve never been there,” said Lindy.
“Bo’sun took me there for the first time a week or so back.”
“I’m ever so hungry.”
“I’m not. I broke my rule, and had tea this afternoon.”
Lindy was silent. They passed the top of St. James’s Street.—Harry’s club was there, on the left. . . . That was all over!—She thought determinedly of her father: of the book-room at No. 5: of the “winter” chair which as a child she used to love to climb—of the blue nursery with old French wood-cuts of exotic birds: of the Queen Anne gate at the head of the stairs: of rooms in general: of her own drawing-room—her nattier blue drawing-room that it had taken such ages and ages to furnish: of the tall sealing-waxy Corormandel screen that Lucius had given her: of the yellow Venetian lac commodes which she had found: of the room when there were big jars of lilies—and the great bowl full of orange marigolds. That was all over!
“Vera’s half Hungarian, you know,” she said quickly.
“I heard.”
“She’s got a place out there, but an aunt of hers lives in it.”
“Big?”
“I think it is.”
“That sounds very pleasant.”
Lindy fastened her attention on the sky-signs. And so presently the cab arrived.
The glasses had been refilled. Oliver, his elbow on the table, and his chin in his hand, watched Lindy thoughtfully.
“You’re wonderfully pretty, you know.” His tone was that of a month before. It keyed Lindy back to the time of those early days of their intimacy. She smiled at him and slipped her hand a shade nearer to his. For an instant their fingers met.
“You are a darling, Oliver.”
They sipped, and watched each other across their wine.
“You must have had an awful time. And all about me too!”
“Don’t let’s talk of it.”
“I felt so mean being there, and knowing that something like that was going on, and yet not being able to help. There wasn’t anything I could do. You were so plucky too. I’m sure the other people in the party didn’t notice. I, even, didn’t at first. Not till your father came down. He was so fussed and distrait, and obviously in such a hurry.”
“He’s always like that if anything happens. Poor Lucy! And you see, this . . . was doubly bad for him. Harry’s his best friend, you know.”
“Yes, Bo’sun told me. I didn’t know before—naturally. He’s very against me? Your father, I mean.”
“Lucy isn’t like that, really. He isn’t like anyone else I ever even heard of.” Her tones had the earnestness of childhood. “You see, Lucy isn’t really against anything. He’s for things, things that he likes. The others he forgets or puts on one side. People he’s scarcely ever against: they interest him or they don’t. If he wanted to be unkind about any of my young men (he called them my ‘young men’ even if they weren’t, as long as they just hung round), he used to say, ‘That young fellow seems to me a trifle tedious.’ ”
“I hope he won’t find me tedious, anyway.”
“Probably he thinks us both pretty tedious for the minute,” Lindy laughed. “He’s sure to. You see, it’s been a worry to him, and he loathes worry. But when it’s all over, he’ll be sure to like you. He’s really ever so easy to get on with. You just mustn’t say anything that isn’t in sympathy with his mood of the moment, and let him talk, and nod rather than laugh at his little jokes. I always let him feel he’s rather a dog. Then he’ll smile rather wryly and say that he’s only a souvenir of his long forgotten naughtiness. He likes that.”
Oliver was playing with a fork. He tilted the saltcellar with it. With the prongs of the fork under it, only a little force was needed to lift the cellar. Fulcrum and levers! he thought, fulcrum and levers! He’d forgotten all the “theory” he’d learnt in Sandhurst days. Sandhurst made him think of his mother coming down, and staying at the White Hart at Blackwater, to see him in term times. He didn’t relish telling his mother all about Lindy—at least, not about how it had all happened.
“What is—er, your husband going to do about it? I mean, when is he going to—er, start things?”
“I don’t know yet. You see, he—— Oh, it’s horrid talking about it—horrid!”
“We’ll have to talk about it, all the same.”
“Yes, I know.”
The ice was brought and cut. Lindy began to eat her portion in minute shavings. “Harry being so splendid about it all seems to make it all so much worse: me so much worse, I mean. For you it was different. You didn’t owe loyalty or anything—— Oh, I feel so utterly beastly.”
“Don’t worry, darling. Drink your wine, do.”
Stirring her coffee, Lindy continued: “Harry wouldn’t want to drag in Mrs. Van Neck’s house and the party. He wouldn’t do that if he could possibly help it. He’ll wait till we can . . . supply other evidence—a hotel bill or something. Vera told me about it. Then his lawyers can begin. It’ll take nearly a year—a whole year, Oliver.”
“We can go abroad till then.”
“Yes.”
“I must go down and see my lawyers about it to-morrow. And I want to have next week-end to see my mother and tell her. She lives at our place in the country, you know.”
Lindy nodded and drew at her cigarette. The little restaurant was discreetly lit, the low hum of conversation formed a sympathetic background. She spun her wine-glass slowly between her finger-tips.
“Will your mother be very angry?”
“She won’t be—exactly pleased. She’s old-fashioned, you know. But if I go down and see her first, that will make it easier. I shan’t tell her about—what has happened. I shall say that I love you, and you love me, and that we’ve made up our minds to make a bolt of it. I’ll tell her that you insisted on my telling her first. That will prejudice her in your favour, and make things easier.”
Lindy warmed to him. “That is nice of you. You are a dear. You’re so considerate. That’s what I first liked in you. Such lots of men only think about themselves, but you . . . In the end, it’s the little things that count, isn’t it?”
“I daresay so.”
“And you will be going to see your mother this next week-end, so we shan’t be able—to . . .”
“I do think I ought to see my mother first. And I can’t very well get away to-morrow or the Friday. You see, we’re practising ‘trooping’ both days. And then it’s the week-end. It will take a couple of days to soothe her.”
Lindy tilted back a little in her chair. Presently she sat forward again.
“Yes, I see.”
Oliver ordered another brandy.
“Then, when I’ve told my mother about what we’re going to do . . . we can . . . do the necessary. And as soon as the lawyers are ready to start proceedings, I can send in my ‘papers.’ It will be pretty well the beginning of the leave season by then, anyhow. And you know I’m coaching our team for one of these competitions at Bisley. Of course, if it would really hurry up our getting married I’d let that go hang. Only as it doesn’t make any difference, I’m rather glad, because I’ve trained the men for it, and I shouldn’t like ‘carting’ them at the last minute.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. I do see that.” Lindy tried not to seem doubtful.
“Besides, there really isn’t anyone else who could take the job on—so it rather takes me not to chuck it. But, as it is, by the time your husband’s lawyers are ready to start proceedings, the competition will be over, and there’ll be nothing to prevent me sending in my ‘papers.’ ”
“It does seem a pity your having to leave the Regiment, doesn’t it?”
“I must, of course. They’re still strict about all that sort of thing in the Brigade. But I don’t care. It isn’t as if I’d ever meant to stay my whole life in it. I never intended staying much after I was a captain.”
“It does seem a pity, though, and it makes it all seem . . . as . . . Oh, I don’t know. Harry has a great friend, though I’ve only met him once. Harry went and talked to them in their stalls during the interval one night. When he came back, I asked him about them, and he told me who it was. . . . Poor old so-and-so, who’d been such a good fellow, but who had left ‘to marry a poll,’ years ago.”
“It isn’t that . . . only you see . . .”
“Yes, I know they must be particular.”
“To-morrow afternoon I’m going to go down to have a talk with the family lawyer. He’s down in the wilds of the City. A very good fellow. He’s always been extraordinarily kind to me, and I daresay he’ll help out about how I’ll talk to my mother. He’s quite human. Then this week-end I’ll get leave. (It doesn’t take me for guard again till Tuesday.) And I’ll talk my mother round. Then, the week-end after, we could motor down somewhere, and . . . provide the evidence.”
“All that part does seem so sordid. I do hate the idea of all that.”
“No one likes it. . . . I suppose they must run things like that to protect society.”
Lindy sipped her coffee. “I suppose so.”
Behind the table, Oliver took her hand. “Poor darling. It isn’t nice. But afterwards . . . it isn’t as if people minded much about divorce nowadays. Once we’re married, you’ll be able to forget all about that part of it, won’t you?”
“I wish it was all over and fixed. I feel . . . Oh, as if I just wasn’t anything, not a girl and not a married woman, as if I was frightened of seeing people.”
“But once we’ve gone off together, you won’t be worried by the unpleasantnesses, because we’ll be abroad, and right away from it all.”
“And you’re sure you won’t regret it, and feel afterwards that marrying me has taken away your career.”
“Darling, don’t be silly. Naturally, I shouldn’t. Anyhow, it isn’t as if I was such a desperately keen soldier. If it wasn’t for my mother, I daresay I’d have chucked it before now. But anyhow, even if I was, I’d chuck up anything to marry you.”
“Oh, I know you’d never hold it up against me, but are you really sure you won’t ever feel the tiniest bit sorry.”
“Quite sure! Never!”
“Promise?”
“Promise! promise! promise! . . . There, does that satisfy you?”
“Yes.”
Oliver emptied his brandy glass, and leant towards her over his folded arms. “When we do go away—abroad, I mean—where shall we go? Italy? Spain? The Midi? Or somewhere right away—the Albanian coast . . . or . . .”
They talked on. Ideas grew into plans. Travel! Lindy grew enthusiastic. Lucius’d been everywhere—he could advise her. Or perhaps it would be more fun to find out for themselves.
“We shall not be very well off, you know. My mother gets a pretty big jointure out of the estate.”
Lindy wouldn’t mind that. Besides, she had an allowance of her own—not a lot, but it would pay for all her clothes and expenses, and she’d got heaps. She wouldn’t have to buy anything new for years and years. She would be able to contribute quite a little if she economised a bit.
“But all the time we’re abroad we’ll be economising, anyhow. We wouldn’t be staying in swish sorts of places, because we would not want to run into every one”—hastily—“I mean, we’d be so happy, we shouldn’t want other people, should we?”
“Oh, no.”
“So there’d be just the hotel bills, and those in little places. And I expect it would really be cheaper for the two of us like that than for me, alone, soldiering in London.”
“Besides we should be stopping for a week here and a week there, shouldn’t we, making each place our headquarters. That would be the best way to see the country. So the travelling expenses wouldn’t be very high. I don’t know about yourself?”
“I expect if we took the little Wolseley and cut out the railways altogether, it would be just as cheap.
“And ever so much more fun.”
“Yes.”
Lindy was flushed and happy again. Oliver had forgotten that he would have to consult his family lawyer, that he would have to break the news to his mother. He had forgotten everything except that Lindy was there—close to him, young, radiant, within reach of his hands, were he to stretch them out to take her. And with the thought rose the desire to do so, to press her body, young and pliant, against his own.
Under the kindly cloth his knees found hers. Lindy did not draw away. She was conscious of his glance, soft and diffused. It seemed like eager fingers, through her thin chiffons. Her warming fancy yielded itself to the caress. His lips grew taut, hers weakened. She held her breath.
“Let’s go,” he said. His voice was thick.
Tense and silent, they rose, and passed out of the dim restaurant.
It was a week later that Mrs. Van Neck’s car—an ancient Panhard, with its claret and black coach-work beautifully kept—drew up before Vera Casswell’s house in Knightsbridge. The driver, who at heart had never ceased to be a coachman, crossed the flagged yard, which separated the house from the pavement.
Mrs. Van Neck, very erect and distinct from her cushions, watched him.—Ten days since they’d all left her house-party, and she’d heard nothing—except for “bread and butter letters,” of course! Showed how a house was run—how long it took to answer the door, she thought: especially when the caller was expected. Vera now, probably wouldn’t keep a man servant. And considering that, the door was opened as soon as could be expected.
The coachman returned to the car: Mrs. Van Neck’s dust rug was withdrawn, and she descended.
“Shan’t be more than half an hour. Better wait over the road: buses stop this side,” his mistress told him. For she had retained from carriage days the habit of considering the needs of her conveyance.
In the doorway stood Sari. Mrs. Van Neck, as it happened, had never been inside the house before. So, while taking off her cloak—she never liked to be assisted in such matters—she took a good look round. A dull blue-green . . . Italian, she supposed. That big walnut chest certainly was. She remembered it, or one very like it, in the apartment Vera used to have in Venice. She laid her cape—a black fleecy affair, of uncertain period—upon it.
While Mrs. Van Neck scrutinised the room, Sari scrutinised her—not in a hostile but a noting way.—One of the old Countesses Palfey had been like that, like a lean horse—thoroughbred, not always easy to manage, she decided. But that old lady must be dead years ago. . . .
“Miss Vera is in the garden room, and told me to ask whether you, Madame, would care to go. Would the gracious lady come upstairs, or . . .”
The maid’s wording and accent amused Mrs. Van Neck.
“I’ll go out to her,” she cut in decidedly.
The way led through the room which was at the back of the house. It was lit only by two alabaster urns upon a side-table.
“Not English, are ye?” asked Mrs. Van Neck, who liked questions, the answers to which she knew.
“I’m an . . . a Hungarian,” said the old maid, nodding several times, but without looking round. She shuffled along so fast over the soft dark carpet that Mrs. Van Neck, with brisk businesslike stride, only just kept up with her.
“You came over with Miss Casswell’s mother, I suppose.”
The French windows were open, and Sari shuffled out into the flagged garden. On either hand, in their tended beds, were flowers, and at the juncture of the little paths standard box trees.
“I was maid to the Countess Czernay, and nurse to Miss Vera after.”
They skirted the little lily pond.
“Nothing like staying always with one family,” said Mrs. Van Neck approvingly.
“That is most true,” Sari answered, slowing her pace, and turning to nod in friendly acceptance. She stopped in her progress. “This moving like this and like that is not good at all. My mother’s people were by the Czernay family for many generations.”
The little garden stretched out long and narrow to reach the low wall of Hyde Park. On either side of its paved central path were beds of just visible flowers. At the further end of the little patterned space rose the garden room. It was carried on piers so that the further side looked over the boundary-wall and across the park. The arched doorway at the head of the steps was open: and through it and through the pair of curtained windows on either side of it came the glow of shaded lamps.
“Pleasant evenin’, isn’t it?” Mrs. Van Neck remarked. She approved strongly of old family servants.
Vera heard her voice and appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, you’re here already. I meant to come in, and to have been in the drawing-room when you came. I am so sorry that you’ve had to come out here.”
“Don’t you come down,” Mrs. Van Neck called up in a tone of mock ferocity.
“This is so nice of you,” said Vera.
Mrs. Van Neck stumped up the wooden steps and into the garden room, rung Vera’s hand, and looked round. It was a narrow room, with its length and its arched windows over-looking the park—two of them open. Along the wall at one end was an immense divan, with pillows—books—and a tray with cups and a coffee machine, its tiny flame now burning. In the centre of the room was a table, a sturdy work-table, and at the other end a low dais.
“You’re really sure . . . you didn’t mind my not being in the house to welcome you, did you? I’ve been working. You prefer an upright chair, don’t you?”
“Thank ye.” Then, seeing the old maid who had now also mounted the steps and stood in the doorway, Vera turned to her.
“What is it, Sari?”
“It is not good to have the window open at night, Miss Vera, and the door, too.”
“All right, Sari,” said Vera with one of her rare laughs. “You’re quite right, you can shut the doors.”
The old maid closed the doors one by one, with much fuss and jumbling.—Nice to see mistress and maid like that, thought Mrs. Van Neck.—Yes, both nice!
Mrs. Van Neck, her knees closed, her hands in the pockets of her jacket, watched Vera draw up her feet and settle herself on the divan.
“You’ll have some coffee?”
“Thank ye.”
“It’s rather strong.”
Meanwhile Mrs. Van Neck had risen from her chair and had been inspecting the little statuette on which Vera had been at work.
“Approve of that. Lindy?”
“Yes.”
“Exhibit, don’t ye?”
“Oh, not very often now. Once I used to.”
Mrs. Van Neck sat down again. “Didn’t mind my proposing myself at such a time, did ye?”
“Of course not. As a matter of fact I’ve been wanting to see you to——”
“Quite.”
Mrs. Van Neck drew quickly at her cigarette and blinked at Vera. “Quite!”
“Only I didn’t know you ever came up to London in the summer.”
“Come up in the Panhard each week for Committee Meeting of the ‘Canine.’ Lunch with some one as a rule. Dine at my club, and drive down after.”
“As a matter of fact—Bo’sun is always wanting to take me out in his new car—and I thought I’d get him to drive me down to see you one afternoon. I would have written, only there are things it’s easier to say than——”
“There are.”
Vera and the other woman looked at one another with a narrowing of the eyes, which for both of them, though very differently, was half a smile. There was silence. . . . Mrs. Van Neck emptied her cup, and set it down firmly, as though daring it to move.
“Not pretending I haven’t been worrying about Lindy and Harry Hawkins. . . . And what’s going to happen!”
Vera leant back and fixed her glance on a dark corner of the ceiling, but not in any way to avoid the other’s gaze.
“Such a lot has happened, it isn’t easy to know where to begin.”
“Lindy’s still with you?”
“Yes, she’s out to-night. With Oliver. They’ve gone dancing. They do almost every night now. . . . No, not in places where they’d be likely to meet people.”—This in answer to an interrogative eyebrow of Mrs. Van Neck.
“Quite!”
“But about what you will be wanting to know, nothing’s really settled at all yet.”
Mrs. Van Neck laid down her cigarette, and settled a hand on either knee. Very upright on her straight-backed chair, she looked about . . . but no more interested than usual.—Vera a bit slow getting off the mark!
“Y-e-es. But you see nothing can be done till they’ve . . . there isn’t the evidence yet . . . and that’s the difficulty. In a way, it’s my fault. . . . It might seem so, I mean. I tell Lindy that when she goes away with Oliver, she must go for good. I won’t have him asking her away for a week-end as if she was a chorus girl, and then bringing her—back again. At least, she can’t do it from this house. It isn’t my affair. But there seems something so——” Vera consulted the dusky shadows: then, as if she had deciphered the word in them, “Squalid! yes, squalid, in all that.”
“Quite.”
—Oliver wanted to go off for the week-end with her, and send Harry’s lawyers the hotel bill. . . . That was the way it was often done, Vera knew, but it did seem so . . . cynical . . . cynical in the way the French are cynical. If Lindy had any real religion or any strong guiding principles it mightn’t hurt her . . perhaps. Vera was a good Catholic herself, but she believed divorce was the only thing in such a case as theirs. But to “provide evidence” as they call it, and then to go back again to live separately just because it happened to be more convenient for the moment, did seem so . . . disillusioning. And if Lindy lost her illusions, she’d got nothing else to take their place. And Vera couldn’t face the idea of her getting . . . each year shoddier and shoddier ideals. The real trouble was that Oliver couldn’t run away with her till he’d sent in his “papers.” Vera didn’t know, but she supposed that was sensible. To begin with he couldn’t get “leave,” and naturally his regiment wouldn’t have a scandal.
Mrs. Van Neck nodded. “So the thing’s just the same as it was.”
“So far, there’s no evidence he’d care to use for a divorce yet, so Harry hasn’t started proceedings.”
“Uncommon decent of Harry Hawkins not to drag in my house.”
“Oh, but naturally Harry wouldn’t think of doing that. His lawyer will wait till they can supply some other evidence: a hotel bill, and a letter . . . and . . . Oh, whatever’s usual. You know.”
Mrs. Van Neck took up her cigarette and drew at it. It was out. She lit it again before she answered. This business had been worrying her more than she cared to admit to herself. But, as usual, the more she felt, the less she said.
“Glad.”
The silence in the garden room was profound. No sound of traffic came from the park outside: for it was not yet ten, and the dwellers in Kensington and other suburbs were not yet returning to their homes.
“Shouldn’t mind so much for myself,” Mrs. Van Neck went on. “Very likely would pay one out for liking gay house-parties, when I ought to be knitting socks for villagers. But I’d be sorry for the house. I wouldn’t like it for that. Only tenant for life, yer see! And it isn’t mine to get into the papers.”
“Lindy felt awfully about that. Really she did. It was . . . well . . . she explained, they hadn’t planned anything.”
“That’s the worst of the young women to-day. They never do. Discretion went out with veils.”
“She was coming back from her evening bath . . . and . . . well—as she put it—it just happened.”
“ ‘Just happened!’ Nothing modern in that, at any rate!” Mrs. Van Neck’s lips tightened into her unrecognisable smile. To know whether her house was to be kept out of it all was what she had really come to find out. It was to be: and that was that! Still, she was very sorry for poor Harry Hawkins—and for Vera, too, because they’d both of them lived for that little girl. And in a very different way she was sorry also for Lindy, and Oliver Dashwood even, for they were so young . . . and . . . Well, one was only young once! And things didn’t always turn out the way one expected them to. And when they didn’t . . . well, young people took it hard, took it uncommon hard sometimes.
“But soon as young Dashwood’s been able to resign, and Lindy and he have gone off together, then things’ll begin to move pretty quickly?”
Vera held herself very still, or she would have shivered.—“When they’d gone off” . . . She couldn’t get used to it all! She couldn’t! . . . . Oh, it was horrible!—As it was, she did not shiver, but lowered her chin, and looked towards the older woman.
“Yes, then Harry’s lawyers can begin proceedings.” She sighed. For a while there was silence again.
“Then in a year Lindy and the young man’ll get married.”
Vera leant forward and reached for the cigarettes: but Mrs. Van Neck shook her head. So she took one herself and lit it. The pause and the movement helped her to hide her feelings.
“Well?”
“Yes, I suppose they’ll get married after that.”
Mrs. Van Neck blinked at her.
“Change my mind,” she said, and took a cigarette. “You suppose they will? Isn’t it certain then?”
Vera drew herself to the edge of the divan, and sat forward, her heels on the ground, her arms about her knees, her elbows were cupped in her hands. To-night she was sad, with a melancholy she would not banish. And to-night the Hungarian strain in her was very recognisable. The lamp was beside her, and its rosy glow found tawny lights in her hair, where it curled and clustered about her ears: it threw deep shadows above her high cheek-bones. With their lids narrowed, the slant of her eyes was more discernible, their dark, heavy lashes and the brows above them, shades darker than the red chestnut of her hair, traced two different lines. But it was in the modelling of the mouth, and in the gleam of her teeth, that the race of her mother showed most clearly. The upper lip was so thin and sensitive that one might have fancied that it quivered: the lower lip, full yet ever controlled, expressed that Magyar love of vivid living, that quick disgust.
“Yes, I suppose it should be certain, must be certain that they’ll get married then,” she said.
“You don’t want them married?”
Vera thought. She narrowed her glance upon the distant shadows.
“Sometimes it isn’t easy to know what one does want!”
“Isn’t it? Never noticed that myself.”
“Oh, I don’t know what I want to happen. I want Lindy to be happy. I do think . . . yes, honestly, that that’s what I want most. I do know I’m not considering how it affects myself, but I don’t know what is going to make her happy. To-day, though she was very fond of Harry—and is still, Oliver is the most wonderful of people. But there isn’t really much in him. He just looks nice, and dances well. The surface of him is pleasant, but underneath he’s selfish, almost consciously so. There isn’t any depth in him.”
“Do yer think women want depth in a man?”
Mrs. Van Neck fancied not: but it was one of the few things of which she was uncertain.
Vera considered the question.
“Perhaps they don’t, not the majority. But Lindy’s clever: at any rate quick and imaginative: and I don’t think she could be happy with some one who’d only got negative qualities. Of course Oliver isn’t stupid, and he isn’t unkind, beyond being pretty selfish. But he isn’t anything very much.”
“And so you’re against her marrying him?”
“No. . . . You see: now she has compromised herself with him, it seems to me it’s the only thing for her to do. Harry, having found out, feels he must divorce her.”
Mrs. Van Neck emptied her coffee cup at a gulp, and set it down decisively.—Vera was very odd! She liked her.
“And wouldn’t you divorce her if you were a man?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell what I’d do if I were a man. I’d hate to be . . .”
“Would have liked to have been myself!”
Mrs. Van Neck’s steady grey eyes lost their quick attentive focus.—She’d ridden to hounds as often as most men: had since her early teens: she’d been a good whip: she’d run the place better than Andy used to: she’d done a good deal in public life, one way and another. But there were things that, as a woman, she’d never been able even to try. No, she’d have been better as a man. Perhaps if there’d been children . . . Anyway, there hadn’t!
But Vera wouldn’t let herself be unfair to men, and certainly not to Harry, so she added, “No, I don’t blame Harry for feeling he couldn’t forgive Lindy. I don’t know that the average woman would forgive her husband in the same circumstances—not really forgive, I mean. Probably she wouldn’t. Anyhow, that attitude is deep down in men’s training: and Harry isn’t an original thinker.”
Mrs. Van Neck smiled enigmatically.—Always preferred the stupid ones: always! “No, there’s no nonsense about him,” she said.
Vera laughed softly. In their very different ways they could consider men as a sex dispassionately.
“And as Harry doesn’t work things out for himself, he has followed the traditional point of view, which he was taught: that men may do what they like till they marry, and that after marriage they should be faithful to their wives, if they can: but that women should be virtuous always.”
“Pretty wholesome view!—Got any more coffee in that affair?” Her cup was refilled. “Good coffee! Jackson’s? Lyle’s! Quite!” She looked at Vera approvingly. She liked Vera.—Yes, that was the wholesome view of it! Obviously! The accepted view, of course. But there wasn’t any sense in questioning the accepted. And by any reasonable morality General Hawkins could hardly do otherwise than divorce that young Lindy. That was the only sound way of looking at it. She herself would in his place.
Leaning forward, her elbow on her knee, Vera rested her cheek upon her interlaced fingers. She rocked herself gently to and fro. The rosy, dappled pattern of lamplight played softly across her cheek: it stressed the line of her dark lashes: it glowed in the rich tones of her hair.
“I can’t help looking at it all from the point of view of how it touches Lindy.”
Mrs. Van Neck nodded. She liked a person: or she didn’t. To one she liked she could forgive everything . . . or, well . . . that was near enough for practical purposes. And what good were any others?
“Lindy does things without thinking. Yes . . . she ought to think, I know. But perhaps it isn’t all her fault.”
Something in Mrs. Van Neck’s lean immobility suggested a query. Vera met it.
“No, it isn’t all her fault. Really it isn’t. She is so responsive to surroundings, to a suggestion of romance, to generous, unselfish instincts, too. She’s so . . . so vivid, so full of curiosity about life. Of course lots of other girls are. . . . Yes. But then they’ve been brought up on guiding principles. They’ve been taught this is wicked, that is unladylike . . . and all those names for the forbidden. They’ve grown up under the influence of older people’s certainties. They mayn’t have believed in them: they may have rebelled against them: but these principles have for them a certain authority. . . .”
“Quite! The rails!”
With narrowed eyes and a just visible glint of white between her parted lips, Vera searched for the words she needed. Mrs. Van Neck did not try to follow on the train of thought. She waited for Vera’s words, which presently continued.
“Yes, the principles they’ve been taught have a prestige that just mere reasoning or personal advantage doesn’t have. . . . I can’t . . . explain. But Lucius never had any certainties to hand down to her . . . at least, not certainties about such things . . . and he never pretended to have any. He was whimsical: he wouldn’t ever be serious, except about the arts, and . . . well . . . the soufflé not being light enough. And so Lindy grew up without believing anything was very serious. She married Harry . . .”
Mrs. Van Neck followed with sympathy. She was no bigot: she did not want to judge those who failed to live up to her standards . . . or even to their own. It was true, too, that Lindy’d married out of the schoolroom . . . or a few steps outside it.
“Eighteen when she married, wasn’t she?”
Vera nodded.—That was true. And Lindy had thought it would be just another sort of a “good time,” just like balls and Ascot, and staying away. Harry was a dear: he was in love with her: and she was fond of him, and so thrilled by his being in love with her that she thought she loved him. But it hadn’t been enough.
For a while there was silence in the room. Then from outside in the park laughter floated up into the garden room. Some one having a good time, thought Mrs. Van Neck. She liked happy people. Vera, far away amongst the shadowed memories of Lindy’s engagement, heard nothing.
Presently she went on again.
“Lindy was living with my mother and me then. That was the winter when Lucius was travelling, you remember. She’d been with me before, but never for so long. Such a wonderful time it was. Lindy was still half child. Everything was fresh and marvellous to her. When she was happy—even in the streets—she used to catch hold of my arm and almost dance along. And you know her laugh—such a happy, round little laugh. When she was amused, she used to laugh till the tears came into her eyes. . . . I was only twenty-four myself, but I felt very old by comparison. When Harry wanted to marry her, he came and asked my advice. It seemed an irony of fate his coming to ask me. You see, I loved her too: and if she married it wouldn’t ever be the same again. I knew that it would mean losing her, and I didn’t really believe that Harry would be enough to last her all her life. She needs so much—some one to have a good time with, some one to ride and play tennis with, some one to see pictures with, some one to talk quite seriously and learnedly to her. And Harry couldn’t satisfy all she needed: perhaps no one could.”
“Lot of women like that!” said Mrs. Van Neck without a touch of irony. “Must be getting on,” she continued. “Got to drive on home to-night. And can’t keep Petters out of bed all night. No, don’t trouble to come back into the house with me. Find my own way.”
Vera went with her. In the hall Mrs. Van Neck took her cloak, and, refusing help, swung it round her shoulders. The sleeves dangled loose against her sides.
“Counting on you to come and stay for ten days in October.”
“I’d love to.”
Mrs. Van Neck took Vera’s hand. She gripped it tightly.
“Uncommon glad to hear the old place isn’t to be mixed in all this. Uncommon grateful to you. Don’t seem much the same sort, do we? But want you to know how much I like you, Vera. Was saying so to the Bo’sun at lunch to-day. . . . Why don’t ye marry him? Eh? He wants you. No business of mine. Might do worse. He’s the straight type. Think it over. No business of mine. Good night.” With a quick nod, the thin ghost of a smile, Mrs. Van Neck turned to the door and was gone. For a long while Vera remained in the hall, very still among the shadows.
The lawyer of the Dashwood family gave Oliver lunch and some admirable port. He offered orthodox views and some excellent advice. He was sorry that Oliver had got into trouble. He appreciated his desire to do the “right thing” by the partner of his—er—romance: he wondered if there were not—perhaps, some other way out: he accepted Oliver’s assurance that there was not: he regretted especially that the—er—husband of the lady was a General, and had been also in the Guards. Wife of a Guard’s General and—er—a young subaltern. He feared the subject would be too tempting not to be noticed by the press. The less that was said to any one the better. The publicity would be painful to the Dashwood family, he feared, especially to Oliver’s uncle, Sir Otley, who had only lately expressed an increasing interest in Oliver’s career, an interest which might very well . . . It was most unfortunate. Sir Otley had strict—one might even venture to say narrow—views. He had an aversion—an extreme aversion to publicity. And had it been possible for Oliver to have persuaded the lady—or her husband—to . . . well, refrain from having recourse to such drastic measures, he—as adviser of the family—would counsel Oliver to leave no stone unturned. No, he supposed that unfortunately that did not seem very feasible.
As to Oliver’s proposed visit to his mother he could offer no advice. It could hardly be a pleasure to Lady Dashwood to learn that her only child had conceived an affection for a married lady, and that he would shortly figure as co-respondent in a divorce case.
All that had been before the lunch and the admirable port. During the meal the family lawyer relaxed, and became a perfectly normal person and a very pleasant host. Indeed Oliver, when he had bidden him good-bye, had taken with him a feeling of having received much helpful and practical advice, a comfortable feeling which did not evaporate till an hour or so later, and which returned to him at cocktail time.
The week-end at his home passed off better than he had expected. His mother was glad that he had told her beforehand. She was glad that he and—“this girl”—had determined upon an open course of action—even if it were one of which she could not approve. An intrigue she would have hated. He was old enough to know his own mind. She was glad it was some one of his own class. She had read verses by “the girl’s” father—some years before. She found in them a mood between smiles and tears which had—in a way she could not explain—appealed to her.
Did the husband know . . . suspect?
He knew—more or less, Oliver told her.
She was sorry for him, poor man. It must be a most tragic thing to learn that the wife he loved had ceased to care for him. Oliver’s Uncle Otley would take it badly. Probably he’d cut Oliver out of his will. He must remember that the place, small though it was, was not a cheap one to keep up. She was sorry. But Oliver must live his own life as he must. Money wasn’t everything. And if this girl really loved him . . . Perhaps, since she was so young, that marriage of hers had been arranged by her parents. That must make one more lenient. She hoped that there would be as little public scandal as possible. She asked only one thing of him. Would he wait for three months to think the matter over? It was so easy for a young man to become infatuated with some pretty face—which would mean nothing to him in a few years’ time. She did not suggest that this was so in this case. She’d never seen the girl—he must remember that—and therefore he must make allowances for her, if she seemed to doubt his judgment. He was her only child. She’d no one left now but him. She didn’t want him to think that she was selfish and wanted to keep him all to herself. He was a grown man—a fine, good-looking man too—with whom any girl might fall in love. He mustn’t underestimate that, nor the social position he held. But he was now of an age when he must decide for himself: and she was prepared to abide by his decision. She asked—and after all she had not been a bad or selfish parent—that he would do nothing for three months. He and the girl were both young. They could afford those months. Yes, no doubt it was unnecessary, but would he not do it to please his old mother? What was the hurry? It wasn’t as if he had compromised the girl already. And the husband could not apply for a divorce merely because his wife preferred Oliver to himself. Then there was the musketry competition of which he had spoken so often. She’d been so interested in it all. Even if he could not wait to please her, she didn’t think it would be fair to resign before the competition was over. The team had been trained by him, the men had taken endless trouble. He owed it to them to see the thing through.
Oliver had tried to argue against all this.
What was the hurry? Was their love, his and the girl’s, so transitory that it could not be trusted to last those few months? Couldn’t he wait till the end of the season? People would be away then. Goodwood—Cowes—Scotland—Le Toquet, and the rest. There’d be comparatively few people left in London, so there’d be fewer to talk.
Oliver had demurred. Three months! It was a terribly long time. Besides it would be in the middle of the leave season by then. If he were to leave at all it would be fairer to every one to do so before the leave season started.
His mother saw that! But it didn’t seem to her that an inconvenience about leave could matter beside the life’s happiness of her son. But perhaps he was right. It was he who was the soldier. Men had a different code in such matters. Perhaps he ought to resign before the leave season started. But that did not necessitate his sending in his papers for another three weeks or a month. To do so before that would mean abandoning his shooting team. Rather selfish, she felt, and selfish to people who depended on him. Not quite in keeping with his ordinary code.
Oliver thought of Lindy. It was to her that he owed his first duty now, yet it did not seem clear that a few days—a week or two one way or another—could make much difference. He was going to marry her. It would make a lot of difference to her—nearly as much as it would to him—whether his mother liked Lindy or not. And his mother had asked him to delay for three weeks. If he didn’t, it would be because he himself didn’t want to, but all the same, his mother would probably feel it was Lindy’s fault. It would prejudice her against Lindy. It would be a bad start. For Lindy’s own sake it might be better to humour his mother. It wasn’t as if there were any special hurry. And, after all, his mother was taking it pretty well. That was how the matter appeared to him when he left home after the week-end there, and that was how he represented it to Lindy the same night. Of course Oliver must do what he thought right—they were dancing at the time at a supper club, and by turning her face away in pretended interest about some newcomer Lindy was able to hide her disappointment. As they danced she sang beneath her breath the words of the tune. To her they seemed to have grown suddenly silly, the tune old-fashioned.
It was always horrid having to put off anything when one was keen to do it. But it was stupid to be impatient, she told him. Yes, naturally she realised how important it was for her to start well with his mother.
“She took it awfully well, really,” Oliver told her.
Lindy was sure of it.
“She wasn’t a bit obstinate when I said we couldn’t possibly wait for three months. After all, there was your husband to consider too, and one couldn’t very well expect him to sit tight and do nothing for as long as that.”
“No.” Lindy bit her lip. She’d been looking forward so much to the day when Oliver and she would start upon their travels. Abroad, touring in a car, and in such lovely weather: while hanging about London, almost hiding. . . . Her old life was done with irreparably, she was anxious to be started on the new one, and to forget. For the moment . . . she was no one’s . . . not Harry’s any more . . . and not yet Oliver’s. It wasn’t a nice position. She hated being asked by people who didn’t “know,” what she was going to do that August—or autumn, or being asked about Harry. Poor old Harry! It wasn’t fair on him either: especially when one considered that he was only delaying at all so as to prevent Mrs. Van, Neck’s house-party being dragged in.
The tune was over. Lindy and Oliver climbed the stairs to their little table by the railing of the balcony, and took their seats.
“Tell me about your mother,” she said hastily. “What does she do? What is she like?”
Oliver had never considered what his mother was like, but he did his best to describe her. It was what Lucius would have called a “composite portrait,” Lindy realised.
The Bo’sun had arrived. He waved to Lindy and Oliver from across the room. He was with a girl Lindy knew by sight. Was it because of her that he didn’t drift over and talk to them, Lindy wondered. Or was it merely because the room was so crowded. It wasn’t at all “pointed.” And anyhow it didn’t matter. Besides Bo’sun would always stand by one in anything that was really important. One could count on him, as one could count on . . . Harry. Oliver led her back to the floor.
“Besides I do rather feel,” he went on, “that it takes me to see this shooting team of mine through. . . . It isn’t as if there was anyone else who could . . .”
Lindy fixed her attention resolutely upon some other couple. She heard Oliver saying that he couldn’t very decently leave people who depended on him in the cart.
The Bo’sun was alone, she noticed. “Let’s go and talk to him for a minute,” she said.
He was in a good mood. He’d had “the week of his life” the week before: had had his shirt on a gee some one had put him on to: had put his shirt on it, and had sat on his handkerchief and shivered. Handkerchief?—Why! Didn’t Lindy know that sitting on one’s handkerchief was a sure honest-to-God way of preventing one’s fancy from letting one down? Why, once he’d been sitting on his handkerchief at lunch, and he hadn’t dared to get up from the table till the result of the 3.30 came in over the tape. The waiter had been quite worried till he had explained it to him.
Oliver excused himself and went over to talk to an invisible some one at a little table near the players. Bo’sun continued, though in rather different tones now that Oliver was gone.—Yes, he’d sat on his handkerchief, and the thing had come off. Twenty to one! Twenty to one, he asked you! Could he come and sit at Lindy’s table till Oliver showed up again? Lindy was glad of his company.
“Damned if I don’t drink the blighter’s beer!” He emptied the champagne bottle: went through the motions of milking the neck of it: and ordered another bottle. “Charge it to this table, of course! . . . I don’t mind drinking out of Oliver’s glass. It’s he who’ll get hydrophobia. Oh, hadn’t you heard? I was bitten by a mad mother.”
—What had he done to the daughter?—Nothing—that was just it! He’d met the girl and her brother for the first time. She’d got her hair done the new way, and he hadn’t known which was which. So he hadn’t been taking any chances, and he’d told the mother so. Bitten? Lor’, he’d carry the scar to his dying day. No, he declined to show it to her. Men couldn’t expose themselves in public like that. And besides he wasn’t Oliver. And by the way . . . seriously . . . how were things going?
Oliver wasn’t going to send in his papers till after the cup had been “shot for,” Lindy told him.
Bo’sun took a sip of wine, and shifted his jaw sideways. “I see.”
“After all, he can’t very well,” added Lindy hastily.
“Not much of a bunch here to-night,” the Bo’sun remarked after a short silence.
Had Bo’sun seen Harry . . . since?
Yes, he’d dined with him two nights back. What had Harry said? . . . Nothing, not a word about anything. He and her father were going off abroad together. But she’d know that. Bohemia—not the decent, imaginary place—only the place the Czechs came from—and shouldn’t.
Did every one know? Was there a lot of talk about it?
No. That was the surprising thing about it. No one seemed to have caught on. Except for one night, Harry’d been away—at a pub somewhere, fishing. Came up to see the lawyers and that, but didn’t stay. So really there didn’t seem anything to give the show away. He wouldn’t, naturally. Nor Oliver. Nor her father. Nor Harry. Old Mrs. Van Neck knew, he supposed, or guessed, but she wasn’t a talker whoever else was. And besides her . . . well, there wasn’t really any one except, of course, Vera.
Vera. Yes. He’d like to come round and see them both sometimes. When could he? Would they dine with him the following night? Well—she could let him know. Or better, he’d come in to tea next day, and get his answer. Vera! . . . Wonderful girl! Curious, he’d never thought or cared whether any one was . . . well . . . good, before! Not worried about it at all, as long as they were all right. But Vera was different from everyone else. She was good. In a way it made one want to . . . (sounded awful tripe!) to be good oneself. He was extraordinarily fond of Vera: was really. Of course he wasn’t her type. He knew that. But after all who was? It wasn’t as if there was anyone else whom Vera seemed to fancy particularly: or ever had been, as far as he knew. Beautiful, too. It wasn’t the fashion to be beautiful, he knew. Or anyhow women weren’t. The clothes very likely. Had begun to think he was pretty vamp-proof!
Oliver returned and drew up another chair.
“Just going, so don’t worry,” said the Bo’sun, hastily with-drawing his earnestness. “My little lady will be escaping from the party she tacked on to: then she’ll be running round like the advance agent for a panic, and advertising to know who I’ve bolted with! We’ve ordered you a nice new bottle of bubbly, and we started it for you too. Aren’t we nice? Must be pushing off. Give my love to Vera. You won’t forget?”—(then softly and to Lindy only)—“No, seriously. So long.”
Vera! . . . She was to give Vera Bo’sun’s love, thought Lindy. Oh, she wished she hadn’t got to tell Vera that Oliver wouldn’t be able to go away with her for another three weeks or so, because he . . . Vera wouldn’t understand. She would think . . .
“The man I was talking to over there,” Oliver was saying, “he knows Italy inside out and backwards, and he’s been telling me that we shan’t find it too hot even in the south—bar an hour or two in the middle of the day sometimes. He said I . . . I pretended I was going alone of course . . . mustn’t miss seeing . . .”
Lindy sat very still. What Oliver was saying merged into the soft accompaniment of living.
The days passed by: and Lindy stayed on at the little house in Knightsbridge. Oliver would “send in his papers” as soon as he could. Then they would go abroad together: and then Harry’s lawyer could start proceedings for the divorce. In the meanwhile there was nothing to be done. She must wait patiently—as patiently as she could. To Vera she said nothing. Lindy saw Oliver almost every day, at the house or outside it: and almost every night he took her out to dinner.
Vera asked no questions. There was nothing she could do, but she tried to surround Lindy with the silence of her sympathy. Once or twice she had Oliver to a meal, but the conversation was not a success: and she felt that her presence made him, and consequently Lindy, uncomfortable.
Often when Oliver took Lindy out dancing, she did not reach home till very late. Sometimes on her return she came into Vera’s room to kiss her good night: sometimes she did not. And on these occasions Vera, knowing that Oliver had a flat in St. James’s Street, would draw her own conclusions. And, as she heard Lindy tiptoeing past her door, Vera would lie very still, biting the skin of her wrist.—It did seem so cheap, so shoddy. She didn’t grudge Oliver her Lindy: not if he loved her, and Lindy loved him. She didn’t even blame him for . . . for those stolen hours with her. He was a man; and men were like that. But it would cheapen Lindy’s self-respect. And she wanted her to stay proud and gay, to be able to look any one in the face. She would hear Lindy’s footsteps climbing the soft carpeted stairs—heavy, dragging footsteps. Oh, she understood.
Above her Lindy’s door would close. Then for a long while Vera would lie—very still, her cheek tense upon the pillow, her teeth set, her eyes tightly shut. Thus, keeping her mind blank, she would let time and sensation slip past her: and thus she would hold herself in that empty twilight just outside the world of experience. She didn’t ask anything of life—not for herself. She didn’t seek after happiness: for she had that sense of the eternal which gave her too wide a vision. Joy and sorrow seemed but light and shade flickering upon the screen of our illusions. She could not see it all through that children’s peep-hole of the Present. Love—love in its common meaning—would ever be beyond her reach. She did not even feel the need of it: she could see its beauty as it soared through the darkness, and with its burst of brilliance lit and coloured the upturned faces of the crowd. She did not lack the warmth for love, but it was for others. To her it was like strains of music which float through a June night, and steal in upon solitude. No—she did not ask anything for herself—only happiness for Lindy—happiness, and that the glamour of her life should not be torn.
Alone with her thoughts, Vera would lie, her muscles set, very still. On the dim grey wall above the bed her frozen Christ hung limp upon the dark crucifix. The curtains were draped in a long sweeping shadow: between them was the pale, still bar of the night.
Lindy! She only asked it for Lindy that life should not be soiled. She didn’t ask very much—not everything—even for Lindy. Not for a long space, not for fame: no—only that Lindy should not learn bitterness.
Perhaps it was selfish. Yes, perhaps, after all, it was for her own self that she asked it—and wanted it. For Lindy was all she loved, all she ever had really loved: and she could not bear to think of Lindy, jaded, tawdry, crumpled. For herself, any joy that might ever come to her, any happiness, she’d barter them all for Lindy’s sake. That was all she asked for—that Lindy should be spared. Outside the open window were the whispering leaves and the soft summer night.
It must be nearly six o’clock, the Bo’sun decided—really he ought to be shoving off. Of course, there not being a clock in the room did give him a bit of an excuse for “sticking” like this. A clock would have been out of the colour scheme or something like that, he supposed. Perhaps Italians didn’t have clocks in that—whatever period the room was. Pretty safe guess, a room being of a “period.”
He turned a little on the wide divan, so as to come closer to Vera, who, with her heels tucked under her, was at the other end of it.—She was lovely, not just pretty like little friend Lindy, nor just good-looking or jolly like, oh, like lots of girls—but lovely. He liked her best in black, too. How white her neck was; and her face so white . . . and calm. That was the word. And her hands, white and graceful, clasped under her cheek. Behind her were the long, open windows and the net blinds, just alive in the summer breeze. The silhouette of her was clear against them . . . like . . . like the figure on . . . a cameo.
“I wish you’d try to get to like me better.” There! He’d said it.
“But I do like you . . . I like you very much.”
“No, but like me really.”
“I do.”
“But different from the way you like other men . . . if you could.” With his arm along the back cushion of the divan he leant towards her. In a way, the very negligence of her attitude, her feet drawn up under her, and the very couch-like quality of the divan, made any advance seem more deliberate. Sitting with her on a straight-backed settle, his arm would have been behind her, almost around her by now. “Listen, Bo’sun. I like you better than any other man I know. That’s true.”
Were her eyes laughing at him? No, he did not mean laughing, but . . . mocking. No, they were serious, he was sure. Her voice was earnest. She was open with him always: and that very sincerity made her the more inaccessible.
“Listen,” Vera went on, “you’ve been very straight with me . . . ever since we’ve been friends, and I want to be quite straight with you. I have never been in love with . . . any man . . . any man at all. No, never: never at all. I do feel that I want you to understand that, because you’re so nice. There have been men I have liked . . . as friends . . . or I’ve been interested in, because they were . . . different from the rest. But of all the men I’ve known ever, I like you best. I’m fond of you. I’m very fond of you.” It was not because she avoided his eyes, but her gaze was on some distance, far away—as though she were finding her words there. “Don’t you believe that? Do you understand?”
The Bo’sun raised his foot from the ground, stretched it out into space, and watched without purpose the lacing of his tennis shoe. In white trousers, with a “Brigade” boating jacket, he had come in straight from Queen’s.
“But differently, I mean. Don’t think I’m not grateful. Your liking me means more to me than anything else in the ‘wide’! Only besides liking me . . . well, like you said . . . more than the rest, couldn’t you like me . . . differently? I’m not very clear—I know—but you see what I mean?”
Vera watched him with the ghost of affection. He was like a child to her. She could have taken him in her arms, and held his head against her breast. Yes, that she could have given him. She nodded reassuringly.
“I know what you mean. It would be an affectation to pretend I didn’t, and not fair to you. But—come closer.” She patted the cushion between them. “No, I’m not frightened of you.” She laughed softly.
The Bo’sun drew near to her, till his knees almost touched hers. She was small, really, when one was quite close. Not small—for she was tall—but fragile. She would be light. He had only to slip an arm around her shoulders and another under her knees and he could swing her up and hold her. The thought stirred him. His lips hardened. In his fancy he could feel her body close against his own. She wouldn’t scream out or struggle, even if he did it. She’d only say, “Put me down, please,” calm, unhurried—a little hurt.
“Try to understand what I’m going to say, will you?” and suddenly she took his hand. Her fingers were cool, her grasp firm but very gentle. “Bo’sun, I’m fond of you, as fond of you now I suppose as I ever shall be of any man, ever! Now this is what I want to tell you. Perhaps you’ll understand. I developed late. I knew about everything—marriage and children and such things—long before I even thought of men at all . . . as being different from us. My innocence outlasted my ignorance—by a long time. I think I was as curious as other girls I knew, about—how shall we say?—the facts of sex—just healthily curious. But after I knew, it didn’t seem to make any difference to me at all. I used to fancy that some day I should fall in love and get married. But it all seemed as far off, further off really, than it had when I was a little girl. In a way I suppose I was over pure. I know I used—I am a Catholic you know—think often, perhaps always, of the purity of the Virgin, as I prayed to her. That was the aspect of my religion which was most sympathetic to me. But I wasn’t vindictive towards men, as some women who are in love with virginity are.” Her hold on the Bo’sun had tightened. “I should hate you to think I was like that. I don’t know why, but I should.”
“I think I do understand . . . a little, Vera,” said the Bo’sun rather humbly. He was trying to picture Vera—a tall, very thin wisp of a girl, with her pale face, her dark chestnut hair—in plaits, he saw it. He pictured her standing alone, very still—in the gloaming—thoughtful, a little melancholy, very dévote. Vera leant a trifle towards him, till their shoulders touched. They were hand in hand, looking straight before them.
“It was when I was seventeen—no, eighteen—as old as that,” she continued, “that I first began to wonder. It was in Hungary, on my mother’s place. It’s mine now, but an aunt lives on it. It was just before the war. We used to go there for three or four months every year then. The girls, my friends, who were about my own age, were always falling in and out of love. One or two of them had already been married. One of them—Marthe—who was a special friend of mine, had had her first baby. I went to see her after it had come—we had loved each other very much—but I found that though we’d meant never to, we had drifted away from each other, and I felt that somehow it was . . . marriage—in the physical sense, I mean—and having the child which had made the difference. In a way I envied her being a mother . . . yet I wanted to stay as I was. Do you understand at all? It can’t be easy for a man.”
The Bo’sun nodded slightly, without looking towards her. His picture of her, as she must have been then, was very clear.
“I’ve never told any one of this before,” said Vera. “I don’t know exactly when it was I began to wonder if I was different from the rest. But I do remember very well one night. It was after dinner, and not quite dark. I had gone out alone into the garden. It was very badly kept, what had been meant to be lawn, long grass, and the flower beds all choked with weeds. There was a path that led amongst the bushes and shrubs and which was the boundary of the garden. I was walking along it in the dark under the trees, when saw a peasant girl I knew, walking with a farm boy. They were just beyond the edge of the garden and quite close to me. They were evidently lovers, and I stopped and kept still because I didn’t want to intrude. They were strolling as they went—lingering—that’s the word: and just opposite where I was they stopped and he took her in his arms. I was so close that if I had whispered they would have heard, but I stood stone-still, leaning against the stem of a tree. For a long time they were quite still, in each other’s arms. I could see the girl’s face, pale in the darkness, and lifted to his. It grew slowly lighter, and the moon began to rise over the Great Plain. It was full moon or nearly—a very still night. The moonlight was very bright, everything in the fields clear as day: stooks of corn—it was harvest time—and far away some little clumps of trees. But the lovers and I were in the shadow of one of the farm buildings. I knew the girl quite well. She had done sewing for me, and she had told me all about herself and what she believed. She was a year or so younger than me. Only a few months before she had been a child. And there she was, limp in the arms of that big, broad-shouldered, peasant boy. And being so close and knowing her so well, it was as if I knew everything that was passing in her brain, could almost feel the boy’s arms, his rough peasant clothing. Presently his hands began to stray over her, over her shoulder—about her waist . . . Oh, you know.”
Vera paused for a minute. Very still at her side the Bo’sun waited. He had forgotten the touch of her hand on his. He moved a little and tightened the grasp of his fingers.
“Yes . . . I know,” he said quite low.
“And standing there so close to them, I wondered without intending to, how it must all feel. Then I tried deliberately to fancy. I don’t think I was a sensualist in that way. I’d never thought about . . . the physical side of love . . . not in . . . detail. But just then I tried to. Curiosity . . . almost a sort of sympathy. Perhaps in a way I was often lonely in those days . . . unconsciously I mean. Anyhow I did try to experience in my imagination what the girl was feeling. But I couldn’t. Do you know, the discovery almost frightened me. Their embraces grew more ardent. The girl was past resistance, I knew that. Presently, the boy picked her clear up from the ground, carried her over to where the shadows were deepest, and went down on his knees beside her. Then I ran away.”
Vera closed her eyes. How well she remembered it, that breathless evening, the moonlight like the green waters of a pool, the level fields—the wide empty distances, the shadows and the mysteries. Those nights of her youth, those nights before the war—that had gone and could never be recalled. . . . There would always be something strange in the thought that days and nights dearer to her than the present, were gone for ever: that each memory added was a step nearer to darkness. Not that she grudged the passing of time. No. Soon she’d be old, and she’d wither and grow thin and sere like an autumn leaf. And she, whom no man had even known, would leave nothing behind her—because of that. She’d go where the moonlight of yesterday, and the little breezes of her childhood, and lots of men and women she’d known, had gone. She didn’t care: only she’d like to be out out there then, with the broad horizon and the unchanging earth about her. . . . She wanted to rest secure.
“I suppose there must be a lot of other women like you . . . in that way, I mean.” She had never seen the Bo’sun so serious in all the years she had known him.
“Yes, there must be. . . . Do you know I didn’t think you’d understand at all, Bo’sun, or I thought you might . . . misunderstand. I didn’t understand myself then. I ran back to the house and went to my room without going back into the drawing-room. And later, when I was in bed, I tried again to fancy how that girl must have felt: not because I envied her and not because I really wanted to know, but because my not being able even to fancy her sensations had rather frightened me. I thought about that often afterwards. Once or twice I almost prayed to be able to know, because I didn’t want to be different from other people. I never did quite pray for it: something held me back. It worried me. Girls are morbid at that age. I thought of it: but after that I never talked with other girls about such things.”
The Bo’sun, at her side, was very still. “There are lots of women like that,” he said. “One’s heard of them and naturally as a man . . .”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, one has; and so one really knows about them. But they often marry.”
“Yes, they must often have to.”
“Yes, if you like. Well, say they have to. But afterwards, they . . . wake to things. They have children. I daresay at first they felt like you do. . . . I say, Vera . . . I am awfully fond of you. I’m usually ragging about everything, aren’t I? But I’m serious about this. It isn’t as if it were just a passing thing, or as if I’d only just met you and had got bowled over. I’ve known you for ages. I’ve always liked you. Last year I tried, but I never could get you alone. But it’s been getting stronger and stronger. Couldn’t you give me a chance?”
“Bo’sun dear, don’t. If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t mind, but you’re so nice. And it isn’t any good. Go and find some nice ordinary country girl.”
“I’m not a mere boy. I’m twenty-eight, getting on for——”
“I’m three years older than you—a thousand, really.”
“Three years isn’t everything. Well, I’m not a boy who doesn’t know his own mind. I wouldn’t ask much of you. If you were . . . cold . . . I’d understand. I do understand. If you didn’t want children . . . or were frightened . . .”
“I couldn’t ever do it, Bo’sun dear. Do understand that. But it isn’t fear of having children that’s got anything to do with it. Often I have thought that children were one of the things I was missing most. I could love them. That would be one of the easiest ways of loving for me. That, in a way, is how I’m fond of men at all. Listen, Bo’sun dear. You’re just a child to me. Age doesn’t matter. You’re just a child. I could pick you up, and kiss you, but I couldn’t give myself to you nor to any man.” She let go his hand and turned towards him, earnest, almost pleading, and—“There’s never been anyone else: not in the slightest way. There never can be. There’s never been any one that you could be jealous of. I want you to know that.”
He slipped his arm about her, and let his hand rest upon her shoulder. Vera did not draw away: his physical touch meant so little to her.
“I wouldn’t ask much of you,” he began in a dry, exact voice. “I’d be ready to wait. And if you felt you never could, I wouldn’t . . . Well, it would be just luck, and I’d try to take it sportingly. But you see I love you . . . in all the ways, and I want to have you with me. I’m not the sort that says this to every one. I’ve fooled round, of course, but I’ve never asked any one to marry me before. I’m not clever.”
“That’s why I like you. But you’re quite clever enough—only . . .”
“I’ve nothing much to me. I’m not bad at soldiering. I play a fairly good game at several things. We’ve never been anything out of the way, but Clympham isn’t a bad sort of house.”
“Don’t, Bo’sun clear. I know . . . I shall laugh or cry in a moment if you go on like that.” Vera’s lips were parted, her teeth set. She was conscious, now its weight had grown dead, of his arm about her. It seemed to cramp her, to make her want to rise and run out into the freedom of the open air. “It isn’t you I can’t give myself to, it’s any one, any one! You’ve been very patient while I was trying to explain how I am made, and I know I’ve not been patient while you are paying me what is really the greatest compliment a man can offer a woman. Only, you didn’t know what I was going to tell you, and I do know what you are going to. Do be nice. I’m very fond of you, Bo’sun, and you do see that, if you won’t believe I mean ‘No,’ it would be difficult for me.”
The Bo’sun leant forward, his elbows between his knees. “Yes, I see that. But it’s such a big thing for me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been spoilt: but I can’t bring myself to feel all at once that something that would make all the difference to my life, I can’t have.”
Vera rose but sat down again, this time on the arm of the divan. Below her the Bo’sun sat without movement, his eyes on the carpet.
“Listen,” she began. “What I want to ask you is to forget all about it for a month. It won’t be any good ever. But promise not to say any more about it for a month. If you will promise, I want you to stay and dine with me. I shall be all alone to-night because Lindy’s with Oliver—they are out on the river. So if you don’t stay I shall be all alone: and I shall be depressed . . . because, in a way you won’t understand, it makes me sad to be . . . like I am . . . different from other people. It’s a rather lonely state.”
The Bo’sun worried the carpet with his feet. “Not to say anything to you for a month?”
“It wouldn’t be any good. It never will . . . Now do be nice and kind—because you are very kind—and stay and have dinner quietly with me. Besides I’ve got a cousin, a man, who’s arriving from abroad some time this evening. He may be staying with me. I don’t know yet: and you’d like him.”
The Bo’sun got up from the sofa, took Vera’s hand and squeezed it in silence.
“You are nice, Bo’sun.”
“All right. . . . And I’d like to dine very much. I’ll go and dress.”
No, he wasn’t to dress. Should they make a cocktail? The tray of things would be all ready in the pantry next door: and Bo’sun was such an expert. Well, to . . . seal the bargain, they would! He’d make a new one. Oh, she was sure not to have Bacardi rum. What was it like? Oh, pretty good, pretty good. But with the two Vermouths—gin—and that sherry on the shelf . . . oh, very. Would the cousin be there for a cocktail? No? He was always late? Good fellow! Sympathised! Who was he?—Who was he? Tono Gratz. Her mother’s sister had married an Austrian, but since the Peace Treaty, as she had a small property in Hungary and they didn’t like living under a republic, they had opted to be Hungarian. Tono was a comic name. It was short for Anton. . . . Antonius.
Vera had been working to that end, and the Bo’sun’s spirits were recovering. He rummaged in the butler’s tray and found a pickle fork.
“Now to spear the elusive cherry. I did a course in cherry-spearing once: in Leicestershire, during a hard frost. I was pretty strong on the theoretic and historical side of it, but never got my certificate. Eye all right: but hadn’t steady enough nerve. Wants an iron nerve to get ’em first prog!”
What was Tono coming over for? Pleasure? No, on some mission. Tono was a diplomat, and had been at the Hungarian Legation in Berlin for a year or so, but he was coming via Paris.—Berlin to London via Paris! Bo’sun suspected he’d like the fellow! He raised his glass. He looked straight into Vera’s eyes.
“Let’s drink to . . .”
“We’ll drink to Paris,” she said quickly and emptied her glass.
Tono Gratz left his taxicab outside Vera’s house in Knightsbridge, and regarded the discreet exterior and windows, with the affection he felt for all probably friendly dwellings in any capital of Europe.
It was ten o’clock—rather an empty hour in that part of the town, and while he was still standing on the pavement before the railings, enjoying the newness of it all, two motor buses drew up at their stopping-place. Tono, who had been up gambling most of the previous night, blinked at them with appreciation. They were better than ever—cleaner, brighter, shinier: ever more wonderfully driven, and the girls in them—and the men also—all so splendidly English.
London! He had had two wonderful fortnights there in the past.—Dear old London! he thought: just as he had thought—Paris! Really Paris! two evenings previously.
Vera and the Bo’sun were upstairs in the drawing-room. They were talking softly over cups of long cold coffee, when Vera heard from the hall below Sari’s voice raised to a rare pitch of pleasure, some Hungarian words and Tono’s distinctive laughter.
“There he is,” she said, and slipped noiselessly to the door. The Bo’sun followed her slowly to the landing and watched her descend the stairs, being captured as she went by the spirit and gesture of welcome.
The Bo’sun, with a sense of suitability, waited on the landing.
“Vera! My dear cousin! And this is London again!” he heard, and then Vera’s “This is nice!”
Sari had recovered her breath, and became incoherent in Hungarian again.
“No, really!” Vera’s cousin was laughing. “You couldn’t, could you? Might I really, Vera . . . I own to you, I haven’t dined. What? Eggs and bacon, of course! Everything English. That’s it, isn’t it, Sari?”
Sari, gratified and valuable in her sense of usefulness, shuffled off in reluctant slippers. Bo’sun descended to the hall more slowly than in usual circumstances he would have done.
“Bo’sun, this is my cousin Tono. This is Captain Smith, a great friend of mine.”
Tono reached the Englishman as he arrived on the lowest step.
“So pleased!” He smiled and stretched out an ever friendly hand.
“Let’s go straight to the dining-room,” Vera suggested.
“Excellent! But quite excellent!” said Tono, following her and glancing quickly around. Not that he cared for the decoration of interiors, as such, but each country had its own taste in appointments.
Very English, he thought, as he noticed the two Chinese prints, present, from Lucius.—Ah, Liberty, he commented to himself, naïvely.
Bo’sun liked the Hungarian’s constant smile. “I hear you’re fond of Paris,” he remarked.
Tono laughed, and took the Bo’sun’s elbow. Yes, he found it enchanting. He’d been there only two days this visit, but three nights. And days were the same anywhere, weren’t they? Would he like a cocktail? He found it most kind, but to be honest, might he ask for a whisky. This was England. Whisky! Anything else would be . . . a blasphemy: was it not? . . . Oh . . . stop! No, really, stop! . . . Bo’sun was too kind! a little syphon! . . . so! Beautiful!
“London!” He set down the empty glass, and they settled themselves to wait around the table, Tono smiling and arranging his not too plentiful hair.
—No—he didn’t want to wash. Most kind, but really not. He’d made his toilet at the Legation, where he’d just left his baggage. Bo’sun was in the Guards, wasn’t he? Tono had seen a “dress like that” at the polo match at Deauville. He was proud of his knowledge of English manners, and of having recognised a “Brigade” boating jacket: he found it most chic! More? No, really. . . . Well, only a little more! Enough . . . Enough! Oh, excellent!
Old Sari arrived with a plate of sizzling eggs and bacon. Tono caught her by the elbow. The cook had gone to bed she told him.
She’d cooked it herself? Wonderful! How hadn’t she been snapped up in England? Such a good-looking girl—and such a treasure! Delicious!
—He’d seen their Aunt Miette lately. (This to Vera.) Oh, she was very well, but he found her more silly and yet more silly about her health each time. For example, this year (he must apologise to the Bo’sun for all this of the family). For example, this year . . . Not at all! quite well off! She had had money in a bank in Switzerland all the time, it turned out! “Mustard?” he said, helping himself. “Thank you. I had not seen it at first. English! Beautiful . . . Colman’s Mustard! Worcester Sauce. Mixed pickles. Pancakes. I like all your foods.” (This to the Bo’sun.)
His meal was finished. Cigarettes were lighted. Vera fetched liqueurs.—Oughtn’t he to be going? Not! Vera was really sure? No! No! He would like to stay up all night. . . . Always. . . . Mornings were horrible in any case.
“The proper spirit! The proper spirit!” laughed the Bo’sun.
“Oh, Shocking! Shocking! Excellent!” Tono laughed back over his raised glass.
“What did the English officers say at Cologne? Cheerio? Cheerio, old bean?”
“Quite possibly.” The Bo’sun offered his cigarette case.
—They must forgive that he had forgotten his. English. . . . Was it permitted that he told a toast, quite a nice one. . . . Vera was sure? Really?—“Here’s to the girl who gives (did they know it?) and—and forgives. Here’s to the man who gets—and forgets.” He’d had it from a sister of Countess Pritzoff—the Vienna one—Vera must remember her. The sister’s husband was in Berlin on the . . .
Vera heard Lindy in the hall.—Tono hadn’t ever met Lindy Hawkins when he’d been over before, had he? She’d been Lindy Thornhill before she’d married! No, but he must have heard of her at any rate. Her best friend, her very, very best friend . . . she was living with her at the moment.
Lindy entered, in muslins and a river hat . . . and with a gay dust-cloak on her arm. The men rose. Tono was introduced.
“How’s life, Bo’sun?” said Lindy. “Such a glorious day on the river.” She was in high spirits. “Yes, Oliver brought me back. He’d got an early parade to-morrow and he wouldn’t come in.”
She sat down and was given a liqueur.
“Cigarette, Bo’sun, please.”
—She had just come back from a too delicious day on the river. Did Tono know the river? Maidenhead? Wasn’t it too lovely . . . except at week-ends. And even then it was fun—only differently. They’d been staying quite lately . . . “Oh, in a house-party on the river,” she ended rather lamely.
“Must have been pretty hot on the water, wasn’t it?” the Bo’sun threw in as a help.
—No, just perfect. She’d heard heaps about Tono from Vera—heaps and heaps!
“It wasn’t true, I promise you,” he laughed back.
“But it was all nice.”
“Impossible! For example?”
—That he danced well? Not really! Vera was too kind!—He turned and squeezed his cousin’s hand.—Wasn’t Vera charming (this to Bo’sun). No, he didn’t dance well at all. Not compared with . . . oh . . . well, the English danced so smoothly.
“Let’s dance now,” said Lindy, jumping up from the table. “I’ve the teeniest gramophone. We took it on the river this afternoon. I left it in the hall.” She ran to the door. “Don’t worry, Bo’sun. No.”
Presently she returned with the gramophone and a book of records, but without her hat. Her hair had evidently been tidied: the scarlet of her lips was more marked. Vera had begun to move chairs. She had not seen Lindy in so happy a mood for days. Tono and the Bo’sun shifted the table in to the wall.
“What shall we have?” asked Lindy, turning over her records.
The Bo’sun went to her assistance. “Depends what you’ve got.”
“Something very English!” said Tono.
The tune started.
“Too quick?”
“That’s right.”
“You dance with Lindy, Tono. Bo’sun will have to put up with me.”
“Let’s have the lights out,” laughed Lindy. “It’s ever so much nicer.”
“Leave the alabaster vase on. . . . That isn’t too much.”
The lamps were turned out . . . and through the open window the park sprang into sudden existence.
“It was nice of you to let me dance with you,” whispered the Bo’sun.
“Isn’t it horrid having to wind the silly thing?” said Lindy, changing the record. Tono and she returned to the further end of the room.
“Lovely,” she laughed, “lovely.”
Presently the Bo’sun led Vera to the open window and through it.
“Just for a little,” he murmured. “Only for a little.” They wandered past the minute lily pond. “I’ll be good don’t worry,” he said softly.
“I know you will.”
At the further end of the narrow garden, below the garden house, they paused. Through the open window Lindy could be seen talking with animation to Tono as she changed the record. Then the two of them began dancing again, slow—then fast—then slow again. Through the open window came the sound of Lindy singing the words—and then, of her, as they danced, teaching them to Tono.
The Bo’sun, his shoulder against the wall, watched Vera calm and slender in the faint light.
“Vera, I’m so happy with you,” he said. “I’ve never been alone with you out of doors late, before. It’s odd how different you feel at different times.”
“I love the still night,” she told him.
He could see her profile, pale against the soft mysteries of the darkness. To have her always with him, to wander through the fields with her at night.—down by the river bank, at his home: he could fancy her there.
“I wonder if we couldn’t arrange a party,” he said.
“Yes?”
“This week-end, I mean.” She and Lindy and this cousin of hers.—He’d got to go down to Clympham and anyhow he always let it for August and September (being near the sea)—and he had to, to keep the jolly old roof over his head. And as there wasn’t any one there except the gardener and his wife ever now, he’d have to run down to see the place was all right before the ‘let’ . . . and it was taken for earlier than usual that year.
Vera didn’t know how long Tono would be in England . . . or his plans. But it all sounded delightful—and she’d like to show Tono a little English country.
They could buzz down in the new car. No servants bar the gardener and his wife. Vera would bring her . . . maid? the old lady who’d cooked the eggs? Top hole! . . . No, naturally he wouldn’t think of asking Oliver too.
“Lindy might rather expect it, but you wouldn’t, would you?” Vera asked him. “Because . . . because you see . . .” No, she couldn’t bear that. Lindy must wait till she and Oliver went away for ever.
“No, naturally I wouldn’t, whatever she said,” the Bo’sun reassured her. “Awkward enough as it is: my being a friend of the husband too, and all that.”
“I wasn’t quite sure that you knew,” said Vera softly. “I’d hoped very few people would—for the present. But I’m rather glad you should”—then vaguely, half to him, half to the night—“I don’t know why.”
Bo’sun didn’t think anyone else knew outside of themselves.—Point of fact, Oliver’d told him. No, he was sure Oliver hadn’t told anyone else: nor would. Only it had been he originally who’d introduced Oliver to Mrs. Van Neck and to little friend Lindy, for that matter.
Vera watched the flushed glow above the roof-tops.
“Oliver will be good to her?”
—Oliver’d do the straight thing. Sure of it! Quite a good fellow. Perhaps a little . . . temperamental? Was that it? Showed all through. Went rather to pieces on a losing game. Got put off his form so easily. Best in a team, too nervy for work alone. So easily got carried away. That was it! That was how it must have happened, he supposed.
“I’ve worried because he doesn’t take Lindy away at once,” Vera told him. “Lindy’s never said anything. She’s prouder, under all that laughter of hers, than you would fancy—but I’m sure she worries about it.”
Bo’sun was silent for a little. If Lindy’s interest was Vera’s, it was his. Till now it hadn’t been one’s own affair: and had been best kept out of.
His hands in pockets, he turned over his small change. As he did so, and as if the two processes were related, he turned over in his mind the various factors which—for him—constituted the Lindy-Oliver business.
“Oliver’s all right,” he said. But for once his assurance fell a little below his words.—Might really just as well have “bunged in his papers” straight away, he thought to himself. There was that shooting team, of course . . . Oliver had been down to see his mother, he knew. About that, sure to have been!
—One couldn’t pretend to be shocked at the way things happened. They just did: especially with some people! Naturally one wasn’t shocked, nor anything of that sort. No bish of that kind! Only it wasn’t pleasant. This whole show didn’t give one “a good feel,” or leave a nice taste. It hadn’t been his funeral, but if Vera cared so, perhaps he ought to see if he could take a hand. Still, Oliver’d do the straight thing, anyhow: of course he would!
At his side Vera stood, very silent.
“I expect it had to happen,” she said, as if in some obscure way their thoughts had reached the same point. “I expect it had to happen.” Her voice was pitched in that soft, vibrant whisper of hers which had in it the ghost of tears.—Yes, it had to happen. Lindy was like that. She loved her: she didn’t blame her. That was Lindy’s nature. . . . Just fate . . . fate . . .
From the roadway of the park came the drone of passing cars, and from beyond and far away the murmur of the city, like waves, languid waves of summer-time, thought Vera.
Within the drawing-room Lindy laughed as she danced. By the light of her cigarette as she drew at it, she could see her happy smile. Vera held her breath. Emotionally it was her sigh.—A new man! A new fancy! Not that Tono would be important to Lindy. Tono was never serious. He just hovered and laughed and hovered: and was always kind and considerate and close at hand, and then very quickly forgot. He could never mean much to any woman. He would not even wish to, Vera fancied. He wouldn’t matter to Lindy, not like Oliver. No, only he was a novelty: and novelty was Lindy’s zest. Presently all this ugly part would be over, and Oliver and Lindy would be married. Oh, if only Oliver could hold her, look after her, keep her: That was all she asked: that Lindy should be safe.
From that moment when the Bo’sun had first proposed it, Vera had tried to oppose the plan of a week-end party at Clympham Court. She was fond of him—very fond: but she could never care for him—or any other man for that matter—in the way he wanted. And now that she had told him so, she felt that to be one of a partie carrée at his home would be inevitably awkward. He was nice: he wouldn’t worry her: of that she was certain. Still they would be more or less camping out in the house, with only the gardener’s wife and perhaps Sari to wait on them: they would be living at very close quarters with each other. Probably Oliver would stay somewhere near by, and would be in the house as much as he could. Bo’sun—as friend of Harry—could not ask him to stay: he might feel, for the same reason, that he could not have him there morning, noon and night. When Oliver was not at hand, Lindy would be certain to pair with Tono: and then the Bo’sun and herself would be thrown together.
Yet to have refused the invitation would not have been easy for her. A woman would have known her reason, had she done so: some men would have, but the Bo’sun would not: and for that very cause she would not have explained it to him. He might fancy himself a man of the world, rather a gay dog even: yet under his assured manner his nature was a very simple one. To her—though only a year or so younger than herself—he seemed sometimes scarcely more than a boy. He was utterly free from guile: and in proposing that party at Clympham he had no arrière pensée: of that she was certain. To have suggested that he had any would have hurt him, and unfairly. She might want to refuse the invitation, but in doing so she would have to offer an explanation. The true one would be the only one that would serve and that . . .
So she had temporised. Perhaps her cousin Tono had made other engagements: perhaps he’d really sooner stay in London, for he was very much a dweller in capitals: perhaps he would have to return to the Continent before then . . .
But Tono had jumped at the idea: so had Lindy. And after that, it would have been still more difficult for Vera to have raised objections. Lindy would have called her a spoil-sport. Obviously, before the Bo’sun she could not have explained. To Lindy herself she would not have cared to admit her real reason for not welcoming the plan. How could she expect Lindy to understand it? Lindy was so utterly different, made for love, made to be fondled, made for men.
—But if Vera did not love the Bo’sun, at least she didn’t love anyone else: and—well, wasn’t it nice to be made love to? That was how Lindy would look at it—Bo’sun was nice, wasn’t he? He was good-looking and manly, wasn’t he? Every one liked him, didn’t they? So why? No, she could never make Lindy understand. She would hate to try. She couldn’t ever tell Lindy that Bo’sun had asked her to marry him, but she could never give herself to any man. To give herself—her body! The very idea was horrible to her, unthinkable. She could mother him, perhaps—that was taking him to herself, but give herself, to be passive in his arms—never, never. The thought was fear: and to admit fear was not easy for her. She withdrew further and further from the thought, from the present.
No, for Lindy she would have to invent other reasons. With Tono, though he was a man, it would have been different. That was strange, she thought. But Tono was foreign, intuitive: his sympathy was all understanding. Besides he was her cousin, and to a relation one could admit things: for the Continental blood of her mother was strong enough to make the feeling of the family very important to her. One was part of the family: the family was part of oneself. To Tono she could have explained, but she could not get him alone. Lindy and he were laughing together. Bo’sun was at her own side. Every one except herself was enthusiastic about the plan. Vera could think of nothing to urge against it. She gave way.
The plans were made. Sari was to go down by train early in the morning with the luggage, and was to help the gardener’s wife to get the house ready. The Bo’sun’s servant could bring his luggage and collect Tono’s from the Legation, and could bring it all to Knightsbridge.—Bo’sun would drive them all down in his new car. He would call for them as early as he could. He was dismounting guard that morning. He’d be finished and free soon after twelve. He’d be at Vera’s by a quarter to one. They could lunch on the way . . . Dorking, or somewhere. Not lunch at all? All right if Lindy would sooner not—he would too! . . . that was if Vera . . . ? and Tono? . . . Splendid! That was rightey Oh! And prawns for tea—they had wonderful prawns on that part of the coast. They’d be down in time for early tea. The earlier they got down the better. How long a drive? Sixty miles. Two hours or a bit under, on a Saturday, and in his last car. Ought to prune a bit off that in the new bus. Slow going as far as the other side of Dorking, but he always drove the first twenty miles in and out of London in a bowler. That allowed them an extra 5 m.p.h.: just as a racing cap made the police get on the hop five miles an hour slower. After Dorking it was none so bad going, there were some straights where one could “step on the gas” for a mile or two without worrying. And round Arundel the police were gentlemen . . . first classers! Never worried one of a couple of hoots—least of all a local car—unless of course one was busting it to the “common”! The new car was a mover! First time he’d gone down in her!
—There was a train Sari could go down by about—yes, ten-six, or some old time about then. He’d let the gardener know, and he’d send up the boy with the barrow to meet her. She wouldn’t mind the walk, would she? Half a mile. The boy would deal with anything in reason. He would be taking only a suitcase himself. Had Tono got something handleable? How big? Oh, about so by so. Good! Bathing things? They must bring them. He could lend Tono one.—Tono slapped him on the shoulder. A splendid fellow this Englishman! Altogether “good-chap”! Very “good-chap”! The Bo’sun laughed back at him.—He could fix Lindy up with a fig leaf too, if she liked. Fig leaves? Rather! Figs at Clympham were wonderful. No, not ripe yet. But peaches!
Lindy sat on the table beside him. Peaches! Big ones? Juicy? All hot and doozey in the sun? Yes, and strawberries—and raspberries—and loganberries—and currants—and . . . and . . . gooseberries—and peas and . . .
Lindy caught Tono’s arm, and drew him to her side. The other arm she slipped through that of the Bo’sun. “Duck and green peas. We’ll all cook, won’t we? And the sea . . .” she laughed.
Vera brought the decanter. “Brandy, any one?”
“Rather!” | |
{ | “Yes, darlingest!” |
“Excellent, excellent! Please!” |
Vera filled the big, bubble-like glasses.
Tono rose from the table. “I find the English altogether excellent! Country parties: bathing in fig leaves. Shocking! Shocking!”
Lindy laughed back at him. Vera had not seen her so happy for days. Bo’sun rose to go—but Lindy would dance with him. Tono danced with Vera. Then he performed a Russian dance on bent knees. Bo’sun tried to. Both danced together. At last the party broke up. Rubbing her eyes, Lindy climbed the stairs to bed.—Sleepy to-night—very sleepy! How jolly Vera’s cousin was! Wasn’t he a dear! Sleepy! It had been delicious on the river. What fun the week-end at the Bo’sun’s would be! Wouldn’t it?—Lindy offered her lips for the good-night kiss.
For a long while Vera lay awake, thinking. How was she to escape going to the Bo’sun’s for the week-end? If she didn’t go, whom could they get—as a fourth, as chaperon? She couldn’t desert them, unless she could find a substitute. And, oh, she didn’t want to go—didn’t want to! She hated to hurt the Bo’sun—but she had nothing to give him. Nothing!
A feeling of helplessness stole over her. Perhaps it would be possible to get the whole plan abandoned. It would be no use saying anything to the Bo’sun. She did not want to seem selfish to Tono—nor to be it. But Lindy . . . perhaps when Lindy realised that the invitation would not include Oliver, she would not want to go.
Next morning when Lindy came down from breakfast in her room, Vera tried stratagem. Obviously the Bo’sun wouldn’t be able to ask Oliver to stay at Clympham, too. That was obvious. After all, Bo’sun was Harry’s friend as well as Oliver’s. And even Oliver coming over for the day might place Bo’sun in rather an awkward position. It was hardly fair to expect people to do things like that for one.
Lindy spread the marmalade on her toast crossly. She frowned at the happy sunlight of the park outside.—She couldn’t see that! Staying in the house . . . possibly not. But even if Oliver couldn’t stay, he could put up in some place near, and could come over. She would telephone to Bo’sun, and ask if he’d mind that. She was sure he wouldn’t. After all, now . . . now that Harry was going to start proceedings for divorce, and now that she was going to marry Oliver, it couldn’t much matter. As far as her friends were concerned, she and Oliver were as good as married . . . not to people who were old and frowsty, or who weren’t sure enough of their own positions to be able to take chances . . . but to any one who was reasonably sensible.
Vera watched her rise, cross to the open window, and stretch herself like a luxurious kitten.
“Oliver’s mother, for instance? Would she have you two to stay?”
Lindy took up a scent spray from the dressing-table and sprinkled the air.
“Floris?”
“Yes—Red Rose.”
Vera on the bed lay very still . . . waiting. Her hands were clasped behind her head. The biscuit-coloured square of lace drawn over her shoulders bridged the tones between her white arms and the dull chestnut of her hair. Her eyes were on Lindy. Soon Lindy would have to answer.
“Oh, his mother! . . .” Lindy did not look round.
Tono Gratz had inherited from his father’s side—from nearly a thousand years of noble ancestry—the rare title of Margrave—but little else: from his mother’s side a small estate in Hungary—and the Czernay nose.
The Czernay family is one of the Hungarian gentry. At no time has it been rich. At no time have its estates been wide. It has produced many soldiers, two passable generals, some indifferent diplomats, a bishop, and one statesman. Without its nose it would scarcely have become well known. But this feature is unique and unmistakable. Any one with a drop of Czernay blood has some trace of it. You will be certain to see at least one example in any ballroom in Budapest to-day, and amongst the family portraits in many of the country houses in Western Hungary. It is not a large nose, but it is keen, prominent and acute. In old men especially, it seems to jut out from the face as though it were of pasteboard and had been adopted for some masquerade. In youths and in women, it is not so much prominent as defined: it gives to them a curious air of independence and of fanaticism. To the young girls it gives a fineness even in this day of the kitten.
Old Istvan Czernay, who lived to a great age, and who all through the seventies, eighties and nineties held important offices in the Government of the Old Empire, had a sample of the family nose that was a positive blessing to cartoonists. Thin, crooked, gone at the knee, his hands clasping and unclasping behind his back, his head bent, looking piercingly this way and that from under his beetling brows, he would totter along the Kossuth Lajos Utcza, to lunch faithfully at the Nemzett Casino. He would totter along with a staccato gait which somehow suggested knee-breeches. Or, on a fine Sunday morning in summer-time, you could see him at the church parade on the river side, infinitely old, but still infinitely curious about the world around him, wandering as though he were in a desert, through the crowds which made way before him. And as he went, carrying on with himself an endless just audible conversation, there would be, jutting out before him, fierce, inquisitive, knowing, the Czernay nose.
You drew a nose, and an eyebrow which suggested that the head to which both belonged was bent forward: and there you were! There was no need to trouble over other features, nor even a body for the matter of that. No one could fail to make a recognisable caricature of him. Budapest cartoonists have not yet recovered from his having died. It will be a generation before their art in Hungary will recover from the effect of his ever having lived.
Tono Gratz—his great-grandson—was now in the late thirties, and in him already the Czernay nose was very pronounced, especially in times of stress such as Mondays on which gambling debts had to be settled: or daily, in that rebuking hour or two between rising and lunching.
During the drive out of London, Tono had carried on an animated conversation with Lindy who shared with him the restricted back seat of the Bo’sun’s car. He remained secure but uncomfortable throughout a wild burst of speed across the lingering loveliness of Ashtead Common. He had brightened to interest during the slow crawl through Dorking. There Lindy had pointed out to him the obvious wives of majors and of Members of Council in their rather “sporty” gentility, as they moved in and out of the shops, or gossiped with “plus fours” just off the pavement. She had explained the daughter-driven Fords of retired generals, the owner-driven Standards of ruralised city gentlemen, the chauffeured Daimlers of the profiteers. Tono had been told about the brightly clad maidens with rackets and bags of clubs, about the youths in blazers. He had been shown the farmers, rubicund with profitable grievances, riding masters, garage mechanics out on test, a troupe of boy scouts—England.
The pair of minute and separate windscreens which gave their little scoops of shelter to Bo’sun and Vera in the front gave none to Lindy and Tono.
The road straightened; the country flattened itself; the speed increased. Tono stiffened and shivered. His hands were deep in the pockets of his ulster: his hat was pulled down well over his ears: his fur collar was turned up and buttoned in front: and through it jutted the Czernay nose. Little else of his face was to be seen; and none of it seemed, by comparison, important. His eyes he kept tightly shut. England! Fresh air! Manly sport! he thought in comic self-pity. By his side Lindy was leaning forward and a little against his shoulder, so that she could watch between Vera and Bo’sun the speedometer.
“Sixty-seven! . . . Sixty-eight!” she shouted in his ear.
“Sixty-nine!”
Tono did not feel well enough even to serve up a “marron glacé” on that! He let the opening pass.
“Seventy!”
Lindy, in moving about, was unsettling the rug which he had recently arranged. Quite a new draught crept up his ankles. He tried to settle himself still lower in the car.
“Seventy-one! . . . Seventy-two! . . . Seventy-three! . . . Seventy——” But the bubble of the exhaust ceased. The throttle had been closed. The car, in empty silence, with the power shut off, bowled along. The pressure of wind on Tone’s nose decreased rapidly. Presently he opened his eyes.
Ahead, athwart the road straggled a village. To Tono the car now seemed to be crawling.
Lindy leant back again. “Wasn’t that lovely?”
“Excellent,” Tono answered. “Quite excellent, I found it.”
“We’re two minutes up on my bogey for the course,” the Bo’sun announced.
The street had that sense of spaciousness no longer sought after. The houses about it were two-storied, happy, ageing, under roofs of mellowed tiles, a resting-place of tradition, of contentment, of small honest trading, of ancient decency.
“So!” Tono looked round at the trim English inn signs, at the gaudy Yankee petrol pumps. Behind these shrines to the gods of thirst, stretched a tolerant background of mellow brick. How altogether English, he thought.
Out of a grocer’s shop stepped a girl of four-and-twenty or thereabouts, with two hound puppies. Walking them, thought Tono. He knew all about that: for the English in Rome had said that Princess whatever-her-name-had-been used to “walk” the young attachés. “And then some,” the Americans had added. There might be a meet somewhere on the road ahead, he thought. Part of the charm of England was that there might always be something . . . “just round the corner.” He’d have liked to have seen the meet: the gentlemen in pink, and the ladies in—but he supposed that girls would be boys, even more in the hunting field than elsewhere. Then he remembered that it was early July. He corrected the mental miscalculation, and thanked God it had not been uttered.
The village melted into country. The hedges slipped by faster and faster, they seemed to narrow in upon the car. Lindy and Tono nestled closer together. Tono smiled at her. The dark, tarred roadway flowed from the bounding horizon of little hills, and swept dizzily out of sight below the long grey bonnet of the car.
“Isn’t it too, too lovely?” whispered Lindy.
“Wonderful! Quite wonderful! There is a man in Berlin, a very good friend to me, who is proprietor of a big Mercedes. I do not remember how fast—but terrific, quite terrific. And on the way out to Potsdam—one day——”
“What a joke that must have been!” Lindy drew the rug closer about them. Their knees grew intimate. The wind grew fiercer about their ears. The sunshine lost its warmth. Tono snuggled deeper down into his coat, and wished that he could hibernate, and remain unconscious till the journey was over. Fresh air! It was all very mad, this! Fancy dashing through space without any reasonable protection at all. Still it was so English! Sport! Very, very sport! And the art of living was to adapt oneself to surroundings—if one could! Besides in France, even though one would have been sitting in a pleasantly air-tight coupé-de-ville, it would be driven by a maniac, over—as likely as not—a surface like the craters of the moon.
A hay wain appeared like a yellow speck below the skyline, grew larger at a dazzling rate, loomed immense, towered above them for an instant like a cliff, flashed by, and was gone.
A mile or so ahead some low hills began to lift themselves slowly and steadily from among the chequer of fields and copses. The road began to tilt itself up to where—far away—it met a peep of sky, blue between the hedgerows. The incline rose at them like a long, ocean billow: it drove towards them, lifting them on its bosom; its crest rushed at them; the gap in between the hedges widened for them; the crest of the hill swept suddenly under them, and they were rushing down its further side.
Some modern workmen’s dwellings; a public house with a hooded cart pulled up before it; some overhanging trees; a garden wall; the tower of a mediæval church rising proudly on a ridge near by; a cottage perched cliff-like above the road; a cutting; and the land falling suddenly away before them. Below them a village street lay across their course. Over its housetops, and far away, the South Downs, soft and hazy, stretched like a wall against the skyline, east and west to the end of vision; and a few miles away beyond these kindliest of hills lay Clympham Court.
An hour and a half before, the car had turned out of Lower Sloane Street and into that road which runs past the northern façade of Chelsea Hospital: and, though no one in the car noticed the fact, a tall, lean man in a loose suit of grey flannel had been forced to step back on to the pavement. For an instant he had looked into the faces of those in the motor: and, long after it had passed, he had stood gazing after it. Then he had turned and walked slowly away.
Many times during the weeks which followed, he thought of that chance encounter, sadly but without any anger, for that was the way of Harry Hawkins.
—Lindy, Vera, Bo’sun and an unknown man, off into the country, he had thought. They’d looked so gay. Gay! Oh, God! In a fashion he was glad that the fourth of their party had not been Oliver Dashwood. Oliver was Lindy’s choice. He . . . he didn’t grudge them happiness, but he was glad he had not seen them together. He’d been happy with her himself. Lord, how happy! He’d loved her—but he’d been a failure. There was nothing left for him to live for: and that was all.
Vera and Lindy were under the nets gathering strawberries, ostensibly for dinner. All about them was a sense of drowsy afternoon. Not a breath of air stirred. Westward, the ilex trees which stood along that wall of Clympham Court, and formed a windbreak to it, had taken on already their evening solemnity: their shadows had begun to steal across the lawn: but the kitchen garden lay still bathed in sunlight. From the walled rose garden beyond the greenhouse drifted snatches of uneven conversation, and the chink of cups. Sari and the gardener’s wife were there, clearing away the tea things.
“You’ll never fill your basket, if you go on like that,” laughed Vera, on her knees.
“Don’t mind!”
“You won’t have any appetite for dinner either.”
“Shan’t I? You didn’t bathe!”
Across the garden Tono could be seen, wandering along the path from the orchard . . . Lindy noticed him.
“When are we going into the town to do the shopping?” she called.
“Soon. But I must take this to the house.” He lifted into view a big trow basket of peas. “I made all that alone!”
“Bravo!” Lindy rose to her feet, picking up Vera’s basket.—“And these are mine!”
“Wonderful—really wonderful.”
Lindy set down the basket again. “Bo’sun says I can drive the car. He’s not coming.”
“Splendid.” Tono waved to them, and passed out of sight behind the raspberry canes.
Vera had taken Lindy’s basket and was picking into it.—Bo’sun wasn’t going in with them to the local town, which would mean that she and he would be left alone. She hadn’t wanted that. Yet to insist on going with Tono and Lindy would look as if she wanted to prevent them being alone together. Of course Bo’sun would be nice about it. He wouldn’t make things difficult for her. . . . Still . . .
Lindy had abandoned all pretence of work, and was offering her a cigarette. Vera took one, and sat down, her arms about her knees. They had picked enough strawberries, she decided. Lindy was sprawling at her side, and trying to plait a chaplet of crimson strawberry leaves.
“It’s lovely having bare legs again,” she said. She had discarded stockings with the dress in which she had driven down, and was now wearing a smock and skirt of yellow, orange and scarlet chintz. It was nice, gay stuff that—Vera told her. Lindy affixed the wreath of leaves about her golden head. Oh, that “old rag” was ever so old—she said. She’d had it made for Brittany—two years before. It was practical. You just slipped out of the skirt, and there you were ready to bathe, so useful if you’d got to dress in the open, and had to walk back in the same things: or if you felt very Paris Plage-y you could take off the smock too. The “underneaths” were of the same stuff. She made the necessary exposure, and hearing some one approaching, hastily regained discretion. It was the gardener. He was bringing a telegram to them.
“That’ll be from Oliver, to say what time he arrives,” said Lindy, and jumping up ran to meet the man.
The telegram was evidently for her. She tore open its envelope, and read it. There was no answer she told him. The news wasn’t pleasant, whatever it was, thought Vera who had been watching her. Lindy came back slowly to the strawberry bed, and sat down near Vera without looking at her. For a minute or two there was silence.
“He isn’t coming.”
Vera turned and saw her Lindy’s despondent shoulder.
“I’m sorry, darling. Does he say why?”
Lindy reopened the telegram, but not to read it.
“No.” She crumpled it and let it fall.
“Nothing. Only:—Sorry unable come to-day hope arrive afternoon to-morrow:—that’s all. No love. No nothing.”
Vera became conscious of a starling which was trying to tot up courage enough to approach an uncovered strawberry plant. He hopped forward, retired, looked sideways, and flew away suddenly. Vera watched him flit towards the house and disappear.
“I expect he must have been in a hurry,” she said. “He is very nice mannered about things, always.”
Lindy took off her chaplet, and crushed the leaves one by one between her fingers. Presently she tossed it away.
“Life’s a pig,” she said, without looking round. Vera was silent. She could think of nothing to say. Lindy lit another cigarette.
“I think it’s horrid of him . . .” There was a hollow note in her voice.
Was there more than she herself knew of, Vera wondered. Oliver was Lindy’s future now. And if he was failing her . . . Poor little Lindy. But one couldn’t help, and it was really kindest to leave things undiscussed.
Lindy rose to her knees. Her lips were hard. “I’d better go and rout out Tono. If we don’t start soon we shan’t ever get the food in time for dinner.”
She hurried off towards the garage.
“I’d so like to take you over the house, now they’ve gone,” said the Bo’sun, as they walked back up the old ornamental flagging from the garden gate to the front door. Tono and Lindy had just started off in the car. They could not be back for at least an hour.
She’d enjoy so much to see it, Vera told him. Being shown over the house by him at this juncture of their relationship seemed to her to carry implications which might be embarrassing: but there was no way out.
He stopped before the porch, a late Georgian addition.
“Pretty awful this, they tell me. My father always meant to make the entrance through that window, and move the path to there. The original entrance was through the rose garden to the east side of the house. The arch in from the farm buildings is still there, but it’s been blocked a couple of hundred years. When the family who built it died out, they left it to the Christ’s Hospital, and it became a farm for a long time. They didn’t want any front door then, so they stopped up that entrance, and built that ham there. So one couldn’t open it out even——”
Vera’s gaze travelled from this incongruous porch over the rich tones of the older brick, past the corner of the house, and across the low boundary-wall of the garden. Westward, corn-fields stretched vast and level to some distant elms and a squat Saxon church tower. Beyond that again the view lay flat and unbroken, over the sea-plain, to the limit of vision: and on the north, like a landward wall along the plain, ran the mild, wooded slopes of the Downs. Not a breath of air stirred: in the elms across the road rooks were cawing. The sky had deepened to evening tones. Peace here, thought Vera . . . Peace . . . Wind across the levels: winter storms: spring coming coyly from the woods: summer: and peace renewing itself.
—That bit of the house on the left was the kitchen, and over it the “White Room.” That bit was William and Mary.
They went into the house.
“This sort of lobby makes a pretty foul entrance. What? But in my father’s scheme that room in there would make an entrance hall.”
—That was the kitchen, down those steps—that was the back way into the dining-room, but she’d see that at dinner, anyhow.
They passed through a doorway in a very thick wall—once an outside one, the Bo’sun told her—into the hall, a room hung with some dull uneven apricot tone, which gave an impression of tapestry.
The windows looked westward over the open plain, and the room was filled with the glow of early sunset: and this rosy light woke a sheen on the long oak table, on the tall engraved mirror above it, which hung dim and stately against the shadows of the wall. There were vases of tall lilies, white and waxlike, a great divan, and deep chairs covered with dull crimson linen and heaped with purple cushions.
On the wall opposite the mirror was a portrait of Bo’sun—indifferently done. His mother had made him be painted: just before the War, that had been. She hadn’t lived to see it hung.
“And those?” Vera asked, turning from the picture to the little flags of rich silk which flanked it.
“Those are company colours. In the Brigade of Guards each company has its——”
They drifted out into the little flagged passage. Through the open door which led from it, Vera could see the lawn, a spreading walnut tree across it, and, beyond, the growing peace of the evening.
They turned to the foot of the stairway.
“This hound gate is supposed to be rather jolly,” said the Bo’sun, and swung it back against the newel post.
Vera leant back against the wall, and looked up at the wide stairway, at the tall window, the lofty ceiling, at the great grandiose portrait of some warrior in scarlet and lace, at the carved urn-shaped banisters—dark and architectural against the waning light. Everything was very still, she thought. It was as though the house waited for echoes which did not come. Somewhere in the other regions of it would be Sari and the gardener’s wife. But she and the Bo’sun seemed utterly alone . . . in the hollowness of the empty house: an old house, full of watchful memories—watchful of her, wondering if she were to come to live amongst them, and to be some day a shade—added to themselves.
“What do you think I ought to do about the stairs?” the Bo’sun was asking. “The oak’s so slippery even though it doesn’t often get polished. Some people have said one should have a carpet on them. What do you think ought to be done?”
“They look charming as they are . . .”
Vera turned away to an open door. She didn’t want to be asked to make suggestions about the house. She had nothing to do with it. She did not want to be associated by any link with the future plans for it. If she advised this or that change the Bo’sun might think: this is what Vera wanted: that was her scheme. He would grow to associate herself and the house. And—Oh, she mustn’t let him. It wouldn’t be fair. She had nothing to give him; nothing! She mustn’t let him build upon false hopes.
—That was the white parlour—his own place—a tiny room—full of catalogues and fishing rods and Lord knew what, now!
—That other door? That was the dining-room. Vera went into it, a square eastward room, walnut panelled, now dim and shady. The gilded scroll backs of the chairs glowed rich and gorgeous against the dull walls. The carpet was of heavy purple pile—faded and rather worn. The windows were open upon the walled quietude of the rose garden. In the room itself were no flowers.
Vera had found a way of escape—
“They haven’t given you any flowers in here,” she said, “and this room screams out for them. Scarlet sweet-williams in that gilt bowl—I saw heaps of them near the raspberries, and huge hunches of the pink phlox near the quince tree, for each end of the sideboard.”
She became all at once eager and urgent. She would go and gather the flowers—yes, she’d seen the scissors by the garden door. No, really she’d like to do it, and she could manage it quite well. Would Bo’sun he a dear, and find some vases—two tall ones—and get them and that gilt bowl filled with water?
The Bo’sun looked at the porringer. It was a racing cup which he had won and he was proud of it, but he wished he had not got it out of the safe that afternoon.
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t go and get the flowers together, first.”
“No, you go and get the vases: and then if you’re good, we’ll arrange them together.”
Vera turned to go. The Bo’sun leaning against the wall, saw her for an instant, a slender form, the lemon of her linen frock pale in the dark corner, then she passed through the door and was gone. She’d slipped away from him. Just slipped away! He wanted her . . . more than anything else on earth. He needed her. The very rooms needed her . . . the cool fragrance of her.
He heard her light footsteps on the flagging of the passage, then there was silence again, and the house seemed very still—empty.
Vera and the Bo’sun were in the greenhouse, cutting cucumbers and sweet corn, when they heard the horn of the returning car. First a long single spasm as it topped the canal bridge: then a short one as if to warn the stockyard and garage of the farm down the road: a series of hoots as Clympham Court came into sight above the barns and walls: a sharp note to caution any one in the stable yard: a pause, when the Bo’sun could picture Lindy swinging the long grey car through the awkward gateway, and a long sustained blare of triumph to announce the return home.
“Come on,” said the Bo’sun, tucking the cucumbers under his arm. “We can dump these in the scullery on our way.”
Vera followed him out, in front of a bed of salading, through an archway in the wall, across the old forecourt—now the rose garden—past the east face of the house, through the archway in the further wall, and into the stable yard. He took Vera’s armful of corn from her and laid them down.
The yard was a large untidy space separated from the rose garden by the range of dilapidated stable buildings, and from the road by a high wall. It was gravelled with sea shingle much overgrown with grass and weeds.
Under the spreading walnut tree in the centre was the car, with two coloured air balloons attached to the figure on the radiator. Lindy, with no coat over her chintz frock, bare-headed and with her golden hair rather untidy, was still at the wheel. Tono had dismounted, and was at the offside, patting her extended hands.
“I find her most wonderful,” he called to Vera and the Bo’sun. “Three and a half miles in under five minutes. And here we are safely home.”
“That’s a bally-awful turning through that stable gate of yours, Bo’sun,” said Lindy, as he approached. She was in high spirits. “Never touched a thing, Bo’sun, not even a really tempting old pedestrian who was just asking for it.”
Vera came up—“Weren’t you chilly with no coat?”
“It was stiflingly hot in the town. Crowds of people. Had to crawl along. She throttles down wonderfully on top, Bo’sun——”
“And the things?” he asked. “I suppose you forgot all about them: and wondered what you’d gone in for.”
“Here!” Tono dived over the side of the car: “Lobsters—one, two, three, four, five—petits poussins not altogether petit—Ice—Beefsteak—Rule Britannia!”
“Bo’sun,” Lindy shouted, swinging over the side of the car, and landing in his arms, “I want to make a necklace of lobster claws when we’ve finished with them. It will go with my bathing dress—this is it, you know, with a skirt to match. If we eat them to-night, I can wear the claws to-morrow. I got an extra one on purpose.”
“Thanks awfully! That was thoughtful.”
“Knew you’d like it.—Vera, dear, I must kiss you. I was sulky before, now I’m cheered again.”
“Look!” Tono produced from the back of the car a big quivering bundle, shaped like a gigantic cauliflower, and over which was drawn some light sacking.
“What on earth? . . .”
“Look.” He pulled off the covering, and disclosed an immense bundle of coloured gas balloons. He loosened whatever held them to their anchorage on the floor of the car, and let them sail up to the end of their string.
“Look! Look! I’m a swallow.” He took the end of the string in his teeth, and flapping his arms, capered around the yard.
“Ha-Ha,” laughed Lindy. “Vera, aren’t they too, too beautiful? They were too awfully expen, but I liked them, and Tono would buy them all. We had four more on the front of the car, but two of them burst on the way home.”
Bo’sun began unloading the back of the car.
“I’ll put the old bus into her stall for the night, if you folks will deal with these things. Catch, Lindy!”
The gardener’s wife and Sari came out to help.
Sari was delighted about Tono and the balloons.
“The Margrave is beootiful, isn’t he, Miss Vera?” She heaped the lobsters into her apron and shuffled off over the shingle towards the back door. Her slippers were those of the house in Knightsbridge. The gardener’s wife had gone ahead with the meat and chickens. Tono struggled along with the dripping sack of ice. Vera found some small purchases. Lindy had taken all the balloons. She danced along at Vera’s side.
“Isn’t all this fun!” she laughed.
They entered the dark, lofty scullery, which had once been the farm’s kitchen. In its corners were the great built-in coppers for laundry and for brewing. From the rafters hung ancient ham and meat hooks. The brick chimney of the old bread oven ran like a flying buttress through the gloaming above, to reach some chimney stack of the house itself.
The provisions were set down on a big bare table. The Bo’sun joined them.
“It’s cocktail time,” he said.
“Cocktails! Oh, I’m so hot and so thirsty. Cocktails.” Lindy let the balloons fly and then jumped to catch their string. Tono slipped his arm through that of the Bo’sun.
“I find the English life most excellent,” he laughed. “Come on, everybody.”
They passed through the kitchen where the lamps were already lit, and where a fire roared in the range. Vera had passed in there, and was talking to Sari.
“Don’t disturb you, coming through this way, do we, Mrs. Fielding?” Bo’sun called to the gardener’s wife by the oven. He went on, through the heavy iron-bound door, into the entrance lobby of the house.
“Cocktails,” shouted Lindy, running, after him with her balloons trailing behind her. Tono crossed to Vera.
“You’re amused,” she asked him.
“I am most happy,” he said, and arm in arm the cousins followed out.
The ice was pounded: the cocktails were shaken. They were drunk where they had been made, in the little lobby outside the dining-room, and by the light of a single candle.
“Shall we dress, Vera?” the Bo’sun asked.
“Are we going to do anything especially mad afterwards?”—She was the person to have been asked, she supposed: yet in a way it placed her in position of hostess.
“What do you say?” The Bo’sun turned to Lindy. “Is it hot enough to bathe, by moonlight? Shall we go into the local Deauville, and fall in on the hop at the hotel? Shall we dance here? One can roll up the rush in the hall, though it was pretty dusty under it last time we tried. We can . . . Oh . . .”
Lindy tilted her glass and got the olive.
“Let’s decide after. I’m for dressing. I must change.”
“Right-o. Change has it! But I’ll have to go to get the wine out first. Who’s coming down to the cellar to hold my hand, and keep the ghosts away?”
“Is Clympham haunted, Bo’sun darlingest?”
“Not the cellars, anyway!”
“I’ll come then.—Vera, you will? . . . and of course Tono!”
The Bo’sun took up the candle, and opening a door led the way down a small stairway to what was really a basement, lit in daytime by small lights near ground level.
“A tune to keep the ghosts off,” and Lindy scampered back to fetch her tiny gramophone and a record from the glove and stick table. They waited for her and then descended. The flicker of the candle played upon the whitewashed walls around them. They passed under an arch into a room once used as a dairy and fitted with slate tables. Lindy put down the gramophone on one of these, and set it in action. The dance tune echoed in the hollow space. Vera peered through two grating doors into recessed spaces. The Bo’sun unlocked a third door, a massive one of oak, and swung it back on its creaking hinges.
“Here we are!” He entered holding the candle high. Vera followed him in. The walls were lined with bins.
“I’ve some Mumm ’11 over here that’s rather pleasing.”
“It sounds nice.”
“Come and dance, you two,” Lindy called from the dairy. “This brick floor isn’t half bad.”
“Busy!”
Vera leant in the doorway. The cellars were full of the sound of gay, metallic music. It echoed under the oak beams: it resounded in the hollow spaces around the base of the massive chimney pier.
Tono and Lindy swung out of the darkness at the other side of the dairy, into the pale candlelight which stretched in a narrow shaft through the arched doorway where Vera stood. Lindy laughed as she went: her hair glinted as she swung round. They danced some short steps backwards and forwards. Behind them on the whitewashed wall their shadows slid this way and that. Framed in the archway as in the opening of a stage, their shadows were like those of puppets, thought Vera. They flitted here and there like crazy, restless ghosts. Was it shadows like those that haunt old houses? Were these the shades that they would leave to steal across the midnight walls, spectres of a Jazz age? There was something grotesque, almost macabre, about those forms upon the wall.
The shadows grew larger, and diminished: they were twisted and altered as they swam over the rough surface: they moved across it now smoothly, now with a jerky yet rhythmic grace.
Beside them and over them, magnified by her own nearness to the candle, Vera saw herself, motionless, attentive, almost sinister. It was as though, leaning against the framing of the picture, she were the commère of this shadow show, as though her fingers held the destiny of these puppets.
The idea mocked her. Oh, if she could only— Oh, if she could but influence Lindy, give her balance, give her poise.
Behind her Bo’sun picked up the candle and came into the doorway. The shadows on the wall swung suddenly to the right, grew larger, fainter, scurried across the wall, and were lost.
His shoulder brushed Vera’s.
“Let’s go and dress.”
Lindy broke from Tono and stopped the gramophone. The sound died out suddenly. The echo quivered for an instant, and was lost.
“Wasn’t that lovely?” laughed Lindy. Vera saw her scamper to the stairs. Lindy had forgotten her disappointment of the early evening. Nothing seemed to sway her for long. How much did Oliver mean to her? Much more than Harry had? If not, what would it all lead to? And yet . . . and yet Oliver must be Lindy’s future now. That way lay the only firm footing.
Tono took Vera’s arm.
“Excellent: altogether excellent, I find it!”
Bo’sun with bottles of wine followed them up to the lobby.
“Dinner will be in ten minutes,” said Sari, who was passing from the kitchen to the dining-room.
Bo’sun looked at his watch—“Nearly a quarter to nine, we must hurry.”
“Race you, Bo’sun,” shouted Lindy, and bolted up the back stairs.
It was unfortunate that the Marchioness of Greenwich should have chosen that particular Sunday to pay a call at Clympham Court. It was still more unfortunate that, as she did call, she did not choose to do so in the morning, when at any rate the Bo’sun’s tennis trousers had not been torn and discoloured by a game of hide-and-seek over the roofs, and when Lindy had not yet discarded even her skirt. It had been mere chance, of course, which had led the Marchioness that afternoon to take her drive in the direction of Bognor, and it had been sheer effrontery which had induced the owner of a broken-down Ford to hail and stop her ladyship’s Rolls-Royce. But it could have been nothing but bad luck which had caused her to notice the word Clympham on a fingerpost, and to remember those pink chrysanthemums she had seen last autumn at the show in Brighton. The train of her thoughts had run on quite easily: Chrysanthemums: pink chrysanthemums: chrysanthemum cuttings: struck cuttings: plants:—They’d been a late variety, a very late variety. The young plants would not be more than two or three feet high: still in six-inch pots: one could easily manage a dozen of them in the back of the car: the carpet could be turned upside down: the mould would do it no harm: they wouldn’t have been watered yet. Fielding—that was the gardener’s name, she was sure.—(He’d been there for years: ever since poor Andy Smith, the present Captain Smith’s father, had bought the house.) There was no one there now to take any interest in the borders and “houses,” and the gardener, poor man, would be only too flattered if she were to ask for some plants. And it had been of quite a new variety. One would have had to pay several shillings each for young plants of it. She had told the chauffeur to take Clympham on the way home. Some one was in occupation, she could see as she approached the house, for a bathing dress was hanging on a line in the stable yard, and a long grey motor car had been left before the front gate. She sent her chauffeur in to enquire.—Yes, Captain Smith and some friends were down for the week-end.—The Marchioness alighted and was shown in by Sari, through the hall and on to the lawn.
It was unfortunate that, at the moment of her appearance, the party was engaged in repainting the garden seats in the futurist taste. It was unfortunate, also, that the Bo’sun was posed so as to exhibit to disadvantage the garments, torn when sliding down a tile roof a few hours before: that Lindy had discarded the skirt of her costume, and had left herself in the bathing portion of it which might without difficulty have been mistaken for rather bizarre underclothes: that she was not wearing stockings, and that the necklace made with such pains from lobster claws seemed rather rococo in feeling. On the other hand, it was lucky that Oliver, who had just driven from London, was wearing a Guards hat ribbon which perhaps balanced Tono’s bare feet: and that Vera’s cool grey was unexceptionable.
“My dear Lady Greenwich.” The Bo’sun put down his paint brush, and ran to meet her. “I must really apologise, we’re in such a mess. I’ve let the house, as usual, this summer—ten weeks starting with Goodwood, and we’re painting the seats.”
“I am so sorry if I’ve intruded. Only I happened to be passing, and I saw a motor outside the gate, and, as it was Sunday I . . .”
“Oh, naturally. . . .”—They approached the remainder of the party.—“May I introduce Miss Casswell, Mrs. Hawkins?”
“I’m afraid I’m too painty to shake hands,” laughed Lindy. Lady Greenwich surveyed her attire without any particular sign of appreciation.
“The Margrave of Gratz.”
“Lord Dashwood. And, well, that’s all there are of us.”
Tono had brought up some unpainted chairs.
“Only got down last night, you know,” said the Bo’sun when every one had sat down. “You won’t mind scratch luck for tea, will you? It will be here in a minute.”
—It was very kind of him, but tea really didn’t matter. Were they staying for long?
—Only till Monday, the Bo’sun told her.
“I think I’ll put on a skirt,” said Lindy, and tripping across the lawn to where it hung on a post of the tennis net, she slipped it over her head, and returned.
—It was delightful in the country in such weather, Lady Greenwich told Vera, watching Lindy achieving this somewhat fuller toilet. These modern tennis dresses were bad enough: but she’d never seen anything quite like this before!
—How was the garden? She must see it before she went.
She should, the Bo’sun told her, as soon as she’d had tea.
“Go and ask Sari to buck up, will you, Oliver: there’s a good fellow! And tell her to see the chauffeur has some.”
Oliver set out on the mission.
—Lord Dashwood, hadn’t he said? asked Lady Greenwich. What a nice young man he seemed. He must be a nephew of Lady Amelia Gage whom she had seen several times at Cannes two winters before. No, she didn’t actually meet her, but they were staying at hotels quite near each other.
—And how was the garden at the Towers, Bo’sun asked her.
Oliver returned. Tea was brought, and poured out by Vera.
The cucumber sandwiches were delicious. The curry ones Lady Greenwich had never tasted before. Yes, she would take another.
—Vera lived in London? Yes. Where? Knightsbridge? Really. On the park side? Really? She had been in one of those houses. They appeared—very adequate—most pleasant—for any one with a small household. Alone? Vera lived quite alone? Wasn’t it rather a big house for one person?—Vera had been left the house when her mother died two years before. She’d liked it, so she’d stayed on.—She usually had some one staying with her, one supposed? Lindy Hawkins was with her now! Really? Mrs. Hawkins’s husband was abroad? No? Really?—Yes, perhaps, another sandwich, a curry one: she must really remember them. Was Mrs. Hawkins’s husband that General Hawkins she’d met at Ascot three years before? Yes? He was also at Clympham? No? She was sorry, she would like to have met him again.
Lady Greenwich looked round the party. Her host was evidently more interested in that thin girl who lived in Knightsbridge—alone—than he was in that young woman with the detachable garments. Whether it was Lord Dashwood or this Austrian who was her cavalier was not so easy to say. Still one might find out!
“You like England?” she asked Tono amiably.
“I find it quite delightful, most excellent.”
“And you come often, I suppose?”
“This is the second time, and I am only in England since four days.”
—So it was evidently Lord Dashwood who was chiefly interested in the young woman. She herself was sorry.
—His aunt, that Lady Amelia, had looked quite a pleasant person. That he had a mother alive, she was almost certain. She did not suppose she would be pleased, poor woman!
“Didn’t see you at Ascot,” the Bo’sun said to her.
“No, we didn’t go this year.”
Were there any other people in the party? she asked him. No? Only the five of them? Really?
—No; she’d not eat cake. Another sandwich?—Well—perhaps.
Bo’sun had just got a wonderful new record, he told her. She simply must hear it. No, he knew she didn’t dance, but that tune would make any one want to. They’d danced to it half the night before. The tune was tried over. It was not a success. But then the visitor was not fond of modern music. Presently her gaze returned to Lindy’s bare legs and general attire.—Lindy had been going to bathe? No? What an original costume for . . . er . . .—She didn’t invariably wear it in the country, Lindy told her.
No?
—No, but it was practical for climbing trees. She’d climbed to the top of the big walnut over there: right to the end of that branch. The Margrave who’d gone with her had funked the last two or three yards: but of course he wasn’t as light as she was.
Lady Greenwich diverted her interest.—The Margrave was Austrian? she asked.
—Yes, though he’d been called Hungarian since the peace treaties, as he had a small property in Hungary. All the family estates had been in the old Empire, but one aunt’s lands were now in Yugoslavia, another’s in Italy, another’s in Austria, and one half in Austria and half in Czecho-Slovakia.
“That must be most unsettling,” Lady Greenwich told him.
—He’d nothing to grumble at, Tono answered. Many of his friends had had their properties in what had become the Succession States: and they’d lost them as a rule. Some had simply nothing left. Some had gone under altogether. And in Austria the people had been starving—often.
She’d read there had been much distress in Vienna, the visitor informed him, but he must not carry away the idea that the English had not suffered also from the effects of the war. The farm hands were most discontented. It had led to a craving for luxury. He need only see the type of people one saw on the roads on motor bicycles or Fords and other American cars: and the young men who had been temporary officers during the war didn’t seem to care to remain in their proper occupations. It was all most unsettling.
But the title of Margrave interested her. It was an uncommon one, was it not? Corresponding to marquis? Really! The German Kaiser’s ancestors had been something of the sort, had they not? Yes, Brandenburg—Margraves of Brandenburg.
—Quite a recent creation, Tono informed her.
—Really? She had not realised . . .
—Dating back to the sixteenth century if he remembered rightly.
—Oh!
The subject seemed cold, and Bo’sun proposed the tour of the garden. Lady Greenwich accepted hastily. It was getting late, and she had not yet even located those plants.
“Please don’t any of you bother to come with us. Captain Smith and I are quite old friends. His father often used to stay with us.”
“Flowers or veges, which shall we take first?” the Bo’sun asked her.
“Flowers!”
The host and visitor passed through the archway into the rose garden.
“I wish we had beautiful old walls like yours at the Towers,” she remarked.
“Quite jolly, aren’t they!” They wandered amongst the rose beds.
—K of K was an improvement on Red Letter day, wasn’t it? She was fond of dear, dear Caroline Testout. Such an old friend! Such a pity Mme. Edouard Herriot hadn’t a more robust constitution. General McArthur was splendid; so like what a general should be. Large, impressive, crimson, always so dependable. Her own ones were almost over. Summer was so short. She was so sorry for those poor Scotch—but that was perhaps why they produced such wonderful gardeners. Her new head gardener was Scotch. He’d been trained at Kew, but was so obliging. Really a most adequate servant in every way. So different from poor dear Rudge—though they couldn’t possibly have got rid of him. No.
After the tour of the rose beds was finished, they “did” the round of the herbaceous borders, which lay under the three walls of the garden. Lady Greenwich was not much interested in herbaceous plants nor in the hardier annuals which lay in drifts amongst them.—That pale delphinium was good, noticeably. Queen Wilhelmina? The dark one was the King, of course. Really?—The lower masses of scarlets, oranges, and crimsons which followed, she passed without comment. They reminded her a little of that . . . er . . . Mrs. Hawkins’s so original costume, but she did not say so. Then the clump of Madonna lilies caught her eye. There was a really beautiful flower. They’d never improved on those. There were some on the terrace at Greenwich Towers that year which were fully . . .
The Bo’sun led her out through another archway at the further end of the rose garden, and so into the small kitchen garden.—What did he grow in the further compartment of that house? Sweet corn! Really. She was devoted to it, but somehow they hadn’t ever grown any at the Towers. Her husband was very fond of it too. Really, that was most kind, but . . . Well, just two or three heads.—The ears were collected: they passed the frames, the raspberry canes, the strawberry nets, the peas, the salading border, the seedling nursery. Nowhere could Lady Greenwich see the chrysanthemums. There was a part of the paddock which had been taken in for vegetables, she remembered, but that was in full sun. No, on the whole, they were probably on the other side of that wall—along the path which led to that little orchard over there. She turned in that direction. As soon as she had passed through the door of the kitchen garden she saw that she was right. On either side of the path, between the hedge of clipped macro-carpa and the plum wall, were the chrysanthemum pots, neatly lined up along their planks.
“Ah, chrysanthemums! I’d forgotten to congratulate you on those your man had at the Brighton show last autumn.”
—The Bo’sun was afraid he didn’t know much about them himself. But his gardener was keen about them, and he was such a good ’un that one had to give him his head a bit.
—There had been one variety, a pink one, which had specially pleased Lady Greenwich. She would remember the name when she saw it. No, not that, nor that. Yes, that was it. Souvenir de Mona Kahn. It had been really beautiful. She’d meant to write and ask the Bo’sun if his man could spare her a few cuttings: but it was too late now! Plants? Oh, really not. She couldn’t think of it. After all, he had only six, twelve, eighteen, twenty-four—yes, two dozen pots. Well, if he could really spare just one. . . . They were a colour which had been her favourite ever since she had been a girl. She remembered a dress which she had worn at the Grantham Hunt Ball . . .
The dozen pots had been duly counted out, and the Bo’sun laden with seven of them was making his way back towards the kitchen garden and the house. At his side, and carrying two plants herself, went Lady Greenwich.
—She was sorry that the husband of Bo’sun’s friend, Mrs. Hawkins, was not of the party. She’d so much have liked to have seen him again. Such a charming man, she’d thought him.
—Wasn’t he! A topper, a real topper. He was away trout fishing at the moment, explained the Bo’sun who felt that some remark of the sort would not be out of place.—Very keen fisherman, the General! So when he got the chance of a few days of it, he let anything else go.
“Yes, of course,” Lady Greenwich answered. “I suppose, I suppose . . . Yet all these modern ways are most unsettling . . . most unsettling.”
Tono and Oliver were sent to bring the remaining plants and the corn. Vera and Lindy relieved my Lady Greenwich of her burden, followed her and the Bo’sun. They passed round the west side of the house, and went towards the car.
The Bo’sun struggled with his armful of pots.
—Going to Goodwood, of course?
“Of course. The only pleasant race meeting, I always feel. No, we shall not have a party for it, this year.”
“And you’ll go to Cowes afterwards?”
“No, neither Arthur nor I really care for the sea.”
“So unsettling, isn’t it?” said Lindy almost without a titter.
The sky above that gap in the Downs grew all at once bluer and darker to Vera. Then it faded again.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like some paper pinned round the plants to keep the wind off them?” she asked Lady Greenwich.
Tono and Oliver returned. The chauffeur was summoned: his mistress embarked: the plants were packed: good-byes were said, and the car drove off.
Vera and Oliver strolled along the road towards the river. Bo’sun, Lindy and Tono went back towards the house.
“Well, of all the——”
“Excellent,” laughed Tono. “What a type. I find her quite excellent.”
Bo’sun wiped the mould off his hands onto his already dirty trousers and sighed, “Oh, not a bad old bitch, really.”
Dinner was over. Vera leant back in her chair. The candles had not been lit, and the room was now in dim twilight. Opposite her, against the dull, dark background of the panelling, were just discernible the gilded scrolls of the two rococo chairs, the console table with its foliaged curves, the pale or ruddy glow of fruits, the glint on gold plate. Above the chairs a pair of wall-sconces, bounteous with their cupids’ heads and wings, spread their sheaves of candle branches into the dusk.
Vera sipped her coffee sparingly. “I do love your dining-room, Bo’sun.”
Lindy drew at her cigarette, turned from Tono on her right. “I wonder you’re not here much more than you are.”
Bo’sun paused. “What should I do here . . . all alone?”
“You could have parties, of course, silly.”
The Bo’sun emptied his glass. “That wouldn’t be the same thing,” he answered dully. Vera was conscious of his train of thought. She was sorry she could do nothing for him. She had nothing to give him. And it wasn’t as if he was a solitary fellow. He wasn’t given to melancholy. He’d got friends and interests . . . a hundred things. She was very fond of him, very: but he’d have to do without her. She was sorry. There it was! He’d forget. Some day he’d marry a nice, jolly girl, and she—? she would go on living as she was. For her, the lonely, lasting thrill of chastity.
The Bo’sun thrust back his chair. “If every one’s finished, will they excuse me. If I don’t get those things stowed away to-night, there isn’t the palseyest particle of a chance of us being able to shove off early to-morrow. I shan’t have time to do a damned thing in the morning: and I’ve got all my belongings to put away and lock up before the tenants come in: and I can’t buzz down here again before the house is let. Don’t you people get up. . . . Oliver, give Gratz and yourself some more port.” Oliver filled the glasses.
“Thank you . . . thank you. . . . Oh, excellent, quite excellent!”
The Bo’sun turned and wandered out by the door leading towards the front stairs. Vera heard his step on the bare oak of them. It was slow . . . for him, dejected: she was sorry.
“What about a walk by the river?” Oliver asked Lindy.
“Don’t want to.” She had not yet recovered from her annoyance with him for failing to come down the day before.
Tono coaxed, turning on his elbows to her. “But the river, with the moon! Oh, charming, altogether charming. I do ask that you will come with us. To stay in the house on a night so beautiful. It doesn’t exist!! Please—it doesn’t exist!!”
“But weren’t you going to show me those tango steps again?” She disregarded Oliver.
“Last night already you danced them divinely: and there is time for more than one pleasure in a night. We can dance afterwards.”
Lindy relented a little, and turned to gaze through the open window at the growing mystery of the night. The pinks and crimsons of the roses had merged into the shadows, but two lines of pale violas beneath them traced a fairy path across the garden. Here and there white flowers, a drift of snowy phlox, ghostly lilies, peered wan and luminous from the gathering darkness.
“It is rather exquisite out there—perhaps . . .”
“Yes, do let’s go,” Oliver urged her.
Lindy allowed herself to be persuaded. She rose from her chair.
“Won’t you stay with me, Tono?” asked Vera. “I’m too tired to go out again.”
“But, of course.” Tono looked round enquiringly. “I believed that you came also,” he added, rather at a loss.
Lindy turned from the table. “All right, come on if you’re coming,” she said to Oliver somewhat ungraciously, and left the room without looking at any of them.
Vera waited till the door had closed behind Oliver.
“I didn’t want you to go with them,” she said. “He and she are more or less . . . There is a definite understanding between them. I didn’t see any object in telling you: it’s secret so far. They are going to be married as soon as she is free. That’s what made me feel so annoyed with that Lady Greenwich. She kept asking questions about everybody. I don’t know whether she found out anything from the Bo’sun when she got him alone. Not that I imagine that she was suspicious of anything in particular: only I suppose she goes through life always trying to ferret things out, in the hope of finding something nasty.”
Tono spread his elbows and leant forward with increased interest.—“So! But how amusing. One would have guessed nothing from Lord Dashwood’s manners. Wonderful! I find Englishmen superb! What discretion! The English ladies are most fortunate: not only do their lovers tell nothing, but they also show nothing.” He lit a cigarette, still smiling in appreciation of the idea. “Wonderful! As a matter of fact, if one had asked me I should have said that the lady was perhaps a little ennuyée with him.”
“Anyhow, I wanted to let you know,” said Vera, “because I thought you seemed to have taken to Lindy yourself, and it was only fair to let you know there was ‘nothing doing’ in that direction.”
Tone’s cigarette glowed: he flourished it.
“Perfectly! I admit—I—well, you know very well that I pay the court to any pretty woman. Not that I get much out of it, as a rule—alas for me! Besides that, I am occupied elsewhere at the moment. I am interesting myself most seriously with an heiress in Berlin, just now.”
“That’s an old story. Ever since before the war I used to hear—‘at last Tono has found an heiress!!’ Why don’t you ever marry any of them?” Vera rested her chin upon her hand.
“I ought to! I must! Something must be done. And now there are no more uncles to die, there is no hope that I shall inherit a fortune from any one. I must marry an heiress. I say it to myself one hundred times each morning while I am shaved.”
“Mental suggestion?”
“Mental suggestion!”
Vera smiled at him.
“Poor old Tono! Why don’t you make up your mind to do it? Aren’t any of them pretty?”
“At first, yes. For then I do not know how much dowry they will have—but when I am informed how much she will possess, then I know for certain that it is my duty to be married and I talk of it to my mother, and we are of accord. I go out to my club and drink a cocktail to celebrate my decision. And at the club I meet a good friend of mine: of course there is dinner and afterwards cards: we play through the night: then when it is almost morning I go to my apartment, and outside the city is beginning to wake up: but the sheets are cold, so I do not sleep. I think: ‘To be married is the end of freedom: to be poor, to make debts, is not pleasant: but not to be free—that is something quite other . . . !’ ”
Vera nodded just perceptibly. There was scarcely any light left.
“I understand that,” she said. “That is almost Hungarian in you. In everything else you are completely Viennese. I think you become more of an Austrian each time I see you. It’s strange, as I get older, I think I become more Hungarian, though I never go out there.”
Outside in the back passage some one was stirring. Vera rose. “Shall we go into the garden? We must be keeping poor Sari from clearing away.”
They passed through the silence of the passage, and out into the living stillness of the garden.
“Tell me about your new heiress.” They strolled across the lawn towards the doorway to the paddock. The moon had risen, and the world was full of wonder and milky light. Somewhere, far away, the faint rumble of a train crept out of silence, and back into silence again. From the house behind them came a snatch of song as the Bo’sun moved from room to room.
“My heiress,” said Tono presently, “. . . my heiress is American . . . this time. Really delightful. Altogether original. She says such droll things that I find her most amusing.”
“She is pretty?” They reached the paddock door, but turned along the path inside the garden wall.
“Very pretty. Round face, gold hair, blue eyes, very soignée, small feet, the hands beautifully kept, but quite beautifully! And—as I tell you—most amusing.”
“How did you come to meet her?”
“She is staying with her parents at the Adlon—and I met her at a dance there one night. Her father makes business with the drama, and is in Berlin to buy German and Austrian pieces for the theatres for America.”
Vera considered for a moment.
“Tono—how will the family take it?”
“But I assure you she is quite charming, and after all, what have the family done for me?”
“Yes, I suppose so.—What’s her name?”
“Clem. Isn’t that too amusing? A little name for Clementina. Miss Clementina Troup. And the father too is most droll, and he likes me, I find.”
For a little they walked on in silence. The air slept. The night was without movement. Beyond the garden the farm buildings lay in their heavy shadows. Somewhere far away a dog barked.
“Do you love her?” Vera’s voice was low and even.
“Love? Love is another matter. . . . Does one ever love—really after one is thirty?”
“I wonder.”—Vera’s wrists were crossed, her fingers rested lightly on her breast. It was an attitude which, when she had been in her early teens, might have been affected. She was not thinking directly of Tono’s question.—Love! Had Tono ever loved at all: or was he so Viennese, so light, dreading too much all that was serious. Perhaps in his way he may have loved that Countess Satinovitz—or that little girl from the hat shop in the Schellingasse of whom she used to overhear whispers: not very unselfishly perhaps: but not altogether selfishly either, for he was kind, intuitive with that faint touch of the feminine which made him so understandable to her.
Before them, over the parched earth, went their shadows, comment on the passing present by man’s most ancient critic.
—Love to her was something so different. Perhaps for every one it was. Her love for Lindy wasn’t selfish—not now. Perhaps in those old days it had been. Then she had wanted Lindy all for herself, to hold. To have walked on such a night as this through the timeless moonlight, her arm round Lindy’s shoulder! But she had not been selfish. She could have held her, perhaps: but she had let her go. She had given her up to Harry . . . And that had been to no good! . . . She wanted nothing of her: only that Lindy should be happy. . . . That was what love meant to her. What would happen to Lindy? What was she saying to Oliver now? What were they doing out there by the river? When would they go away together? Was Lindy anxious? She could not tell.
The little manor house rose before them, its roofs high-pitched against the infinite remoteness of the sky. The tall, shuttered windows were eerie, like sightless eyes in the wan night. It was very still. Vera tried to pierce the expectancy of the silence: she fancied that she could hear from the beach, two miles away, the sigh of sleepy waves. The gravel path glittered strangely. It was as if the four walls of the rose garden had captured peace, long ago, and held it captive.
Presently she heard the Bo’sun’s step on the flagged walk outside the garden door. He came under the archway and towards them.
“Hullo—hullo! You here? Thought I’d have to chase you all over the garden. What am I going to do about that blessed gramophone? Am I going to put it away now, or are we going to dance when Lindy and Oliver come back?” The Bo’sun stood before her, unconscious of the night’s spell, his thoughts in the present.
“Perhaps you may as well put it away,” Vera answered. “Lindy and he mayn’t be in till late.”
They walked back towards the house in silence. Lindy might be late, thought Vera.—Yes, she’d be late! She was with “him” now: his arms would be about her: his lips on hers!—Vera grudged her nothing, grudged him nothing. Lindy was with him. She’d be late.
The river glittered, silver in the moonlight. Beneath the flickering ripples, the tide ebbed secretly to the sea. It was near low water: the banks fell steep and mysterious. Across the stream the chalk facing of the dyke gleamed, a long, livid curve, to where the river bent its winding course. The sea-plain stretched to its wide horizon. Southward the little lighthouse of the port flashed, dimmed, and flashed again.
Oliver kept to the river edge of the neglected tow-path: Lindy wandered at his side, aloof. From far away came the soft calling of the channel tide.
“I don’t really see that I could do anything else,” said Oliver presently. “One of the side having fallen out like that—then they asked me, I couldn’t well refuse. We hadn’t finished play till after five; it must have been nearly six; then I had to go back to London and change. . . .”
“I didn’t say you ought to have come.” Lindy’s face was turned from him.
“No, but you seem to have some sort of grievance about it.”
“I got on quite well without you.”
They walked on in silence again.
“There doesn’t seem much point in squabbling . . .”
“Squabbling?”
“Well . . .”
“I was sorry you couldn’t come down with us. I’d have liked you to have been able to stay in the house too—but I daresay that would have been awkward for Bo’sun. I expect he was right. But you couldn’t come: and there it was. And after all, I see you every day in London . . . or nearly: and so . . .”
Oliver had left the extreme edge of the tow-path, and had drawn a fraction nearer to her—“And soon we’ll be together for good.”
Lindy watched the lighthouse far ahead flicker, dim, flicker and dim again.
“. . . Yes.”
The delay of her answer ruffled his feelings again, and Oliver edged towards the river once more, their shadows, thrown slantwise, drew apart.
“I don’t know why you can’t understand how things are. We’ve been over it dozens and dozens of times, and you’ve agreed that I must stay on until this competition has been shot.”
There was more spring in Lindy’s step: more independence,—“If you tell me it’s so important . . well, it is.”
“And after all there’s no especial hurry.”
“None whatever!”
Ahead, a fence across the tow-path gave justification for silence. They accepted it gratefully. They passed through the little gate. It swung to behind them. They let it close upon their previous mood.
“And afterwards we shall be together for ever and ever”—Oliver’s hand slipped within her arm. Lindy drew a deep breath. The distance grew immense. They were all alone, they two, alone with the empty marshlands, beneath the cavern of the night. She could feel his hand—hard—male, upon the soft intimacy of her arm. The touch grew to a caress, and melted. She felt the thrill of it in her veins. But for a little her antagonism struggled on—
“It seems such a pity. . . .”
“It can’t be helped, darling. . . .”
His arm barred her path. They stopped and were still. Lindy saw his eyes, dark between their narrowed lids. His mouth was softer. She waited.
“And I do love you.” His voice was low. Lindy said nothing. His hand passed up her arm, behind her shoulder: it drew her to him: she held herself rigid. He bent over her: but she would not lift her lips. His hand was urgent upon her shoulder. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. Lindy was frozen within his arms—He could wait! Presently she bent her head and sighed. Oliver drew away from her. Without words they wandered again towards the sea.—He was a darling, she thought. A darling! Did he love her? Really? Enough?—The man must love more, much more. With the knowledge of that, she could be gracious—lightly gracious—graciously light! Love!—Love was fun!
For a little her step was more brisk. She watched the dazzling whirlpools of the tide. A drift of dark weed reached an eddy, swung in a slowing circle, paused, and passed on again . . . downstream. Lindy checked a little.
“I didn’t mean to be horrid.”
Oliver slipped an arm about her waist.—“You weren’t.”
“Was!”—playfully.
“Honestly!—I’d tell you if you had been.”
“I’m sure you would!”—They bantered on. His hand played upon her hip. Sometimes he swung her towards him. Once he reached to catch a kiss. She met it.
—But they would be able to go away soon, wouldn’t they? She wasn’t impatient, but . . . He must understand. . . .
—He did. He understood just how she must feel. She mustn’t think—but he knew she didn’t . . . no! He knew she understood. And in a week or two, just as soon as all these little trifles had been wound up, he’d be able to leave. They’d go away—right away—till it was over.
Lindy grew pliant upon his arm. Their steps were as one: they slackened: they stopped. She turned to him, her eyes closing. Her form was limp against his. He reached around her. His hands passed down the narrowing lines to her waist, and lower. His knee quivered and stiffened. Lindy reached about his neck. Her lips were vague, unresisting beneath his deepening kiss.
When they broke apart they were abashed for a little. They walked on in silence, fingers linked. Lindy caught her quickening breath. The past was forgotten . . . and the future.
Again the night was hot and breathless. The windows of Vera’s dining-room had been thrown open to the garden and the park. It was nearly midnight.
Dinner had long been cleared away, and the floor bared for dancing. In the centre of the empty room Tono and Lindy were executing some very fancy steps. They spun this way and that. Lindy’s thin white frock clung tightly round her. Over by the gramophone Vera and Oliver stopped to watch them, as they swayed, he black, she white, against the dappled blue of the walls.
“They’re very good together,” said Vera.
“Not bad.”
He was not in a good temper to-night, thought Vera: and she did not look forward particularly to showing him that letter. In any case, it wasn’t a task she would have chosen: yet it had to be done. And there was nothing to be gained in worrying poor Lindy about it. After all, it was for Oliver’s decision, his affair, his only.
She left him and went over to the switches, extinguished the lights above the fireplace and the serving table, and lit those in the alabaster vases at each end of the sideboard. They spread a honey-coloured glow up the walls and across the empty floor. There was no other illumination. The corners of the room were dusky. That was the lighting she preferred.
The door to the hall was ajar, and balancing above it was a wet pillow. Near this “trap” of her own setting, Grace O’Hara danced with her undergraduate. The boy was very young, an eager rather than a tidy dancer. But Grace O’Hara did not mind, if indeed she noticed it. Fox-trotting in County Clare seemed never to have quite freed itself from the influence of the aboriginal jig. She was in buoyant spirits. To have a young man all of her own! Their chance meeting at Mrs. Van Neck’s house was exciting enough in itself—(men had not been very plentiful in the part of the country from which she had come) but to be able to show him to the world . . . ! She could not remember having been so happy since the day the Ballycreagh hockey team wiped the floor with those horrors from Inniskillen! And the Bo’sun was still expected, too! She’d got several scores to pay off on him, and the wet pillow was to start her campaign.
The tune ended. Tono and Lindy wandered to the sideboard. Lindy accepted a nectarine. Tono poured himself out a whisky and soda, laughing and talking ceaselessly the while. He mopped his brow, and smoothed his thinning hair. In this uncertain light, and as the hour was late—if not for him—the Czernay nose was most pronounced.
“Perfect! Perfect! You dance most divinely,” he said.
“Thank-oo,” Lindy answered, as she bit into a second nectarine. “Oo taught me those steps oos-self!”
Grace O’Hara refused refreshment. “Only makes me hotter,” she explained, “and I will melt if I do.”
The undergraduate hovered behind Tono, uncertain whether he might help himself to a drink. Tono took him by the shoulder.—“My . . . dear fellow. A whisky and soda? Of course you will: but of course.” He poured one out. “Too strong? It doesn’t exist! It doesn’t exist! . . . There!”
Oliver wound the gramophone, and turned over the records.
Apparently they did not please him. His dark eyes were dull, his expression was one of polite but deliberate ennui. His hands were not as deft as usual.—He didn’t want any more of those tangoes. They never had been his long suit. Vera followed astonishingly: but he’d really never troubled much about dago dances—suitable to the sort of man who’d scent.
Vera, leaning in restful grace against an open window, watched the cars in the park sailing by. Silhouetted against the faint, rosy glow, her mass of chestnut hair appeared heavier, her neck more slender than ever.—Tono was nice to keep her guests amused. He must have noticed her depression, she thought. Yes, he was very understanding. She was glad at any rate that that letter had not come till after dinner. To have read it earlier would have made her conversation with Grace O’Hara’s undergraduate more of an effort.
—That letter! So Harry, too, was growing impatient of all these delays. Little wonder! . . . And Lindy? . . . Had she been worrying? . . . Probably. But she’d had enough pride to hide that . . . Lindy . . . worrying . . . Lindy placed in a false position . . . ashamed even! That had been the cause of her changed taste, her intolerance of anything but mere mad gaiety—hectic nights.
Vera, in the window, could hear Tono chaffing with Grace O’Hara by the sideboard, and Lindy with the undergraduate, serving him easy openings over the conversational net. They were all being fairly well amused except Oliver. And he could have followed her to the window if he’d wanted to. He avoided being alone with her, she had noticed. No doubt he could guess what she was thinking of him, and felt awkward. He was still over by the gramophone, she supposed, alone, sulking. He’d been like that all evening. Oh, why didn’t he send in his “papers,” and take Lindy away. Leaving everything en l’air like this wasn’t fair to her . . . nor to Harry. . . . And Harry’d been so generous about it. . . . But it wasn’t possible for matters to go on like that any longer. Now that Harry had written, she must act. An odious rôle: . . . but it would be a possible one for her . . . and not for Lindy. . . .
—But her guests! She couldn’t leave them alone any longer!
She turned and went back into the room. Grace O’Hara was having great fun with Tono, but left him as Vera approached.—“I’m really afraid I simply must be going. I don’t think Captain Smith can possibly be coming: and my aunt hates it if I’m out after midnight.”
“Oh, don’t go yet. Bo’sun is sure to come. He said he might be rather late. He’s coming on from some rather gay party.”
Grace O’Hara consulted her substantial wrist-watch.
“Well, that’s settled, isn’t it?” Vera smiled at her.—No, she didn’t want the Irish girl and her undergraduate to go . . . not yet. When they’d gone she would have to have it out with Oliver. She narrowed her eyes as if in pain. It was not her habit to put off unpleasant duties, but for once she indulged herself. . . .
“Mayn’t we have another tune, Oliver?” she asked.
He put on a record, and came over to claim her: Tono began dancing with Grace. The undergraduate grasped Lindy as though she were something very valuable, and easily broken. He was not very “up in waltzing,” he confided to her.
“But you look very nice doing it,” she whispered reassuring him, and set him at his ease. Her dress was “perfectly swish,” he told her.
Vera, as she turned, glanced towards Lindy, and caught her in an unguarded moment. Her mouth betrayed her mood. Their glances met. Lindy looked quickly away. She is miserable, worrying, thought Vera.
Tono was chaffing Grace. He found all the English ladies most fast, he told her. Most fast! Oh, shocking! Shocking!
How much did he guess of the situation between Oliver and Lindy, Vera wondered.—Somewhere in the basement a bell rang—was it the Bo’sun? She heard Sari shuffling to the door, and then the Bo’sun’s voice and laughter. He had some one with him.
“Hush!” called Grace O’Hara. The dancing ceased, the gramophone played on. Each couple stood watching the door. The Bo’sun was being very cheerful and rather noisy in the hall.
“Wait a minute, old man, will you? I’ll go in and rout them out,” they heard him tell his companions. His steps came nearer. The door swung open. The pillow bent, wobbled and fell. For a moment he was baffled by having just entered into the dim light.
“Oh. Hee-hee . . . and even Haw-haw! What’ll you have, cigar or nuts? Well, of all the——!” The water trickled down his face. For once his hair was ruffled. Then his glance fell on Grace.
“Bog-trotter . . .” He advanced towards her with pointing finger. “Of all the sneaking, murderous Bolshevik bog-trotters. Not content with maiming cattle in your own country, you come over here and waylay perfectly innocent and——”
“That’ll pay you out for putting that frog in my bed!”
“You don’t seem to realise, my poor ignorant girl, that in this decent, law-abiding——”
Lindy brought him a napkin. “Go on! Dry yourself, Bo’sun.”
He wiped his face good-temperedly. “I say, Vera, I’m appallingly sorry I didn’t show up before, but we’ve been having such a rag. Point of absolute fact, we’ve got three taxi-loads of ’em waiting outside now.”
He was in uproarious spirits, and had forgotten all about the wet pillow. Vera smiled at him.—What a child he was!
“Won’t you ask your friends in, whoever they are,” she said. “We’ve got some fruit left, and there’s plenty to drink.”
Tono approached with a whisky and soda. The Bo’sun saw him for the first time.
“My dear fellah . . . delighted to see you . . . and the drink, but—honest-to-Towser—I simply couldn’t have another! Abso-bally-lutely impossible. . . . Vera, I wonder if you’d mind too frightfully if we started a pram race from this house.”
Lindy was at Vera’s side now, an arm about her. Oliver sauntered up with a rather polite interest. “A pram race, my dear Bo’sun?”
“You’ve got it! Right as rain! . . . The Grand International Olympic Pram Race . . . by kind permission of the League of Nations and Marie Stopes.”
“What do you know about prams, Captain Smith?” Grace O’Hara squeezed the last drop of moisture from the pillow, and flicked it towards him. Bo’sun laughed back at her, and turned to Tono.
“Perhaps I will”—he took the still waiting glass—“thanks awfully. I have rather a thirst wave on to-night.”
“Do let’s sit down at any rate while we’re discussing things,” said Vera. The undergraduate brought her and Lindy chairs. Grace O’Hara sat clown on the edge of the table. Bo’sun looked toward her.
—What did he know about prams? It had been she who dared to ask that, hadn’t it? Well, he got five perfectly good this-year’s-model ones, complete with front-wheel-brakes, on the tops of taxis waiting outside. The trouble he’d had to get them! Nobody would believe how mean people would be about a trifle like lending their prams. Only about one in nine would come up to scratch. It had taken them a full hour to get two. Then Joan Maverick—they’d all been dining with Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn . . . the Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn? . . . Yes, the Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn. She was all right: right as rain, really! And one must make allowances with her having a husband like that. . . . What had he been saying? . . . Oh, yes . . . about Joan Maverick. . . . Well, she got the dazzling notion of calling on the people they knew, who’d be sure to be away for the week-end. They’d had a bit of bother with some of the butlers, but taking everything into account the butlers had been a pretty sporting lot, especially when they’d heard for what a really laudable object the prams were wanted.
“No, really! Not another! Not possible! It couldn’t be done!”—this to Tono and a refilled glass.
“It doesn’t exist!”
“Not really— Once a lady always uncomfortable, as the charwoman said.”
Tono took Bo’sun’s elbow.—But how did one make a pram race?
Grace O’Hara had forgotten the time, and even to keep up her vendetta against the Bo’sun: the undergraduate had forgotten his self-consciousness: Lindy’s spirits were rising. The Bo’sun sat down astride a chair, his arms on the back of it. Lindy was laughing again. He addressed himself to her.
“Point of absolute fact, pram racing has been a dying sport these last years. I wouldn’t like it to be known that I’d admitted it. But there it is! The Australians beating us at it year after year got monotonous, so we’ve been trying to work out a scheme for popularising it, and at last we’ve got it. Mixed Praming.—There! Think of the possibilities: . . . probabilities, even! We’ve got four couples outside. The girls sit in the prams, the men push. The course is here to the Embassy. Joan Maverick is giving a Sealyham pup as prize. Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn, with the Plover pushing her, is hot favourite so far, pretty hot. But I fancy Lindy’s lighter than any of the others by a stone at least, and . . .”
Lindy was up from her chair. “I say what fun. . . . But who . . . ? —Oliver, will you push?”
Oliver did not appear enthusiastic. He was about to answer, when Bo’sun continued.
“Oh, he and I can’t very well. You see if it got out, there’d be an awful shindy. For the other fellows it doesn’t matter. Plover doesn’t have anything depending on him (by the grace of God). One of the fellows is in the Air Force in Irak and is home on leave. One’s up from Gloucestershire, or somewhere comic. The other’s, I don’t know what: never saw him before: don’t particularly want to again: one of the Tin Lizzies of the ballroom.”
The door opened, and Sari shuffled in.
“There are some ladies at the door who ask for Captain Smith.”
Bo’sun turned his head and waved his glass. “Oh, tell them to go back to their baskets, Sari, and say I’ll be out in half a minute now . . .”
Sari departed, muttering.
Bo’sun rose from his chair.—“Gratz, you’re the lad for this. You will give just the right Continental element we want to make it a proper international race. Point of absolute fact one of the girls is engaged to an American. We can count the Air Force lad as Mesopotamian: and Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn has . . . er . . . travelled in Africa: knows sheiks and that sort of business.”
Tono was an eager starter. He’d pushed an old aunt all round Marienbad, he said, hundreds and hundreds of kilometres, week after week, one summer when he’d been eighteen. She hadn’t left him a sou! He’d always felt “down with his luck” about that: but now—Tono went on explaining to Bo’sun, Grace and her undergraduate.
Then Bo’sun continued.
—He wanted every one to realise that this was to be a perfectly respectable, family pram race. Blunderbusses were barred!—absolutely. Blunderbusses? Prams of unmarried mothers—bus for the blunder. Every pram in this race had to carry in a conspicuous place the marriage lines of its rightful owner.
Oliver had drawn Lindy aside. She returned to Vera.
—Oliver said she mustn’t take part, she complained. Really, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t. If it were . . .
Vera, her finger-tips light on the arms of her chair, listened. To her it seemed, though she had no idea why, that a climax in the difficulties between Lindy and Oliver was drawing nearer each moment. She slipped her arm round Lindy’s waist. She must do what she could.
“Well, darling, perhaps it isn’t a very sensible idea.”
Lindy tossed her chin.
“Of course it isn’t sensible. But one doesn’t only do things because they’re sensible.”
Oliver had joined them.
“And, after all,” he explained to Vera over Lindy’s shoulder, “with that Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn—or whatever her name happens to be for the moment—in it too, it does seem . . . somewhat unnecessary.”
His tone was drier than dust: his air was one of infinite boredom. Vera felt her muscles tighten ever so slightly. Her finger-tips pressed the arms of her chair. For herself, she tended for once to agree with Oliver. He must be aware of this, and had every right to call upon her to take his part against Lindy. But the more right he had on his side, the more she resented his attitude. Life with him would be like that. The dry, self-complacent tone which wrapt his selfishness was maddening. But she must not make the position more difficult for Lindy. After all Oliver was her future. A break now would be disastrous.
“I think perhaps you’d better not do it,” she said to Lindy. She would not meet Oliver’s glance. Lindy looked round at the two of them, and stood for a moment irresolute, and then she nodded quite humbly.
“Very well, Oliver,” she said, and went over to explain her withdrawal to the Bo’sun. Bo’sun and the group around him began moving slowly towards the door. They were arranging for Grace to take Lindy’s place.
Vera sat very still watching them. Oliver hovered somewhere near her, she knew, but she would not look at him. He’d beaten Lindy, he’d beaten Lindy, and he’d made her help him! She’d had to take his side against her . . . for the sake of Lindy’s own future. It was as near a matter as that. To-night under the air of carnival, Vera had been very conscious of the play of their wills, his and Lindy’s. She had not been told so, but the relations between them had been strained enough of late, she felt certain. Now at last Harry was growing restive at the delay. Oliver would have to come to some decision. The situation was growing desperate. And before he left, she must show him Harry’s letter. She rose and went over to her desk for it. By the time she had found it, the others had moved into the hall. She followed them.
Bo’sun was chaffing Grace O’Hara.—He’d choose the strongest pram for her, he told her. He’d insist on her having it, whatever the others might say. But he wouldn’t answer for even its springs.—He opened the front door, and was greeted by some cheering. The rest of them were finding their hats. Vera crossed to the window and looked out between the curtains. There were five perambulators in the yard in front of her house, some girls and two young men. Bo’sun came back into the hall and over to her.—After the race they were all going to dance at the Embassy, he explained. He was going to act as “starter,” then he’d follow the race in a taxi. There were only two seats in that cab, and Lindy’d insisted on coming with him. Would she let Oliver bring her along?—She wasn’t coming on, she told him. She was tired.
The others came up. Vera could not be persuaded to join them. They said good-bye, and wandered off to the front door and out into the yard. She heard the Bo’sun introducing them to his friends outside. Oliver, as she expected, lingered in the hall. He smoothed away some invisible blemish on the surface of his top hat. The fastidiousness of his lips was marked: his eyelids were half closed, as if deliberately languid.
“I’m not particularly keen on being mixed up in this,” he said, and waited near her. She could hear the perambulators being wheeled out onto the pavement, and the Bo’sun laughing with some unknown man. The front door was closed. Vera looked towards Oliver. He was merely waiting till the excitement outside had dispersed, she recognised: he was expecting nothing.
“Oliver,” she said, “this has just come. I think you’d better read it.”
He took the letter without special interest. Evidently he did not know Harry’s handwriting.
Lindy hadn’t seen it, Vera added. She went over to the curtains, and peeped out between them so as not to appear to watch him as he read the letter. The perambulators were formed up in line in the empty roadway, their cavaliers in position. The rest of the party, a few stray passers-by and a benevolently interested policeman stood by, watching. It was nearly one o’clock, Vera saw by the clock over the Knightsbridge Arcade. The Bo’sun with an air balloon in his hand was preparing to start the race. Grace O’Hara, exchanging rowdy pleasantries with him, was in the nearest pram. Beyond her was a girl with short red hair, and a white and silver theatre cloak, and beyond her again a raised pram hood, to which Tono was objecting. Eventually he had his way. Lindy, rather disconsolate, was still inside the railings. Vera watched her thoughts elsewhere.
—What would Oliver do? What effect would Harry’s letter have upon him? For Lindy this was all important. Her present position was difficult enough. She was neither one thing, nor another. Soon people would begin to suspect. The true state of things couldn’t be kept secret much longer. That Lady Greenwich had scented something, though perhaps she had not found out anything definite. Surely, when he had read Harry’s letter, Oliver could delay no longer. Surely he must send in his resignation, and go away with Lindy at once. If he didn’t, it would mean . . . Oh, but he couldn’t leave her: not now! He’d accepted the situation: he must go on with it! . . . If he didn’t . . . Without him Lindy had no future, no name to cover her, nothing to keep her from . . .
Outside, the Bo’sun raised his hand: on his other palm rested the air balloon. One! Two!! Tono assumed the attitude of a sprinter waiting for the start. Grace O’Hara was waving madly. Three!!! The Bo’sun burst the balloon. Vera heard a little rise of cheering, and saw the prams dash away, followed by Lindy and the other onlookers.
“Thank you,” said Oliver. Vera turned from the curtains, and took the letter from his extended hand. For a moment there was silence.
“Will you be seeing Lindy again to-night?” she asked him.
“Probably,” he answered, and said good night.
Lindy’s affairs were working to a climax, Vera was certain. The next few hours would bring the decision. Standing where she was, she watched Oliver let himself out. Then she went slowly back into the dining-room to put out the lights.
Lindy was beginning to feel thoroughly despondent. She, Tono, and Grace O’Hara had been waiting some time at the corner of Bond Street—finishing point of the race. Oliver was late. The pram race was over. Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn and her party had gone off to some newly opened night club: the prams themselves had been sent back on taxi-cabs to their homes: the chance spectators had passed on.
In the hilarity of the race itself Lindy had forgotten her disappointment at not having been allowed to take part in it, but now the reaction had set in. She fretted, looking up and down the empty Piccadilly. If Oliver wouldn’t let her do this, and wouldn’t let her do that, she was willing to give in to his wishes: but it was only fair that in return he should consider her too. He hadn’t been nice to her all evening . . . nor the evening before . . . nor . . . Oh, why didn’t he come! Bo’sun had walked up the street to the Embassy with Joan Maverick, whom Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn, being short of men, had left in exchange for the undergraduate she had carried off. They had gone to telephone to Vera’s house to ask for news of Oliver. Tono, who had pushed Grace O’Hara’s pram, capsizing it and her twice during the race, was at Lindy’s side: but was chaffing Grace about imaginary injuries. She watched them. Tono was quite right to be talking to the Irish girl, especially as Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn had absorbed her rightful partner: but all the same, she herself could not help feeling a little neglected.—Why couldn’t Oliver be in time? She was depressed. She wanted to dance . . . to forget. Perhaps Oliver had been right in refusing to have anything to do with the race. There hadn’t been any fuss about it: all the same, with his regiment to consider, he couldn’t afford to take chances. Even Bo’sun, who delighted in any sort of rag, had felt that he himself could not push one of the prams. Still, as Oliver had promised to join them afterwards, there was no reason at all for keeping them waiting like this. In a way she felt now responsible for his bad manners. Harry would never . . . She put the thought out of her mind.
“You weren’t really hurt, were you?” she asked, turning to Grace O’Hara.
“Oh, please don’t you start asking too! You’re the eighth at least,” the Irish girl laughed back.
Lindy looked over her shoulder to see if Oliver were coming down Bond Street from the Guard’s Club—where he might have been. There was no sign of him, but Bo’sun and Joan Maverick had reappeared from the Embassy.
“I’m sure sitting well forward helped Mrs. Tarporley-Quinn to win,” she said to Tono.
Grace O’Hara was enjoying every minute. “There wasn’t room for me to sit forwards or backwards either. I was where I was, except when you threw me out.”
“It was all because you would keep in the gutter, Tono,” Lindy told him. The Bo’sun and Joan Maverick joined them.—He’d got on to Vera’s. Oliver had left soon after the race had started. He’d rung up his flat. There was no answer.
How were the bruises, he asked Grace O’Hara.
“I vote we don’t give Lord Dashwood more than another two minutes,” said Joan Maverick, spinning round on her heel. What a pretty lining her coat had, Tono told her. Her mother had bought it for sofa cushions she explained, but she’d got there first. Lindy turned to look at the cloak.—She didn’t think it at all pretty stuff . . . Why didn’t Oliver come?
“At—last,” shouted the Bo’sun.
She turned, and saw Oliver who had just appeared round the corner out of St. James’s Street. His coat, which he was carrying, was beautifully folded: his cane was the long white malacca which he affected in the evenings. He looked smarter than ever, Lindy thought, and for some reason the idea annoyed her. He waved his white gloves in languid greeting, and sauntered across the road towards them. Lindy knew that mood of his. He realised that they were impatient, and he wasn’t going to be hurried!
“Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” he remarked, halting and raising his hat with rather perfunctory politeness. He thought the race would have taken longer, he told them. Lindy’s eyes he avoided. Bo’sun and Joan Maverick had started on their way up Bond Street, Tono and Grace followed them. Oliver stepped off at Lindy’s side.
“What’s the idea now?” he asked her.
—They were going to the Embassy.
—That was the first he’d heard of it.
They walked on a few steps before he spoke again.—He didn’t very well see how they two could go there!
Lindy caught her breath. But he was only trying to annoy her, she felt, and she didn’t intend to let him succeed.
—Nobody had suggested the Embassy when they’d been at Vera’s, or if they had, he hadn’t heard!
Lindy clasped her cloak at the neck, and narrowed her eyes. He couldn’t mean not to come and dance: not now, after keeping them all waiting.—She said nothing. . . .
—All he’d heard was that they were to meet at the corner of Bond Street after the race was over. And he’d come.
Lindy swallowed her retort. He was dawdling deliberately, she thought. He . . . Oh, he was such a dear usually. He had such nice manners too. What was the matter to-night? Perhaps he was worried about something. He was rather highly strung. She was sorry that he hadn’t understood, she told him. He’d had no idea the Embassy was in the programme or he would . . . Lindy did not enquire about the alternative. The Bo’sun and Joan Maverick had reached the entrance, and were turning into the club. Lindy forced herself into a gentle mood. She wasn’t going to mind how tiresome Oliver was. It would only be for a minute more: and once they were dancing he’d forget. Just outside the door of the Embassy he checked. It was just his final fling of ill temper, thought Lindy. It was better to pass it over. She moved a step or two, then as he remained where he was, she returned to him.
He was leaning on his cane. His face was expressionless. “I don’t see how you and I could possibly show up there together.”
“But we must now, dear,” Lindy coaxed, “mustn’t we? It would look so silly after coming to the very door. Besides they’ve been waiting . . . for us.”
Oliver altered his pose, and slipping his cane under his arm, began pulling on his gloves. He seemed taller to-night, and very inaccessible, Lindy thought, and to be keeping her deliberately at a distance. She began to feel uncertain of her ground. She’d got no one but him now: she had never felt more dependent. She looked up at him as appealingly as she could.
“Do be nice, darling.”
“One’s got to be sensible.”
Bo’sun reappeared in the entrance.
“What’s up?” he asked cheerfully.
“Oliver says——”
“Look here, Bo’sun, do explain to Lindy that she and I can’t go to a place like this where any one might see us.”
“But, Bo’sun, dearest——” Lindy took his arm. She wouldn’t be tragic about a thing like this. Oliver was being “difficult.” The only thing was to take it lightly.
The Bo’sun, his hands in his trousers pockets, his coat slung under his arm, his top hat well on the back of his head, shifted his balance from his heels to his toes, and back to his heels again.
“My good people, my very good people, if it wasn’t for that Irish girl I’d suggest we all pushed off to the Pink Lizards or whatever Oliver’s weakness for the moment happens to be. But the p’or gal’s so keen to see the Embassy: and, ’pon my soul, when I think of how she soused me with that pillow, I haven’t the heart to disappoint her.”
Oliver regarded his gloved hand, and grounded his cane. “Are there likely to be many people inside to-night one would know?”
“Haven’t looked, my good owl, haven’t looked.” The Bo’sun turned to Lindy. “Look after our nervous young friend, like a dear, will you? I’ll go inside and vet the multitude for him. Only, seriously, we can’t hang about all night like this, Oliver. I’ve got those two girls waiting in there, and Gratz is a foreigner.”
Oliver finished polishing the head of his cane and addressed the Bo’sun.
“You do see what I mean, don’t you?”
Lindy let go the Bo’sun’s arm and took Oliver’s. “All right, Oliver, let’s go somewhere else.”
—It was horrible, sending in to see if she was fit to be shown to the people in there, she thought. She couldn’t bear this! Especially not in front of the Bo’sun. She was fond of the Bo’sun, and hadn’t any gêne with him. It was bad enough when married people bickered like this in public—but in her present position . . . !—She turned away from the two men.
The Bo’sun saw the droop of her shoulders, and though she meant nothing to him, felt a sudden compassion for her.
“I say, Lindy, old girl, look here . . .” Lindy, who had moved a step away from them, halted, but she did not turn.—“If it’s this place you’re set on, for the love of Towser, come and honour me as my guest, and let punctilious Percy take himself off to his censored and sanitary bedding.”
Oliver swung his overcoat onto his other arm. Lindy was very conscious of him close behind her.
“I haven’t the faintest objection, of course,” he said, “you must please yourself.”
To Lindy the situation seemed absurd and dangerous . . . dangerously absurd, absurdly dangerous. She felt that under the lightness of their tones Oliver and she were near the breaking point, and was conscious all at once of a sense of the giddy insecurity of her life. Women lived by pleasing men: ultimately that was what it was. She’d made a mess of things. Below her was that ugly chasm into which it was so easy for a woman to slip, and from which it was so hard for her to climb again. Oliver was her hold upon security. She felt suddenly aware of how easily she might lose her grip of that one hold. And all this fuss was about nothing! She hadn’t done anything to annoy him. She’d given way to him about the pram race. Now she was going to give way to him about this, because . . . because . . . Was this what the future was to be?
She turned and mouthed a little secret kiss to Bo’sun in gratitude. Then suddenly she caught Oliver’s arm.
“Come on, Oliver,” she said, with a capacity for lightness which surprised her. She dragged him across the road towards a waiting taxi. She did not turn to see Bo’sun watching her, his mouth open and awry.
The place may have been called the Pink Lizards—Lindy never heard its name. Its entrance suggested infamies of a sordid sort, which its interior failed to supply. It had rafters of green and orange. The lighting was bright, garish and unsympathetic, in a way which could only be found in London. The music was bad; the floor was good but crowded; the dress of those present varied from white ties and evening frocks to flannels and “sports” skirts. The most lurid element might have come from the studios of Chelsea: the majority—if appearance proved anything—was making explorations from its suburban base, unsatisfying explorations at that! The tables were painted in primary colours, and had no cloths. On the walls were some pictures in a would-be Maori taste, and some masks and weapons from Polynesia. Except for the existence of ventilation and absence of human odours, the place could have been bettered in any capital of Europe. But Lindy was not in a critical mood, and the place and its other guests were nothing to her. All she wanted was to begin dancing, and to forget her disagreement with Oliver. It was the easiest way. They were both devoted to dancing: indeed it had been as partners that first they had become attracted to each other.
As they made their way down the room the tune ended with an attempt at a rhythmic dénouement. A table was found for them: the dead cigarette ends were swept onto the floor, and wine was brought them: Lindy drained her glass, and waited for it to be refilled: Oliver sipped his. As soon as the music began again she rose quickly from her chair and smiled at Oliver.—She wasn’t going to nurse any grievances she might have. She and Oliver mustn’t start like that. Besides life was made to be enjoyed. She smiled at him and then at two short-haired girls dancing together. When an evening was a failure, it was usually because one didn’t know how to make it into anything else.
“This is a new tune, isn’t it?” she whispered to Oliver, with a happy gesture of her head. He nodded. Lindy tried another remark. Then for a long while they danced on in silence. Once a fat man with a farmer’s action, cannoned into them. Oliver froze the gentleman’s apology with a look. . . . Presently they returned to their table. Lindy took a cigarette, but left it too long without encouragement, and found it no longer alight,—it wasn’t worth while asking Oliver for another match. He was still sulky, but about what she had no idea. She’d given up the pram race because of him: she’d given up the Embassy because of him. What more could he expect of her in one evening? But perhaps he was worried. She didn’t want to be unkind. She drew her chair closer to his.
“Don’t be depressed,” she whispered softly.
Oliver, his gaze on the further corner of the room, ran his fingers along the turned-over edge of his shirt cuff. He twisted round the link of it till its design was upright.
“Nobody helps me to be particularly cheerful, do they?”
Deliberately Lindy’s elbow touched his—it was a little gesture, private to themselves.
“What’s worrying, darling?”
The orchestra striking up again, they rose and began to dance. Oliver’s movements were mechanically graceful to-night, she thought; for her they had none of their usual interest. He was frowning: soon he would say something: it would not be very pleasant, she fancied . . . and it wasn’t being a very cheerful night, anyhow! . . . But what did it matter! To-morrow his mood would be different: to-morrow everything would be all right: to-morrow . . . But to-night . . . to-night was the danger. She was conscious of it as though it were something physical, close beside them. If only she could get through these next few hours without disaster. She must keep up a conversation, and not let herself think of such possibilities—nor let him. She threw about for a subject. But nothing one said seemed tactful to-night.
“Wasn’t it lovely that night by the river at Clympham when we went for that walk after dinner?”
Oliver achieved an escape from between two converging couples— “Yes.” They passed into the blare of the orchestra, and out of it before he spoke again.
“I don’t think any of you realise that I can’t jack things up until this competition is over.”
“But I do, I do really, darling.”
“Well, perhaps you may.”
“And of course Vera does too. I explained it to her and she quite sees. I promise you she does.”
“I shouldn’t bet about it!”
Lindy waited several bars before she answered.
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“You didn’t know that your husband’s been writing her letters asking when we two are going off for good?”
“No—I didn’t. Has he?—but you do see that he wants to know so that he can start proceedings?”
The tune ended, but after the expected appreciation was revived again.
“I daresay,” said Oliver, after they had completed another half turn of the room. His hold of her seemed utterly disinterested. He was keeping his head deliberately far from hers, she thought.
“I daresay,” Oliver continued, “but he might take into consideration that other people have plans to arrange too.”
Lindy kept her eyes upon a Jewess sitting with some thin dago at a table. They were not a pretty pair, but she wouldn’t see anything else—she wouldn’t think of anything else.
“Well, I do think he might . . . I’ve got this team. I’ve been training ’em all this summer for the competition. I do think that as a soldier he might realise that I can’t chuck up the whole outfit to please him or——”
Lindy felt herself stiffen as she danced.
“Oh, Oliver, I think it’s horrid to say that!”
“Well, I think he might. When one takes on a job like that, one can’t very well jack it up at the last minute just because——”
The tune ended—for good this time. They walked back towards their table.
“Just because of what?” Lindy looked towards him. Her arms were trembling a little. They reached the table.
“Just because one’s got into a mess,” said Oliver as he sat down.
Lindy turned in her chair and leant towards him across the table. Her hands were clasped together, her fingers tightly locked. Oliver was looking away from her.
“A mess?” she whispered almost into his ear.
“I mean we hadn’t intended to get caught out like that . . . of course, as I was in love with you, and naturally I was only too . . . but we hadn’t intended it to happen that way.”
Lindy drew back, and leant lightly and limply in her chair.
“No.”
“I don’t think you meant anything more serious by it than I did—at the time. I’m sure you didn’t. We just did it on the spur of the moment: and getting caught out, we’d got to take the consequences.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure nobody can say that I wasn’t perfectly prepared to do the straight thing about it. Naturally one would be, and I was very fond of you and all that. But I don’t see any reason to pretend that it happened at a convenient moment: and I’m not going to pretend that I see why I should be expected to leave all this outfit I’ve been training up, in the lurch, just because of it.”
Without knowing why, Lindy reached out her fingers towards her glass, but before they reached it, drew them back.
“I don’t think one can fairly look at it only from our own point of view”—that “our” had been difficult to her—“and you must see that Harry wants to get the thing over as quickly as he can. . . . I do think he’s behaved wonderfully about it.”
“Oh, agreed! Up to now he’s been a perfect pattern of magnanimity. But you didn’t see this letter to-night, you say?”
“I told you I didn’t.”
“Well, he said in it—among a lot of other things—that nothing was important except you and I getting married and . . .”
“Well, that is important, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course it’s important. But nobody can say that I haven’t done everything which could be expected of me.”
“I never did even suggest it.”
“I’ve got to finish what I’ve got in hand—in a soldiering way, I mean. I don’t see that anything more can be asked of me. It wasn’t as if the whole thing was intentional. If I’d realised . . .”
Lindy squared herself to the table again. Her eyes were very steady.
“Yes?—if you’d realised——?”
Oliver drew back deeper into his chair, emptied his glass and set it down again.
“Oh, do leave it alone.” His manner was detached, hers grew still more tense. She sat very upright, her breath coming in little quick gasps.
“So that’s how you really feel? That’s how you’ve really been feeling all this time?”
Oliver, frowning, refilled her glass and then his own.
“Is it?”
He took up his glass, sipped a little wine and sighed. Lindy drew herself to the edge of her chair.
“Yes, that was it . . . I see now.” She rose to her feet.
“Oh, I say——” said Oliver, in the act of rising.
Lindy had drawn her cloak about her shoulders.
“You needn’t trouble to see me home,” she said, and turned from him. She hurried on her way between the other tables towards the door. She did not hear him calling after her. Once free of the crowd, she broke into a run. The singing in her ears drowned the strains of the music, the room around her had suddenly grown very dark. She was in the street—alone. She hailed a taxi and jumped in.
Vera sat up in bed. She had just heard the front door open and close.—Lindy. What had happened to Lindy since she had seen her last a few hours before?—It was dawn, but she had not slept.
Long after Lindy had gone out with Oliver, she had stood in the darkened dining-room looking out into the park, with a sense of coming disaster dense about her. Then she climbed sadly to her bedroom, and ever since she had been lying waiting with her dressing-gown still about her.
She rose from her bed and slipped out of the open door on to the landing. Standing by the head of the stairs, she could hear on the flight below Lindy’s dragging step, slower than that of listlessness or fatigue.
So it had happened: the worst. She had expected it, yet she had prayed that it might not come to that. A faint light stole in past a drawn window-blind, pale and hopeless, and so presently she was able to see Lindy as she came to the turn of the stairs. She was moving like one blind, a hand groping along the banisters, and her face hidden in the crook of her other arm. Her theatre cloak had slipped from one shoulder and trailed behind her.
Vera waited: “Darling,” she whispered softly.
The other made no sign, nor did she hasten her pace: but Vera knew that she had heard: and as Lindy reached the landing, she slipped an arm softly about her.
Lindy caught her breath in a sob. “It’s over!”
She let herself be drawn to Vera, and buried her face on her shoulder.
“It’s finished. I’m done for . . . That’s all.”
Vera held her very still, and so in the uncertain light the two girls stood for a long time.
“Come,” said Vera presently, and with her arms still about led her into her own room.
“Done for,” choked Lindy. “I’ve broken with Oliver. I’m ruined.”
Vera held her. “Darling.” There was nothing more to say.
With her face still hidden, Lindy felt for the bed and sat down.
“Let me stay, I can’t bear to be alone,” she said scarcely audibly.
Vera pulled her frock off gently over her head, and let her sink back on to the bed again. She knelt down, and drew off the tinsel shoes and wispy stockings.
“I’ll go and fetch your nightdress,” she said simply, as though to a child.
“It doesn’t matter—don’t leave me . . . Vera—Vera, don’t leave me.”
Vera slipped an arm beneath her shoulder and another under her bare knees. She moved her to above the turned back sheet, and drew it over her. Lindy lay limp: her arm, which had been across her face, slipped from it.
“I’ve lost Harry—now I’ve lost Oliver—I’m no good. I’ve got no future.”
Vera sat down beside her and bent over her.
“Is it quite final?”
Lindy nodded.
“How did it happen?”
Lindy began to cry softly.—“He’s been horrid all the evening. He’s been horrid for days. I haven’t been happy with him for ever so long. The last time he was nice was at Clympham, when we went out by the river after dinner. He’s been—he’s been——” Lindy’s voice was choked in sobs. “Hold me tight, Vera, hold me. I’ve no one but you. Don’t ever leave me—don’t—don’t——”
She drew Vera down to her. “I’ve made a mess of everything, and now I’m in the cart.”
Vera lay very still: there was nothing she could do. It was kindest to let Lindy cry. Presently she would sleep. She smoothed Lindy’s hair and cheek: it was wet.—Oliver had been a beast. How could he have treated her Lindy like that? Sulky, selfish, using any little excuse to throw over the woman whom he had compromised—a beast! a beast! Men were like that. Beasts.—Vera set her teeth, and caught a quick breath.
“Was it about anything in particular? or just——?”
Lindy’s arm stole round her. “I’d been so patient, really patient. I’d given way to him in everything. I gave up the pram race because of him. Then he kept us waiting. And when he did come, he wouldn’t go to the Embassy with the others. Bo’sun thought he was horrid—he more or less said so, and he offered to take me himself. But I was so frightened of . . . I’ve been frightened all night. I felt something awful was going to happen.”
“I felt it too.” Vera’s words came very slow, her eyes were open, the room was not quite dark, and she could see the vague form of things. She could feel Lindy’s breath hot upon her neck, and Lindy’s body close against her own and shaken every now and then by sobs. The house was very still. Presently Lindy began again.
“And at the night club where he took me—some horrid place—he was beastly to me. Not straight out, at first. At first it was all sulkiness and insinuations, then he started saying that people seemed to think he’d got nothing else to think about in life except how soon he could marry me—that was about his not having sent in his ‘papers’ already of course.—Then he began to care less and less what he said. I was patient with him, I promise you, and I was fond of him, and I thought perhaps something had been worrying him—or his mother was trying to stop him going off with me. And I did make allowances. I’ve never let anybody be like he was with me before. Then in the end, he made it quite clear that he was only marrying me because it was the sort of thing which was expected of one, and that it was very bad luck on him that we’d been caught out: and that he’d got to do it—and practically that he was being very honourable about it in not leaving me in the lurch, and that I ought to be jolly grateful. . . . He didn’t even pretend he cared for me.”
Vera drew Lindy to her. Her grip about her tightened.—Oh! Oh, that any one could have treated her Lindy so, could have put her in such a position, could have even let other people know about it. . . . This was what came of men. Harry’d been one of the best of them, yet he hadn’t been big enough to give Lindy another chance. And Oliver—Oliver!—She lay very still, her muscles rigid.
“And when he let me know that he didn’t even care about me . . . I’d got too much pride to go on with it——”
“Ye—s, that was right—quite right!”
“I didn’t make a scene. I’m so—so glad about that now. I got him to more or less repeat what he’d been saying about—oh, about not caring, so that he should know what it was about, and then just came away and left him.”
“Did you really love him yourself?” Vera’s tone seemed to come from far away. Lindy turned in her arms.
“At first—at first I was just attracted to him. Then I saw a lot of him, and I think I was in love. I didn’t love him, I was a little in love with him, you do understand the difference, don’t you? Then—I didn’t mean to—but it happened, and after that I had to love him. . . . Don’t you think, Vera darlingest, that women often love men because they have to? And besides I was miserable about it, and I wanted some one to love me, and I’d lost Harry: and . . . yes, I did love Oliver—I did love him after that, and even lately when he’s been horrid I have loved him—not like I used to love Harry, but . . . oh, I’d got nothing but him . . . and now I’ve got nothing.”
“I’ll never forsake you. I’ll love you always, not like men love:—always! whatever happens!”
Lindy nestled closer to her. She kissed Vera’s neck. “And I love you, darling. You’re the only person who stands by me. And, oh! oh! I need it now. What am I going to do? I’m nobody’s wife. I’ve got nobody to look after me. Nobody to depend on. But I couldn’t have done anything else, could I? I couldn’t have gone through with it once he didn’t even pretend that he wanted to. Could I?”
“No.”
“He even said that Harry’d been worrying him about when we two were going off. And Harry’s been so fine about it, and I really couldn’t let him say that.”
“Harry wrote to me.” Vera’s tones were softer. “I got the letter after dinner to-night—last night I mean—and I showed it to Oliver after you’d gone.”
Lindy nodded. “It wasn’t bothering Oliver about that, was it?”
“No, Harry only said that he and Lucius were going away for five or six weeks that afternoon. That’s yesterday now, and that they’d be moving about, and probably wouldn’t be getting any letters. So he wanted me to let some one know about it—when Oliver did take you away, so that they could get the necessary evidence . . . but I knew—more or less—how things were going between you and Oliver. I didn’t think they were as bad as they were—and of course you’d never said anything about it to me at all—: but I did feel that Oliver wasn’t doing his best to hurry up about sending in his ‘papers,’ and so I showed him the letter.”
Lindy began sobbing again. “I’ve got nothing left to do. I was wicked once, but, oh, it isn’t fair I should be punished twice. I’m ruined. What am I going to do . . . I don’t want to ever see anybody again. I’m ashamed to. I want to go right, right, right away. Somewhere where no one knows. I never want to see anybody here again. Never! Never! Never! I couldn’t ever trust any one again. I didn’t know a man could be so awful—oh, take me away, Vera. Take me right away . . .” Her sentence trailed off into sobs.
Vera waited. Later she spoke again.
“Yes, we’ll go away. I’d been planning to go somewhere when you were going to go away with Oliver. You see, having you back here, was like old times, and you’re going away with Oliver would have been another break in life for me—like when you married Harry. It would have been more of a break really because Harry liked me and never tried to come between us: while Oliver . . . well, we’re not sympathetic to each other. Besides, being younger than Harry he’d take my place with you more than Harry did . . . I knew that I should be very sad when you went, and I’d been planning to go away and be solitary for a time. Tono had been telling me about some place in Rügen where he was last summer for a little. And he’d have been able to come there from Berlin sometimes: and somehow Tono is very near to me—though we scarcely ever see each other. He’s a relation, you see, and the family means more to me than it would to some one who was entirely English.”
Lindy had stopped crying. “Oh, I’d love to get away. Now! Now! Take me away soon, Vera darling.”
The worst was over, Vera knew. She smoothed Lindy’s hair and kissed her eyes. Tono was leaving for Berlin in two days’ time. He could get the visés for them, she decided. There’d be just time to pack.
Lindy pressed herself against Vera. “You are a darling. I love you. We’ll go away. We’ll be together. Like we were before. I never want to see a man again. Never! never! never!”
“Never” is a long time. Lindy had said that she never wanted to see any one but Vera again. “Never” had lasted for nearly three weeks.
Alone on the balcony of her bedroom, Vera lay in a long wicker chair, thinking of this. From the Kurhaus terrace just below drifted the gaiety of a string orchestra. Before her the Baltic, ruffled to a bright chilly blue, stretched its horizon from point to point of the wide bay. It was afternoon and the sun, slanting from behind the houses, left the promenade in unfriendly shadow. Out on the white, powdery sands it would have been warm enough, but on her sunless balcony Vera shivered a little, and drew her rug more tightly about her.
Soon would come the last days of August, and with it the short Baltic season would be suddenly at an end: the hotels would empty: the bands depart: the cabarets close. No one would breakfast any more on the hundred balconies of the boarding-houses. The strand-corben—the hooded wicker love-seats of that littoral—would vanish from the beaches: their surrounding ramparts of sands which used to be repaired so faithfully each morning would be levelled by the wind. The honeymooners would depart to face their future. And the chill, clean winter would descend upon the coast.
Vera looked down upon the Kurhaus terrace. The crowd on it was thinner than it had been a week before. Another fortnight, and Lindy and she must be moving on. Where? Where should they go? What should they do? And would Lindy be content to wait another two weeks without any new distraction? At first all that Lindy had needed had been rest and quiet, tramps through the pine woods along that endless sandy coast which stretched northwards to where Sassnitz lay almost lost in distance, or southwards along the cliff edge through the rolling beach forests, and over the hilly back-bone of the island of Rügen. Each evening Lindy had asked for nothing more than to dine at the Kurhaus, and then to go early to bed: and afterwards she slipped into Vera’s room to offer a tired mouth for her good-night kiss. And each morning, already in bathing dress and gaudy towel wrap, she had come into her room again to carry her off for their morning dip. At first she had come in rather sadly, as though the bathe were to be part of the treatment of her cure. Later her spirits had revived and, sitting on Vera’s bed, and twisting the tapes of her bathing shoes, a little of her old morning gaiety had returned. But during the last few days Vera had grown aware of a germ of restlessness in her.
Vera opened her book, looked at its niggardly German type, and closed it again. It was no good! She couldn’t hold Lindy, she couldn’t satisfy her. She hadn’t ever really supposed that she would be able to. She’d been useful—she was glad of that. Lindy had made no complaint, of course: but she had begun to take an interest in who the tidier and better-looking of the men in the Kurhaus Hotel might be: and with this growing restlessness had come something new, a desire to take any short cut to forgetfulness. The cocktail of habit had grown to one soon after tea, and others before dinner: often she would want four of them. Vera had said little: there was small object in saying what the other must know. She would watch Lindy sadly, yet feeling that even this might cause her to order yet another. It was really better not to be there at such times, she decided. Lindy had lost hope. Vera herself could not give it back to her.
She herself did not bathe twice in a day. Lindy must take her second dip alone: if she needed a cocktail to give her resolution . . . a couple afterwards to warm her . . . No, it was better that she should not be there. And yet Vera did not like to think of Lindy sitting alone out on the terrace, or in the wicker chairs of the dielle, still in her bathing wrap, with the cardboard saucers of perhaps three drinks before her, while an assortment of seaside cosmopolites eyed her from the bar.
And of the future? What was Lindy to do next? What would she do next? Harry had gone abroad before Vera had been able to inform him of the break with Oliver. He would be away for five or six weeks: he had left no address, letters would not reach him. Before she left London she had seen the Bo’sun, and had asked him to get in touch with Harry if he could, and let him know that for the purposes of the divorce he must use whatever evidence he had, that no more would now be forthcoming. She was sorry that Mrs. Van Neck’s house could not be kept out of the affair: but that could not be helped. In a few months Harry would get his divorce. And what would Lindy do then? Life would not be easy for a woman, young, pretty, gay, without balance—divorced by her husband, and deserted by her lover. She would have a small private income, but no ties: she would seem fair game for any man.
Vera did not even know whether Lindy had made any plans for the future. Would she live in London? The position there would be difficult enough for her. She could not imagine Lindy in the country for long. Paris? The Riviera? Rome? Vienna? Berlin? It was easy enough to see how she would find men friends anywhere—but women? Not drawing-rooms, but restaurants and later les bars would be her background. She had not even said where she would wish to go when they left Rügen, and Vera felt certain that she had not faced the future even to that extent, that she, who was usually so plucky, did not dare to look ahead. It was no use to hurry her; she must make her own decision; regain her lost confidence. She was a woman now. When Lindy had made her plans, she would do anything in the world to help her. She would live wherever Lindy wanted. She must wait. The matter was never mentioned between them.
Vera raised herself a little, and looked over the railing of her balcony. The sands were still thronged with people, and the hut-like strand-corben, turned this way and that for sun and shelter, almost blocked out the view of the water’s edge. Farther out from shore could be seen the heads of the less cautious swimmers, and the rowing boats, their peacock blue in delightful discord with the colour of the water. Lindy was nowhere to be seen. She could not have come back to the Kurhaus, Vera felt sure.
She sat up.—Should she go and meet her? Perhaps it would seem kinder to be with her. Perhaps if Lindy felt dull, it was her fault: she must take more trouble. She would go down to her.—She rose from her long chair with no strong presentiment of success.
The tables on the terrace of the Kurhaus were already filling up. The peoples of Central and Northern Europe sat over beer and chocolate, liqueurs, tea and cakes. On a cleared space of the concrete flagging some couples danced. Vera took her way down the steps, across the promenade, on to the sands. They were astonishingly clean, white, and powdery. Around each strand-corb a circular rampart had been scraped up: she threaded her way between these and towards the sea. The scum of Central Europe, which had risen to the top during the recent years of financial chaos, had come to these shores, its natural outlet to the sea, and now reclined in pairs or parties within these redoubts of pleasure. Half-naked Czechs, Poles and samples of various Germanic peoples lay entwined in intimate embraces. Vera passed amongst them without curiosity. She was glad that they were there: they were townspeople, and would leave the woods and the distant sands for herself and the better-class visitors.
Just before she reached the water’s edge, Lindy appeared, a cigarette between her lips, a hand on her hips. She glanced back over her shoulder, and seeing Vera, ran towards her.
“How sweet of you, darlingest,” she began eagerly, drawing her bathing wrap across her. “I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve just had an adventure . . . No, honestly it wasn’t my fault. It was the one we think looks like a Spaniard.”
Vera saw with sudden clearness the tower on the distant hill.
“I remember the one you decided was a Spaniard. The one in a white suit.”
They began to pick their way back towards the Kurhaus. In subconscious reaction against those about her, Vera kept further from Lindy than was her wont: for no other reason.
Lindy stopped for a moment to draw tight the ribbon of a shoe.
“Yes, the one who always carries the tennis racquet. He kept waiting about somewhere near all the time that I was in the water: and when I came out he tried to pick up my wrap for me: only I thought not—and got there first. But by the time I’d got it on, he was in front of me, and ready with a match, for I’d got my cigarette out. I couldn’t very well refuse it, could I? but I only smiled, and I didn’t answer when he asked me if it was very cold. He speaks quite good French and a little English. He tried both.”
To Vera the Kurhaus rising before them appeared for the first time in the gaunt outline of a seventeenth-century Rathaus on which it had actually been modelled. The central clock tower rose too high for happiness above the shoulders of the roof line: there was something forbidding in the square towers which flanked the advanced wings of it. There was a daunting quality about it, Vera thought.—Fear! Yes, she was afraid.—She was breathing quickly.
“I couldn’t very well have done anything else—could I, darlingest? I didn’t answer him a word! I promise I didn’t. I only smiled, that was all. Only I was ever so glad that you were here, because I felt he was close behind me: and it would be rather difficult . . . wouldn’t it?”
They crossed the promenade, and passed up the path to the entrance of the Kurhaus.
“Wasn’t the water very cold this afternoon?” Vera asked.
Lindy took her course straight through the arch and towards the stairs. Vera at her side was glad. She would not have cared to sit in the dielle that afternoon, with Lindy in a carelessly fastened bathing wrap, and with the suppositional Spaniard interrogative in the offing.
That evening they drank their cocktails in Vera’s bedroom. Lindy ordered a third, but without defiance. At dinner they sat at their accustomed table: Vera, though she could not see him, was conscious of the young man of that afternoon being in the far corner of the room behind her shoulder. Lindy, she noticed, avoided his eye—too consciously, she thought. But Lindy was not capable of great discretion.
“I wonder if he will come and ask me to dance,” Lindy asked.
“Perhaps he will. Will you?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t.”
Vera sipped her coffee.—She didn’t disapprove. Lindy was like that. She could not be otherwise. She needed young men—to dance with—to talk with—to flirt with. She had lost her social security: she’d had a hard blow lately. She needed more than Vera could give her to help her forget. Oh, Lindy mustn’t harden! She mustn’t. Anything better than that!—Vera took the Moselle from the ice bucket, and refilled Lindy’s glass.
“I won’t dance with him. I do see I oughtn’t to.” Lindy sipped her wine.
Vera watched her fondly.—Lindy wouldn’t be silly! she wouldn’t: she wouldn’t. Yet, it wasn’t fair to deny her companionship. She must dance. That was natural. It wasn’t to be expected that she could do for long without men. That was Lindy. . . .
What did she want to do? Vera asked her. Stay? Sit out on the terrace . . . ?
Lindy met her glance, and old loyalties swayed her.
“I’d like to go for a walk to-night . . . darlingest.”
They rose.
It couldn’t go on like that, thought Vera as they crossed towards the doorway. It couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Lindy to live without a man even to talk to. For herself . . . But Lindy was different. She must do something.
That night Vera wrote a letter to Tono.— Could he come down for a week-end or for a few days? The Kurhaus was quite a good hotel. She really would be most grateful if he could come. She asked it as a favour. She believed that she could count on him. Would he come?
He came—but for the purposes of Vera’s plan he came too late.
The next day was a wet one. Had it been fine Tono might not have arrived too late.
The morning broke dull and sodden. Lindy bathed in a flat, dismal sea. The strand-corben were deserted: their curtains hung lank and dripping. Wet sand clogged her steps as she plodded back to the hotel. No one was to be seen on the promenade. No one was breakfasting in the restaurant. The stairway and the corridors were empty. She went into Vera’s room and sat on the corner of her bed. Vera was still reading the same French novel. There was no post. Dull! Lindy went to her bath. For a long time she lay in the warm water, watching the steamy air, and conscious of enveloping discontent.
Vera was tired, so she went for a walk alone. The low pine woods along the shore towards Sassnitz seemed dank and abject. Beside her path the tideless sea heaved and sighed on the level sands. She returned for lunch, but without hunger. Vera did not appear, so Lindy fed alone. She took a cocktail and later a cognac.
There was nothing to do out of doors, so the Kurhaus orchestra played in the salon where Lindy took her coffee. Some couples began dancing, and at the same time she became conscious of the “Spaniard” at the other side of the room, conspicuous in his striped white flannel suit, watching her over a magazine. Lindy became intent upon her shoes—she was not going to encourage him, now that Vera was not there. He was good-looking in a dark, deliberate way, she thought. His clothes were well cut, even if his colour scheme was too considered. Presently she heard him rise from his chair, and walk with importance to the further door.—He fancies he’s intriguing me, she thought. She wasn’t going to play a game with him: she too rose, went out by the nearer door, and upstairs to Vera’s room.
She spent the afternoon on Vera’s bed turning the pages of a twice-read Tatler, and manicuring her nails. Yet what did it matter whether her nails were nice or not? There was no one to admire them—except the “Spaniard” and he . . .
“I believe we’d really have done better if we’d gone to the Lido,” she grumbled to Vera.
“But you said you wanted to be right away from every one.”
“I did.” Lindy crossed to the window, and watched the soft melancholy of the afternoon. The rain was very fine: the sea seemed asleep.
“It’s just the weather, I expect,” she said.
“It is horrid.” Vera laid down her book and looked towards her. “Would you like to go away somewhere else?”
Lindy pressed her nose against the window-pane.
“No.”
Vera rang for tea. It was pale, and tasted of straw. Lindy rang, and ordered a double cocktail. One must do something, she explained with an unconvincing laugh. She lit another cigarette, but her throat was dry, and she threw it away half-smoked. Before dinner they went for a walk: the rain had ceased. The promenade was drying in patches. On their return Vera ordered cocktails. Drinking them did Lindy less harm than ordering them, she fancied—and wondered why.
They dressed early. The door between their rooms was open, and Vera noticed that Lindy was taking more than usual trouble over her lips. Her hair was rearranged several times.—It was like that, she thought. It was all part of the general trend, all expected. There must have been other restaurants to which they might have gone that night, but she did not know the name of any, and felt that she did not care to make the proposal in general terms.
They went down to dinner. The “Spaniard” was not at his table, but halfway through the meal Vera saw him enter. For the first time he was in evening dress. His socks were of the sheer variety. She saw Lindy watch him for a moment with parted lips.—There was no good in pretending not to know her thoughts, or in being antagonistic.
“He does look quite nice to-night,” Vera remarked.
Lindy nodded, and emptied her glass—she was excited, Vera felt. The waiter was unusually attentive. Lindy’s glass was empty again: he brought a second bottle of wine. Vera was sorry.—Lindy would want to stay as long as her glass was full: and she felt sure that the “Spaniard” would think that, by sitting on after dinner was finished, Lindy was offering him an opening.
She was flushed and pretty, her head thrown back, her fingers on her pearls, her smiles free to the room. Vera refilled her own glass and drank gratefully.—Hers was an unthankful rôle. It was difficult neither to disapprove nor to encourage. She was young herself. She had a life of her own. She loved Lindy, she was prepared to make sacrifices, but was she to give up her whole existence to being alternatively the confidante and then the consoler?
It would amuse her to dance herself, for dancing’s sake, that evening—not with Lindy’s “Spaniard”: he was not at all to her taste. But the fair-haired young man at the next table looked amusing. He danced well, and was evidently anxious to strike up an acquaintance with her. She was only too willing to go out every night as soon as the dancing began, but to stay just to chaperon Lindy, and so that she could pick up with this particularly dago-looking young man, was asking rather a lot.
“Do you want to go for a stroll on the front—or to stay? If we stay your Spaniard is certain to try and ask you to dance.”—She’d written to Tono: she’d done all she could. She was tired of playing governess. If Lindy could not live without “adventures” she must have them. She loved her. She’d done all she could. She was tired. There it was!
“There isn’t anything very dreadful in dancing. Every one speaks to every one in this sort of hotel. And I haven’t spoken to any one. . . .”
Vera offered her cigarette case. The floor in the middle of the room was cleared. The orchestra shuffled and changed their music: they struck up. The first couples ventured to the dancing space. Vera heard a chair being pushed back, and felt sure, without looking at Lindy’s face, that the “Spaniard” had risen. In her mind she followed his passage across the room. He arrived at their table exactly when she expected him. He smiled, and bowed to Vera.—Might he have the pleasure? Vera had certainly not been expecting to be the one asked: the stratagem took her by surprise: she had no excuse ready. What did it matter, she thought, as she rose to dance. If she refused, he would have asked Lindy.
The stranger danced well: his holding of her was extremely correct: he did not burst at once into awkward conversation. As they passed her table, she saw Lindy watching them, her lips compressed. She had ordered another liqueur, and was drinking it sulkily.—Vera had not realised that Lindy was so naïve! Lindy could hardly fancy that she wanted this young dago for herself. He was hardly her style! Nor would he have been Lindy’s a month before!
He began asking polite but well-planned questions.—Vera and her sister had been to Rügen before? Not? Not her sister? Perfectly! . . . They knew Germany well? Not? He had thought that perhaps the other lady was the wife of an officer in the Army of the Rhine. Not? He had felt almost sure that he had met her somewhere. Perhaps it had been at a ball that an English lady, an acquaintance of his, had given at the Adlon in Berlin that summer? They hadn’t been in Berlin? Well, perhaps it had been the previous season at Baden-Baden, or in Paris? Really one couldn’t be expected to remember where one met any one in Paris—one’s friends wouldn’t let one alone. It was lunching here, dancing there, dining somewhere else, and supping . . . wasn’t it? He had been saying that only a week ago to his friend, Lady Guggenheimer. . . . Of course she wasn’t “quite—quite,” but so droll, and went everywhere nowadays. . . . They had played tennis? He had played several times. Very poor courts. There was so little to do, that at last he had been out fishing one day. . . . No, he detested it himself, but one had to find something to do. It was supposed to be very good fishing, and if the husband of Vera’s friend was going to join them . . . Not?
Vera had danced enough. They made their way back towards Lindy at the table.—The seaside was detestable in wet weather, wasn’t it? It had been most kind of her to dance with him. Delightful!—Vera sat down. The stranger bowed to Lindy.—Would she honour him?—Lindy, still rather sulky, rose. They moved away.
Vera watched them. He held Lindy also irreproachably: but he was more at his ease, she could see. He was talking to her with an air of sleek confidence. She would smoke one more cigarette, Vera decided, then she would go to bed. There was no object in sitting up. Lindy would dance as long as the orchestra remained. Her partner seemed to be no worse than Vera had expected—a presentable dago, with enough cosmopolitan polish to prevent her guessing his nationality or social position. His clothes were probably English, his French was certainly not French. That was all! If Lindy was so bored as to prefer him to no one . . . well, she was with him now! If she was going to be foolish—she would be!
Lindy began to arrange her gladioli in a vase.—It had been nice of him to have sent flowers! And to have sent a bunch to each of them had been tactful. Vera disapproved of him—that was clear enough—but it wasn’t really quite fair of her. Very likely if she had met him in the ordinary way, she would have liked him. And it was hardly fair to blame him for doing what was probably the custom of the country, and for asking Vera—Vera herself, let it be remembered—to dance. Besides, they all knew each other quite well by sight, and it was really silly to worry about what was purely a convention. He’d been polite about the cigarette and match on the sands. He behaved nicely, he looked nice, he was quite amusing . . . and there was no one else! Really, Vera couldn’t expect her never to speak to a man at all, and never dance if people asked her to.—She picked up again the card which had come with the flowers.—Prince Pinesco. . . . Well, even if he was only a Roumanian, he was a prince.
Her purple gladioli and Vera’s scarlet ones looked well together, she thought. It seemed a pity to separate them: and Vera was such a darling: they could both go into her room. She could never be grateful enough to her for all she’d done, for the way she had stood by her. And after all the place wasn’t any more amusing for Vera than for herself: and it was only for her sake that they had come there at all.
She turned towards the open window. The sunlight was bright, the atmosphere very clear, the sands looked gay. A wind was blowing: but lying back, basking in the shelter of the strand-corb would be delightful. Later, when they had basked in the sun, they might bathe again: her other dress was dry. In any case, they’d got the new papers from England, which had come that morning, and they could read them. Her friend would be on the shore. Perhaps he’d come and talk. She moved over to the washing basin and towels to dry her hands: and as she came back she shook her head gaily.—It wasn’t such a bad place! It was a good thing they’d got to know some one! It was silly not to make the best of things as they were. And even if Vera didn’t like him very much, any one was better than no one. Besides, he was quite nice: and probably when he came and talked to them on the beach, Vera would realise she had been wrong about him. Vera wasn’t obstinate or disapproving: she was a darling: and when she saw . . . Yet because she was such a darling, it was hardly fair to ask her to take up with some one she didn’t care for. There was that! Dancing with him was different! She loved dancing. Vera wouldn’t expect her not to dance with the only man in the place she knew. But she hadn’t any right to encourage him to come and talk with them. No, perhaps that morning at any rate, they’d better not be on the sands. They could go for a walk. They’d always been meaning to go along the shore, to where that lake they’d seen on the map lay just behind the line of the coast. It would be a good tramp. They could take some sandwiches with them for lunch, and their bathing things.
She picked up the two vases decisively, and went through the open door into the other room. Vera was at the writing table. Lindy set down the flowers before her. “You’re to have them all, darlingest. They look so well together that it would be wicked to separate them. . . . Besides, I’m in here such a lot.”
Vera looked up from her correspondence. “It’s very generous of you, but I fancy the Prince didn’t send them entirely for me, you know,” she laughed back.
On the Kurhaus terrace below the band had just struck up. The tune was catchy: she’d danced to it the night before, Lindy remembered. It had a cheerful swing. She crossed to the balcony and looked down at the confused crowds on the sands, at the glaring bath gowns, the brightly coloured rowing boats, the flags, the deeply blue sea. It all looked rather jolly, and one could hear the music down there.
“I’d rather like to go for that long walk we were planning, this morning,” she said, as she came back into the room.
“Couldn’t we go this afternoon?”
“But it’s so warm now . . . and there’s . . . nothing to do.”
Vera turned in her chair, and rested her chin on her shoulder. She didn’t see how she could come out that morning. Sari had written a long catalogue of things that wanted doing in the house, and if she didn’t get her reply done by lunch time, it would miss the night’s mail from Berlin. Couldn’t Lindy go out and sit in the strand-corb?
By the window Lindy fidgeted. “No, not this morning!”
“I’ve finished with that French novel,” Vera told her. “You can have that to read. There was a girl in it who’s rather like you. I wonder if you’d think so.”
The tune ended. Lindy left the window. No, she wouldn’t go down to the strand-corb. That would only mean talking to the Prince: and after all Vera’d done for her, the least she could do would be not to go about with people she didn’t care for. She rolled up her dry bathing dress in a towel, and went towards the door.
“I’m going along the shore towards Sassnitz,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll bathe.”
Vera turned and smiled at her.
“Till lunch time, then.”
Lindy went out. After the sunny bedroom the passage seemed dank. She went down the wide shallow stairs. The bare grey walls looked chilling, she thought. A walk alone! She hadn’t wanted to be alone. Still, after making up her mind not to go on to the sands and to an almost certain meeting with the Prince, she wouldn’t alter her determination just because Vera couldn’t come with her.
The long salon was quite empty of visitors. The barman was polishing glasses at the bar. The potato chips looked tempting: she took some as she passed.
“A Martini?” the man asked her, smiling. Not for the moment, she told him.—She’d have enjoyed one, especially as she wasn’t feeling cheerful now, but she was going to make a rule not to drink in the morning.
The promenade was thronged with sex-conscious Teutonic maidens, stout women in striped frocks, and men in tropic-hued cardigans. Some bare-headed youths wandered girlishly in couples, arm in arm: others, probably students, stumped along in pairs, intently, with rhythmic hands and feet. Lindy kept to the road and away from the crowd till she was clear of the last straggling villas of the town, then she crossed on to the sands. They were empty except for here and there a neat circular rampart which some family had heaped up to shelter its sun-bathing. A few of these were ornamented with mottoes worked in pebbles, and with tiny flags, manifestations of that German sentimentality, usually ridiculous, yet capable in some circumstances of becoming unexpectedly pathetic. Lindy watched them as she passed. Soon winter would come and would sweep away these memories of playtime. Then these coasts would be melancholy indeed, she imagined.
Ahead the shore curved, deserted as far as she could see. She slackened her pace, and drew nearer to the water’s edge. There the going was firmer, and there she was sheltered altogether from the wind. But in the low pine woods behind the dunes the trees stirred uneasily.—Yes, soon summer would be over. Soon she would have to be moving on. But where? Where? That was just it! Yet she’d have to go somewhere, though now she didn’t even want to move on. The day before the place had seemed hateful, but partly because she’d not thought then of where else to go. After all, here there was some one to dance with at any rate, while anywhere else . . . ! England? Oh, she didn’t want to go back and meet people who’d be wondering about her, and who’d be asking questions. Italy? France? Switzerland even? She might easily run into friends—acquaintances. They’d want to know about Harry. . . . Later they’d be wanting to know about Oliver. And she’d lost them . . . both: Harry, because she hadn’t been any good: Oliver, because . . . Oh, what was she to do? Only an hour before she’d been happy. This Roumanian meant nothing to her; she’d only met him once. Still he’d been some one to talk to. She loved Vera, but she and Vera had nothing new to say to each other. Vera was like one’s relations. Relations? She couldn’t go to them. Lucy? . . . he’d be no use to her. She’d lost her place in the world . . . and she’d lost Harry. Oh, why hadn’t she kept straight to him? He’d been such a dear to her. At the time she hadn’t realised all he meant, some one who’d always have loved her and stuck to her, and whom she’d loved, too: who’d have been her . . . her . . . security. She’d none now: . . . none! Lately she hadn’t let herself think of the future: she hadn’t cared to: but now she must. Where should she go? Oliver’d let her down badly by leaving her. But she didn’t want him back. She wanted never to see him again: but with him had gone her second chance.
She walked along with melancholy thoughts. Beside her the tideless sea made inroads over the strand, withdrew, and sighed inconsolably. She came to a spot where the hummocks of blown sand were higher, and in a hollow of these she lay down to rest. The sunshine was warm, but the sky was of a chilly blue. Inland beyond the narrow belt of dunes the wind whimpered over the forests of pines. She had seen no one in the last hour’s walking. A desolate strip of shore! Desolate . . . she herself was that. . . . But it was no good whining! She turned on her side, and felt the powdery sand hot against her cheek. She buried her hands in it, lifted them, and let it run through her fingers. No, no good going over things! She’d made a mess of life: that was that! She was lonely: that was that! Probably Vera was right: probably it was better to be lonely than to take up with a stray man who’d . . . who’d picked her up. That was what it had amounted to. She could dance with him, but that was all. He must be for evening wear only. And that was probably just what he thought of her, too! But that sort of moping wouldn’t do. She must . . . She must . . . she’d bathe.
She scrambled to her feet and began to undress. When the clothing to be discarded consists of two visible garments and one supposedly invisible one, the process is not lengthy. She stretched her arms, turned her bare body in the warmth of the sunlight, pulled on her bathing dress, and ran down to the sea.
The water was cold: it deepened but gradually. She splashed through the shallows, dipped, and struck out. Taking physical exercise was the best way of working off depression, wasn’t it? She swam seaward, with an empty mind. Close to the shore the water had been calm, but clear of its shelter eddies of wind scurried fitfully. Before her Lindy could see the blue and empty curve of the horizon, where waves leapt and fell against the bounding sky. Presently she wearied, floated for a while, and then took up her breast stroke again. . . . Not a boat in sight. The shore had been lonely: the sea was lonely too: everything was lonely. Not much of a life! The happy thoughtless past seemed very far away. The future . . . ? Not much of a life . . . !
She lessened her effort till the ripples rose above her lips, then she turned on her back and floated again.
Nothing to look forward to now. It didn’t much matter what happened to her: and she didn’t much care. A cloud passed before the sun, and the sea darkened to an ugly grey. The water was too cold for pleasure. She turned towards the coast. It was further off than she expected, much further. She had no idea that she had come out as far as that. The sea seemed all at once very big and horribly deep. She set her teeth, and started on her way back. Though she would not admit the reason to herself, she kept her gaze on the sky. The cloud before the sun had grown denser, a big smoky cloud: it would be some time before it passed clear. The water seemed to have become colder. She’d be glad to be on dry land again!
Presently she looked towards the shore. It seemed no nearer. Perhaps that was because it was now in shadow. Perhaps it was really no nearer. . . . Could there be some current? She turned on to her back and looked round her. . . . Not a boat in sight, on the distant beach no one to be seen. . . . Supposing . . . ? But that sort of thing would never do! If she were to get ashore at all, she’d got to keep up her confidence. If she were to get ashore . . . ! She continued swimming on her back, using arms and legs. That was a change of movement, and she was beginning to grow tired. A few minutes before she hadn’t cared what happened to her, or had believed she hadn’t. She began to wonder vaguely how deep the water was. Deep enough in any case to . . . She turned on to her left side, and began a slow, methodical over-hand stroke. There was no good looking towards the land. She’d get there . . . or . . .
It would be very lonely to die out there, very lonely. She quickened her stroke without intending to do so. Death! An end of everything. She’d hardly thought of it in relation to herself before. And to be alone, with no one to be near and comfort! For a moment the loneliness seemed almost the worst part. Unconsciously she hurried her stroke still more. Then she realised that she had done so. That would never do: that would only mean she’d exhaust her endurance the sooner. And if one was to reach shore, she’d need all her strength. If!
She looked over her shoulder. The sands seemed a long way off. She’d not be able to touch bottom till she got to where the little wave . . . The wave vanished. Perhaps she’d vanish, just like that. She was getting tired, very tired: she must rest. She turned on to her back and floated. More out of breath than she had fancied! Must not be still too long! The water was cold, and already her fingers had begun to feel a little numb. She mustn’t think of that. No, she mustn’t think of the danger. But what else was she to think of? Of when Vera’d miss her. Of when they’d find her things. Of whether they’d find . . . A little wave broke over her, and caught her unawares, just as she was drawing a deep breath. She spluttered, and floundered over on to her right side. There was less power in her left arm, and her progress was slower. Progress? Was she making progress? Or was there some seaward-going current?
When she was tired of lifting her left arm, she tried her other side. But even then her left wrist did not seem able to do its share: she seemed to have lost power in it. Her right arm ached too. Her legs were very tired. She could only breathe with difficulty. The water seemed to press in upon her. Was this how it began . . . ? crushing the breath out of one till . . . Perhaps they’d never find her. Who’d care? Vera . . . Lucius . . . Those two! They seemed very far away, inaccessible, never to be reached, in another world almost . . . already! Yes, they’d care. Poor Vera! And Harry’d care too, though she’d treated him so vilely. Perhaps that was why this was going to happen to her: perhaps this was the punishment. Was that how things worked? Was that why Oliver had let her down? Was that why she had come out to this coast? Just so that she should be . . . She tried to pray. It couldn’t be long now! She’d got scarcely any strength left, her breathing had grown shorter and faster.
She looked towards the shore. It was nearer now: nearer: but . . . So near . . . and yet . . . She shut her eyes. Her presence of mind was engulfed in sudden panic: she struck out frantically: thought passed from her: the world seemed to grow rosy coloured. Her lips opened, and she had swallowed some water before she shut them again. She splashed on, catching her breath in gasps. Once she opened her eyes. The land was quite close now. Perhaps she might be able to touch soon, but she did not dare to try. If she checked for a moment it would be all over. There was a singing in her ears. Her swimming grew wilder. Suddenly her knee struck bottom. It was quite shallow. She put down her hands to the sand, slipped, gulped down a mouthful of water, and half drowned herself in the shallows. Then she got a foothold, and stumbled to dry ground. There she slipped on to the sand, and let herself go.
For a long while she lay panting painfully, then she began to cry. In her ears she could still hear the throbbing as if of the sea. Her whole body ached atrociously. She lay very still, thinking of nothing. Presently a grateful warmth spread over her, and she opened her eyes. The cloud had passed and the sunlight was on her. Gradually the world of sound woke in her consciousness, the sigh of ripples on the shore, the whimper of wind in the tree-tops. Presently she sat up, and looked about her. There was no one in sight: the sands were white, the sky was very blue, the sea dark, empty, thoughtless. It was as if it had forgotten! She hadn’t. She’d never take risks with it again. Never, never, never! She helped herself to her feet, and stumbled along to where she had left her clothes. Her bathing dress had almost dried on her. She peeled it off, and dressed feebly. The sunlight warmed her skin. She loved it: she loved the wind: she loved the distances, but the sea . . . horrible! Never again! It had nearly had her . . . nearly! But she’d escaped . . . and, oh, she was happy! Life hadn’t seemed worth living, had it? She’d been a fool. While there was life one could always do something. Things were what one made them. There was so much to enjoy. And even if there were sad times, and rotten days, there were good ones too. Life was to be made the most of. It was short enough, chancy enough—she’d seen that just now. She’d not be a fool any more. Nothing could be bad compared with what she’d escaped. From now on she’d make the best of everything. She’d enjoy all there was to enjoy.
She laughed to the wind and the sand dunes. Wrapping up her bathing dress in a towel, she set off on the tramp to the hotel. For a little she sang as she went, but she was tired. Twice she rested . . . once when she had gone a mile or so, once just before she came to the beginning of the promenade. It was there that Prince Pinesco found her.
It was not till five days later that Tono arrived, and by that time Prince Pinesco had made some progress. He had danced nightly with Lindy, twice he had taken her for drives in a hired car. But if Tono came late, he did not come unsupported.
Lindy and Vera went to meet him at the little station. The one train of the afternoon hammered laboriously round the curve, through the fields of yellow lupins, and drew up with wheezy precision. It was a small affair, but every one did his best. Those travellers who had parted from their relatives that morning to go shopping in Putbus were met and embraced: they became voluble with news: their purchases were handed down: meanwhile the engine added its accompaniment by letting off steam, and the station-master with scarlet cap and insignia of office moved about imperially through the crowd. At length Tono appeared. He waved his green Tyrolean hat Vera and Lindy, and hurried eagerly towards them. As usual he was smiling, was rather hot, was carrying a woman’s cloak and a quantity of small parcels. By his side walked a smartly dressed girl in the early twenties, whose skirt was justly short, and whose complexion and fair hair obviously enjoyed unremitting care. He’s brought his heiress too, thought Vera. That would mean he’d be of little use in diverting Lindy. Still for the sake of his company she was very pleased to see him.
“This is nice of you,” she said as he came up to them.
“What is this for a train!” Tono exclaimed gaily. He wrung Vera’s hand and then Lindy’s with enthusiasm.
“This is Miss Troup, of whom I told you.”
Miss Troup was “glad to meet” them. Vera was helpful and sympathetic, and expected it must have been a hot, tiring journey. Lindy noticed the American girl’s shoes, admired them, and thought she’d like her.
“Miss Troup’s mother is also come,” Tono told them. “And I’ve brought an Englishman, a very good friend to me, Mr. Edward Hartopp, a most brilliant of your diplomats. But really! He was staying at my apartment in Berlin when your letter arrived, so I made him come.”
Mrs. Troup approached. She was a homely, self-contained woman, with a concealed distrust of all things European. Rather behind her followed a large, well-built man of forty or thereabouts, in a light grey suit and a Panama hat of Hamburg shape. His face was full, controlled, and very cleanly shaved. His mouth was humorous. His sandy hair and an ironic habit of the eyes suggested perhaps a Lowland Scottish ancestry. His eyeglass, as he used it, was apt, challenging, and expressive. He was carrying Mrs. Troup’s parasol and her coat, patterned with a large improbable check, and at the moment he appeared to be amused. The introductions were made. The glistening, angular American luggage was laden on to the inevitable hand cart. Only one cab was to be seen. Vera preferred to walk.—Perhaps Tono would go with her?—That would be most excellent! But of course he would! She watched Mr. Hartopp handing Mrs. Troup, her consciously short-skirted daughter and Lindy up into the decayed victoria with an air of courtliness which might have been mildly derisive, as indeed from his showman’s bow to herself Vera imagined it had been. He mounted, perched himself beside Lindy on the shelf-like front seat, and disposed his long legs as best he could. Directions were given to the driver who, after turning these over to decide whether they could be carried out, emitted guttural sounds till his horse also assented to a start being made. Then, with a clatter of iron-tired wheels upon the sets, the cab rolled off through the sleepy sunlight in pursuit of the thrifty Teutonic passengers, who with rücksäcke and handgepäcke were already well on their dusty way towards the town.
Vera and Tono set out.—He looked amusing, this Mr. Hartopp, she said. Tono was glad she liked him. He, also, was diplomat . . . a so good fellow . . . at the Legation in Vienna, where they had made friends a few years. He had congé now. Vera explained a little about her reason for asking Tono so urgently to come. . . . He would spare a little of his time to Lindy? But, of course: but, of course! He liked the beautiful American, but she was so rich that—to be altogether honest—paying the court to her sometimes felt like making business. And he was no great man of affairs! He sighed and wiped his forehead. Really he had worked so hard in the matter of this heiress that even his mother would have been satisfied, so he deserved a little recreation. Besides, the heiress was most kind, and understood his attitude perfectly. . . . Oh, quite perfectly!
By the time they reached the hotel, Mrs. Troup, worn out by the vicissitudes of European travel, had retired to her room. The others were at tea on the terrace. Vera and Tono joined them. Tono took a place beside Lindy, who was eating “tree cake.” He reached out for it and offered her the bowl of whipped cream. But of course she must! Baum kuchen without Schlag Rahm! It didn’t exist—simply, it didn’t exist. She protested, but Tono ladled the cream on to her plate. They began to laugh. Vera listened: she was pleased. Tono was being so nice and understanding.
“I find you are so sweet, you are like cream yourself,” he told her.
“Dear me! And ought she to be whipped?” asked Mr. Hartopp, adjusting his eyeglass.
Vera thought the conversation might be changed. She turned and engaged Mr. Hartopp and Miss Troup.
“How do you like Berlin?” she asked of whichever of them might choose to answer. The American girl chiselled shavings off her ice cream. She’d been crazy on Paris and London, but, she supposed, there was nothing the matter with Berlin.
“Nothing the matter with Berlin?” Mr. Hartopp screwed his glass with the air of performing a preliminary ritual. The subject was a favourite one of his, Vera fancied. He drove his hands deep into his trousers pockets, leant back in his chair, and surveyed them both with an air of comic gravity.
“Of course there’s nothing the matter with Berlin. Nothing at all! Except for minor details such as the inhabitants . . . and the total absence of respectable architecture and pictures, of eatable food, and of the common amenities of civilised existence.”
This was the sort of thing Miss Troup enjoyed. These Englishmen were just beautiful! Their clothes, their accents, their assumption of their universal superiority! With her elbows on the table and her ice spoon poised she waited for him to finish to give her own opinion. But Mr. Hartopp, noticing this, offered her a cigarette with a deliberately overcourteous gesture, and continued immediately.
“But all the really nice people are the same in any country, as you were about to remark. I hasten to agree with you.” Miss Troup sucked the spoon and pointed it at him.
“But I wasn’t going to say that. And I don’t think so.”
“And quite right too. Come, come: let us be logical. Different surroundings produce different types: and in Germany—north Germany, I’m discussing at the moment—it produces a particularly unpleasing type. Have you ever seen a pink pig? A thick-necked, shaven-headed, overbearing, supercilious, pink pig? No? You didn’t stay at the Chester: at the Luzur? The Luzur! Oh, I have nothing particular to say against the Luzur, except, of course, against the people one sees there, and the prices they charge. Will you believe what they had the effrontery to put down on my bill for a glass of most inferior Benedictine the other night——”
Vera diverted her attention for a minute to listen to how Lindy and Tono were getting on. Had Lindy told him about her nearly getting drowned? she threw in. Tono leant forward on his elbows.—No? Not true! But how awful? So far out in the sea that she could not stand on the ground? How brave, but how unwise! His chin was in his hand, with the other he traced horizontal smoke lines with his cigarette: and one might have thought that he was interested in no one on earth except Lindy. Really he was most conscientious in his social duties, thought Vera. She hoped his heiress wouldn’t be jealous, but, turning, saw her very content with life, and throwing repartee at Mr. Hartopp.—Diplomacy was work? She’d tell the world! What did he do anyway? Hold down an armchair, and watch the leaves drop off a calendar? . . . Vera smiled. They’d be quite an amusing party at dinner. And afterwards they’d dance. Tono and the Englishman would keep both Lindy and the American girl busy. She herself wouldn’t dance. This Mr. Hartopp was nice: she’d have liked to: but if she did, it might give Prince Pinesco a chance with Lindy. And it was to keep them apart that she sent for Tono. Lindy’s eye was out, that was all that was the matter. When she’d been with nice men like these for a little again, she’d have no use for that Roumanian. Affairs were turning out better than she’d expected: everything would be all right.
But human plans, it would appear, do not affect profoundly the course of events.
The party was late going in to dinner. Tono as usual arrived last, very hurried, rather hot, and charmingly apologetic.—It wasn’t to be pardoned! Simply it was outrageous! A cocktail waiting for him? Oh, but too kind! Really too . . . He drained the glass hastily, and followed the others into the restaurant.
The night was hot, and Vera had arranged that they should dine outside on the terrace instead of at their usual table. She led Mrs. Troup towards the window. Lindy, as they crossed the room, glanced towards the place where Prince Pinesco always sat. As she did so, he looked up, half rose, bowed, smiled rather weakly, and sat down again. He’d expected to see only Vera and herself, she knew. His hopes of being alone with her that evening must have been dashed. She was sorry. Till the others came she’d been glad enough of his company, and she didn’t want to appear to drop him the moment some one else had arrived. She mouthed some inaudible remark towards him, and laughed. Then they reached their table, and sat down. Mr. Hartopp began considering the wine list. He screwed in his eyeglass and ran a finger down the page. He questioned the waiter at his side.—That was really a ’21 wine? The man was certain? The rest would trust him to order for them? Good! Did Mrs. Troup prefer a Moselle or a Rhine wine? It didn’t make any difference to her? No doubt Miss Troup being a confirmed prohibitionist would really sooner have a “soft drink.” That was what they called them, wasn’t it? But even if she did want one, she mustn’t have it that night. To please him!—He smiled across Miss Troup towards Lindy.—Moselle seemed to be indicated, didn’t it? He himself had been suffering from a positive surfeit of sobriety. Not drinking anything with his meals, and only tap water between whiles. Some one had told him he was getting out of condition, as indeed he was: a too sedentary life. . . . No one appeared to realise, positively they didn’t, how hard the Diplomatic Service was worked, or how scandalously it was underpaid.
Lindy leant towards Tono, and saw Vera on the other side of him engaging the distrustful Mrs. Troup, who had been manœuvred to the other end of the table. Poor Prince Pinesco, Lindy thought. It did seem rather a shame that he should be dining all alone when they’d got quite a gay party. Then she forgot him. Tono started to tell her his latest stories from Berlin of what the wife of the Italian Ambassador said to the good-looking Polish attaché in the lift, of another lady of the diplomatic world who had nearly discovered the secret of perpetual youth . . . nearly! and who was nicknamed in consequence Aere perennius, of a party late at night at the Buccaneers. When next she turned to the American girl on her right and to Mr. Hartopp beyond, he had regained, or had never abandoned, his original theme.
“Wine gains and woman loses a charm with every year after twenty-five . . .” he ended confidentially, and including Lindy.
Miss Troup was retouching the outline of her lips.—He was dead wrong on that, she told him. But then Englishmen were always absolutely unromantic.
Did she really think that, Lindy asked. But by this time Mr. Hartopp had fixed his eyeglass. “Whether a man is romantic depends entirely on who he is with. Come, come! Let us be logical. No one feels romantic with a . . . cocotte.”
At her end of the table Mrs. Troup shivered and fumbled with her bread. Co-cot was one of the Continental words the meaning and impropriety of which she had established. Mr. Hartopp remained unconscious of her “reaction.”
“Romance,” he continued, “after all, what is it but kissing a woman who has not yet forgotten the value of kisses?”
The American girl put away her powder puff, and shut up her mirror with a snap. She wasn’t going to be “Ritzed” with epigrams.
And what was the value of kisses, anyway, she asked him.
“The dollar value of a kiss,” returned Mr. Hartopp with his ironic bow, “is a question for a jury, not for a dinner table. Still, whatever their value may be, they lose it when they’re issued too freely . . . like bank notes. Inflation, my dear young lady! Never practise it!”
Miss Troup assumed her most bewitching pose. “Wouldn’t you like me to?”
“Is that an offer?” The Englishman laughed at her over the rim of his glass, his sandy eyelashes flickering.
The American cushioned her cheek upon her hands. “I might be chiffon in a strong man’s arms! You never know, do you?”
Two fat women in perturbing frocks forced their way behind the chair of Mrs. Troup, who shrank from their curves and bizarre magnificence. Everybody in Europe was different, while every one at home was the same!
What were those for ladies! Tono asked. Mr. Hartopp gave his eyeglass another half turn.
“Even Jezebel in all her glory was not arrayed . . . Pardon me for being Biblical. A misfortune of early training.”
He began exposing his views about the young old women of to-day, who “massaged their figures into some discipline,” but who were “betrayed by the treason of their features.” Lindy took the cigarette which Tono had offered, and allowed him to light it. Conversational topics were dealt, held, and discarded. Time passed. Ices were eaten. Dinner was over: the cloth was cleared: liqueurs displaced wine. Mrs. Troup slid back her chair and withdrew. Her daughter and the rest of the party marked a decent pause and took their seats, relieved. Inside the restaurant dancing was in progress and through the lofty open windows filtered the drone and beat of music: it rose above and sank beneath the babble of talk and chink of glasses. Mr. Hartopp with his eyeglass idle was conversing softly and seriously with Vera. Tono was explaining the virtues of Swedish Punch, a glass of which, much iced, he was sipping through a straw. His heiress was listening, tireless, smiling and alert. Her cheek was rosy, not a hair of her head was out of place: her mouth was pursed and perfectly stencilled: but her eyes were never allowed to rest. Lindy liked her, but wondered what she might be really thinking. Then beyond her she grew aware of the sky, the forgotten, watchful background of them all. Dusk had stolen in sultry from the level sea. The hills had faded out: the daytime world was lost: but all along the front a chain of arc lamps traced their vivid curve across the night: beneath each lay a pool of lemon light. Elsewhere a smoky darkness brooded low above the clamour of the parade.
Presently Lindy was conscious of some one watching her, and shifting her glance saw Prince Pinesco. He had come out of the restaurant and was drinking coffee at a table on the terrace. Their eyes met: then he looked away. His narrow chin was in his hand, his elbow on the arm of his chair. He leant on it. His ankle was crossed jauntily over his knee, but his whole pose expressed, for her, discontent. He looked darker, less obviously at ease, and perhaps in consequence supercilious. He must be lonely, she thought. She was wondering whether it would not be kind to ask him to join their party, and how the other men would get on with him, when she heard Tono asking her to dance. She rose quickly and went with him through the window. The room was hot. The floor was crowded. For once Tono seemed more interested in conversation than in dancing, but she was happy to-night, and so everything pleased her.—How did she find Miss Troup? Wasn’t she charming? And so American! Altogether delightful!
The orchestra struggled on, mopping their necks. A waiter opened another window, which produced guttural indignation from a table near it. Mr. Hartopp and the American girl entered. “That tune got her toes,” Lindy heard her telling him as she passed. . . . Vera must have been left alone. No doubt she had said she didn’t mind. Still it must be dull for her. The Prince, who must have been aware of her prejudice against him, would scarcely have ventured to go and sit with her.
When the music ceased, she suggested returning to the terrace. Vera was alone, sipping coffee and lost in thought. Tono and Lindy sat down: Vera smiled at them. Tono called a waiter.—Wouldn’t Vera try a Swedish Punch? A cognac? Excellent! And Lindy? Iced? Three cognacs in iced glasses. It has been most warm dancing in the restaurant, but outside it was delightful altogether, he went on, straightening his tie and collar. How charming the country was . . . for a little . . . for only quite a little, of course. For him . . .
Lindy glanced towards Prince Pinesco. Really she’d sooner dance with Tono whom she knew better, and who spoke far more fluent English, but she was sorry for the Prince sitting all alone. She could guess how out of it he must feel. She smiled and made a little sign to him with her cigarette.
He looked interrogatively at her, rose, and crossed to their table. He bowed, and said good evening to Vera. Would she present him? He was introduced to Tono, sat down for a polite half-minute, and then asked Lindy for a dance.
As they entered the restaurant, he touched her arm. He was so grateful, he told her. She had made a sad evening happy. To Lindy the room seemed a little cooler. The orchestra had had refreshment, and were playing with less apparent sense of duty. The Prince was dancing better even than usual.
When Lindy and the Prince went back to the terrace, Mr. Hartopp and Miss Troup were still dancing. Vera and Tono were discussing over cups of fresh coffee some details in the management of her Hungarian property. They continued to do so. Lindy took her own chair beside Tono, and the Prince took the place on the other side of her. The night was very still. Far across the bay she could see the lights of Sassnitz flickering like a swarm of stars. The sea itself was invisible, lost. Presently Mr. Hartopp and Miss Troup returned, and Prince Pinesco was introduced to them. Mr. Hartopp was in light mood.—Why didn’t he get married? Why? Supposing even that a man in his position could afford to marry, no man who was not a congenital idiot would think of committing matrimony in England. He had tried once or twice to explain to Frenchmen the legal position of a married man under English law. They wouldn’t believe it. Naturally not. Who would! A wife, if she chose—and she often did—could . . .
Lindy fidgeted. All this must be almost unintelligible to Prince Pinesco, who spoke only a little English. She began to talk with him in French on some other subject, till Mr. Hartopp, realising the situation, and not to be robbed of a part of his audience by a mere matter of language, switched into French. Once he had tried to explain that very aspect of the English marriage laws to a friend of his, a little notary of Moissac. Of course he hadn’t believed. The little man had said . . . And instantly Mr. Hartopp seemed to sink deeper into his chair, and then into his clothes, to grow squat and round: his hands, his shoulders, and his brow became absurdly emphatic. The pitch of his voice changed. His phrases bubbled out, bass and round, but with every now and then a breathless excursion of vehemence into the treble key. Lindy could almost see the plump head, the gallant, beady eyes, the dyed and pointed beard of some brave type of the Midi as he sat gesticulating over his filtre.
Vera, who had been talking to Tono, stopped to watch and listen: and Mr. Hartopp, conscious of her evident enjoyment, brought that imitation to an end.
“Or try—mark you, I have tried—to explain to a German the difficulty that a perfectly decent Englishman has to get rid of some immoral lady whom, in a fit of absurd chivalry, he has married. What does the German say?”
Mr. Hartopp’s back was straightened, his chest was expanded, his head raised, his chin drawn in. His cheek seemed to flatten into discipline, his lips to tauten. Screwing in his eyeglass, he looked round at them, men and women, with an assumption of measuring arrogance.—“Donner Wetter!”
“Oh, quite excellent. That one I like always most of them all,” laughed Tono. He had evidently seen both impersonations before.
It was very like a Prussian, Prince Pinesco told him. Mr. Hartopp thanked him rather curtly, and then relenting, offered him a cigarette before turning away. Tono looked round and returned to his conversation with Vera. They were none of them very nice to the Prince, thought Lindy. Possibly that was his impression also, as presently he asked Miss Troup for a dance, and followed her into the restaurant.
“But supposing that a man could love one woman all his life?” Vera was asking.
“Love one woman all his life!” The eyeglass glittered, and Mr. Hartopp’s head assumed a slow swaying motion. Then suddenly it was rigid again. “Come, come. Is this a nightmare, or a penal sentence? My dear lady, men aren’t bees, who can only sting once!”
Tono smoothed his hair, and stretched back in his chair. She knew him well enough, Lindy decided, and turned towards him.
“You didn’t seem very friendly to Prince Pinesco.”
Tono smiled at her across the cigarette he was lighting. “But I had not his acquaintance before to-night.”
Lindy leant her elbows on the table. Her obstinacy was rising. Prince Pinesco had been nice to her. Why couldn’t the others be nice to him?
“What’s the matter with him?” she asked.
“But, nothing. Of course nothing . . . Except being a Roumanian.”
“And what is the matter with the Roumanians?”
Mr. Hartopp examined his spoon. “That is what we none of us exactly know.”
Lindy felt her interlaced fingers tighten. She wasn’t going to be annoyed!
“But, being sensible . . .”
Vera was very still. “You don’t know how Tono and I feel about them. You don’t . . . really. If I told you . . .”
“Now, now! Please don’t disparage those,” Mr. Hartopp broke in with a mock oratorical gesture, “who an infallible sense of right and a disinterested idealism led into the War upon the side of Justice. And, even if they were rather among the ‘also ran’ (farthest and fastest, I admit), don’t forget that the Roumanians were amongst our gallant allies.”
Tono deliberately laid down his cigarette on his saucer.
“My dear Edward. Roumanians gallant?”
“My dear Tono! Of course! All marquises are ‘the most noble,’ and all allies are ‘gallant.’ ”
Lindy drained her liqueur glass. “I do think you’re all being horrid,” she said.
Vera was beginning to say something soothing when Prince Pinesco and Miss Troup appeared through the window. Lindy rose to her feet, and went quickly towards him, with clenched hands and a swing of lilac skirt.
“I’m longing to dance again,” she said, rather loudly. Mr. Hartopp watched her out of the corner of his eye, as she and the Prince went into the restaurant.
“I’m really afraid the little lady was quite put out,” he said. Vera sighed. They’d made Lindy take this Roumanian’s side. They’d thrown them together. She hadn’t meant to say anything to hurt Lindy. She never would have . . . never.
Later Lindy and the Prince came out on to the terrace again, and Vera looking up saw her say something to him. They crossed to his table, and sat down at it.
Twice Vera looked towards her. But Lindy would not meet her glance. The conversation of the others had faded out: but, as if stealing in from another world, the lilt of the music swung about her. The sky was very dark, very soft: the air was hot and still. Time had lost itself in the night. She was glad. She didn’t want to think of the morning, or of what it would bring. She’d sent for Tono, she’d done all she could. Somehow the plan had failed. Things were worse than before. In a way it was her fault. Lindy and the Prince had been thrown together. There was nothing now that she could do. What would happen?
Presently she broke from her melancholy thoughts, and stretched out her empty glass.
“Give me some more wine, like a dear, Tono.” The glass was filled. She drained it quickly with a prayer half formed.
Lindy, when she came into Vera’s room next morning, was still in an aggressive mood. Her hair was already tidied away under her swimming cap, her orange beach wrap was agape, her hands were on her hips. She strolled to the dressing-table, and surveyed the brushes and bottles.—Was Vera coming? No! She wasn’t going to wait till after breakfast so as to bathe with the others. They hadn’t asked her to, and she hadn’t said she would. If Tono and Mr. Hartopp had wanted to bathe with her they could have made some appointment, or been ready at a reasonable hour, which she was sure they weren’t.
Vera leant back against her pillows, stretched her arms luxuriously, and gazed out at the waters of the bay. Their glitter looked rather a chilly one. Later it would be warmer. She thought she’d sooner wait. Lindy shrugged her shoulders, and went out rather noisily. She did not return for a long while. When she did, she went straight into her own room. Vera heard her singing, rather defiantly she fancied. Later she heard the door from Lindy’s room to the corridor open and shut. Lindy was still annoyed! She was sorry: but there it was! Vera dressed slowly, and went downstairs.
Mr. Hartopp was sitting on the terrace, his hat over his forehead, his hands in his pockets, basking in the sun. He rose and fetched her a chair. The Berlin papers had come. There was nothing in them! There never was! Had he seen Lindy? Not to speak to. She hadn’t given him much chance of speaking, be it said. Their young friend had appeared to be in . . . in rather a hurry . . . as, indeed, there was no reason why she should not have been. She had been carrying a tennis racquet . . . or some such contrivance. That meant she’d gone off to play with Prince Pinesco, thought Vera, and was silent.
Mr. Hartopp crossed an unexpectedly elegant ankle over his knee, turned into a more companionable attitude, and smiled at Vera benignly under the brim of his hat. He knew exactly what had been happening, she felt conscious, but he’d never say so. She liked him.—The American charmer and her mother hadn’t honoured the morning yet, he told her. Nor Tono! But naturally Tono wouldn’t be visible much before lunch time. He was very fond of Tono: had known him a long time . . . far longer than he cared to calculate. What a type! Not one of the world’s workers, perhaps, still such a good fellow and so . . . so engagingly frank. Did Vera suppose he’d really marry this new heiress of his? He’d seen so many of them, Austrians, Dutch, French, Argentines, once even an English one. But somehow Tono could never quite make up his mind to take the plunge. And probably he couldn’t bring himself to put up the usual, and no doubt necessary, pretences. Of course he’d say he loved them . . . but then Tono loved every woman who was amiable and didn’t squint, and could get through the turnstile door of a Ritz Hotel without help. But, Mr. Hartopp supposed, Tono couldn’t put enough fire into his declarations to his heiresses to appear convincing. Why any sane woman should want to be told what—on the face of it—must be probably untrue, he himself had never been able to guess. Wasn’t it sufficiently complimentary that a man should wish to tie himself to her for the rest of his life, without expecting him never to have loved any one so much before?
What did he really think, Vera wondered. “I suppose it’s because we are an incurably romantic race,” she said.
“Before marriage . . . possibly. Yet an Englishwoman who’s been divorced twice will still expect men to say they love her as the price of . . . whatever she is prepared to do for them. Oh, no, you’re not going to pretend to think that we’re romantic once we’re out of the puppy stage.”
“I don’t agree with you at all about that.”
Mr. Hartopp offered her a cigarette again as if it were a final argument, and then when he had lit it for her, continued.
“Now, now, let us be logical! You’re half Hungarian, aren’t you? so you’re not included. In the puppy stage we English may be romantic . . . (being pervert instead is—I gather—more fashionable, at the moment) . . . but what does an Englishman of mature judgment regard as the best way to spend a night of stillness and of stars? . . . Bed . . . hot water . . . wife (his own at that) . . .”
Miss Troup appeared. When were they all going for a swim? She’d got a new bathing dress which a lady friend who was Queen of Sheba-ing it at Paris Plage had sent her. Mr. Hartopp was counting the moments till he could see her in it, he said as he rose. Well, one peep was worth two finesses, she told him, as they went indoors to get ready.
Lindy did not appear till the others were finishing luncheon. The Prince came with her to her table, but she stood rather in advance of him. They had been playing tennis, she told them.
Tono drew back the vacant chair for her: and Mr. Hartopp, with a glance at Vera, offered his to the Prince, without the mock courteous bow he would have given to most other people.
“I’ve quite finished,” he said. One didn’t wish to appear rude to the fellow! And if things were moving the way they seemed to be, it wouldn’t be much use being rude . . . as, indeed, it seldom was! Lindy, on firm feet, looked round at them with the asperity of the hungry for those who have fed.
“You’ve quite done, I see,” she said. “I’m sure we don’t want to disturb you or keep you waiting for your coffee. I think we’ll have whatever’s ready at the Prince’s table.”
The Prince nodded his thanks and refusal of Mr. Hartopp’s offer, and signalled to a waiter.
“We’ll join you on the terrace afterwards,” Lindy, relenting a little, threw over an independent shoulder as she moved away across the room.
Vera was glad Mr. Hartopp had tried to make matters easier. She gave him a secret smile which he acknowledged by the slight pursing of his lips into what might have been an inaudible “But, of course!” She and he understood each other on this subject, never yet raised between them. If Lindy was to take up with the Roumanian, it was better that they should be of the party, rather than outside it.
Tono, with surprising boyishness, was busy with an anecdote of some International Conference (designed to make another war or any peace impossible) and of what the head porter outside the Conference Hall had said when calling for the conveyances of the various ministers plenipotentiary. Miss Troup maintained an air of challenging interest. There might possibly be material enough in what she would remember of the story to enable her on some future occasion to throw in an impressive allusion with a hint of inner knowledge behind it. To Mrs. Troup it was very much Greek. She herself didn’t stand for things of that sort, kings and counts with their courtesans and “yes men.” She was for clean, live men with hard-boiled principles, for a reverence of motherhood and womanhood, for businesses which were going to make good, and for the future of a distant but never forgotten home town. She fidgeted with the clasp of her vanity bag, and wondered how Mr. Carl B. Troup might be spending his evenings in Vienna, Austria.
Presently the party rose and went out on to the terrace. Whether Lindy had ever intended to join the others there or not, she did not do so. Mrs. Troup retired. Tono and her daughter went for a walk in the woods. Vera and Mr. Hartopp strolled along the sands and later sat and basked in the strand-corb. About six o’clock Vera, going to her room, peeped through the half-open communicating door to see if Lindy had returned. There was no sign of her. Going downstairs again, she passed through the restaurant. Tono on a high stool, his feet tucked under him, was at the further end of it at the bar. He slid down and came towards her. Miss Troup had taken him for such a long walk, he told her. He had been altogether exhausted. He had a whisky—not like the whisky in England, worse luck! Still, he was better now. She was going down to the sands? He would come with her. They found Mr. Hartopp half asleep in the strand-corb. Tono roused him, produced a pack of cards, and insisted on playing three-handed bridge. He was very unlucky, and lost with great good-humour. It was most excellent to lose when one was playing low! By the laws of chance one should win when again one played high.
They wandered back to the hotel in time to dress for dinner. As they took their way through a window of the restaurant, Vera heard Lindy laughing rather shrilly. She and Prince Pinesco were sitting at a little wicker table near the bar. They had evidently just come in from bathing. Lindy was leaning back in her chair, her glass poised, and her orange beach wrap generously wide. Her fair curls were disordered and the gaudy handkerchief she had taken off lay across her knee. The Prince, his hair still very sleek, was in a blue and black dressing-gown of impressing design. He too was laughing rather noisily. He drew at his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke towards the chandelier. Lindy saw Vera and the others, and waved a child’s greeting as they went towards the further door.
Vera had nearly finished dressing when Lindy came in. She was swinging her handkerchief and whistling. The sand had dried on her blue bathing shoes. She perched herself on the head of the sofa, and began undoing the ribbons of them. Vera, polishing her nails at her table, could see the reflection of her in the mirror. She did not look round. Lindy pulled off the shoes and tossed them one after the other through the open door, and into her own room.
“I’m going out to dinner to-night.” Her tone was reckless. Vera screwed up her powder puff.
“Very well,” she said softly. Behind her she could hear the sofa creaking as Lindy swung her foot spitefully this way and that. After a while Lindy, still whistling, got up and crossed to the window. Looking out of the window was a trick of hers when ill at ease, Vera reflected, and taking up a pad began again to polish her nails.
“You can’t expect the Prince to dine with you all if you’re not nice to him,” said Lindy, rather loudly.
Vera did not answer. She filled her cigarette case.
“He’s asked me, and I’m going to dine with him at a cabaret.” Vera restrained her breathing. She crossed to the cupboard and took out the lemon shawl which had been her mother’s.
“That’s all right,” she said. Lindy flounced into her own room.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t dine with him,” she retorted over her shoulder. Presently she returned. She had taken off her bathing things and was half dressed. She stopped in the doorway.
“You don’t want me to dine with him?”
“You must please yourself,” said Vera, in dull tones. She wasn’t angry, but all this would lead nowhere. Lindy had had her full three cocktails to-night, she felt certain. That was in part the cause of her defiant manner.
“And you think I shouldn’t?”
“I think it would look less pointed if you dined with him any other night. They’re all going away to-morrow, you know.”
Lindy vanished, but appeared again with her frock on. Her colour was high, her eyes were wide, their gaze diffused. In the doorway she paused.
“Tono’s got his young American. Mr. Hartopp likes you. I’d have no one.”
“That’s silly. . . . You know it is. And I can’t see that it could matter much to Prince Pinesco whether you dine with him to-night or to-morrow.”
“Or whether I never dined with him at all!”
Lindy was leaning against the open door of her room. Her chin was lifted, her lips were sulky. Vera was ready. There was no use in her waiting for Lindy.
“I didn’t even suggest you oughtn’t to dine with him any other night.”
Lindy fingered her pearls angrily.
“No, but you won’t treat him seriously, as if he had a right to be a friend of mine, or I of his.”
Vera went towards the door. Really, her patience was at an end. She’d come out to this place that was anything but amusing. She’d said nothing when Lindy’d taken up with this seaside acquaintance. She’d sent for Tono, whom Lindy liked. And now Lindy wouldn’t even be polite to him and his friends. She’d done all she could for her. A little of the truth wouldn’t harm her.
“Neither of you is very serious about the other, so I don’t see why you should expect other people to behave as if you were.”
Lindy moved away from the wall. Her shoulders were squared.
“Why don’t you suppose we’re serious?”
“Well, are you?” It was a retort, not a question. Lindy moved a step nearer.
“Yes, I am.” Her voice was rather shrill. Vera turned with a hand already upon the door.
“What?”
“Serious!”
She let her fingers slip from the handle.
“Do you mean you think you may marry him?” To herself her voice sounded numb. Her shoulders felt all at once tired. Lindy, her hands behind her, leant against the foot of the bed.
“I don’t see why not.”
Her tone sounded almost desperate. Vera stared at her. There seemed nothing left for her to say.
“But you scarcely know him,” she murmured more to herself than to Lindy. Now that her first outburst was over, Lindy’s mood was softening.
“I know him well enough to know he’s kind and sympathetic.” She caught her breath. “And he’s sorry for me,” she choked, almost in tears. Vera left the door, and came slowly towards her. What was she to say? She’d known that Lindy must have been lonely, but she’d never even guessed that her loneliness had been so great as that! It was Oliver’s fault really . . . he’d treated Lindy horribly. She’d lost faith. There’d been no one to distract her thoughts, then this Roumanian had appeared. Vera’s anger came to an end as her patience had. One couldn’t have expected things to have turned out differently: and yet she found herself astonished. If Lindy really felt so about him, one was disarmed completely.
“Oh, if it’s like that I . . .” She paused for want of knowing what to say. “I beg your pardon.” Her tone was very low. But, now that the advantage was hers, Lindy was determined to make the most of it.
“Well, can I dine with him?”
To Vera Lindy’s defiant eyes and parted lips faded out, and in their place came the wider picture of the big room, dim in twilight, the fading whiteness of the wide bed, and before it the small fair-headed figure in the black frock, with chin raised, and now leaning a little towards her.
“Darling . . . Do what you like,” she said. Lindy relaxed her pose. She wavered a little.
“You see, I told him I’d dine with him.”
Lindy and she had been together so long. They’d disagreed before. She wasn’t going to let this incident grow any more important. She reached out and squeezed Lindy’s hand.
“Very well, then,” she murmured, as she turned to the door.
“I do think I ought to,” Lindy called after her. Vera opened the door and nodded her good night.
“Till to-morrow then!”
In the corridor it was almost dark. The stairs were deserted. Vera let her hand rest on the curving rail as she went slowly down them.—So Lindy would like to marry the Roumanian . . . or would be willing to. It didn’t seem possible it could have come to that. To her it had seemed nothing more than a silly, seaside flirtation. She’d never dreamt of it . . . never for an instant. When women had had knocks as Lindy had, they often took what diversion was at hand. What Lindy could see in him, she had no idea . . . but that didn’t matter. That was the least important part of it. Who was he? What was he? Perhaps she’d been wrong about him. Perhaps she would be able to find out what Mr. Hartopp thought of him. It would be no good to ask Tono. He was Central European, and would be too prejudiced.
The restaurant was full of noise and glitter. Vera went through it to the terrace beyond, unconscious of the eyes which watched her. The others were at table. Mr. Hartopp had ordered for her. He hoped she did not mind. Lindy was dining out, Vera told them. She’d sent all sorts of messages. It was an old engagement, and she hadn’t been able to give it up. Mr. Hartopp helped her out with talk. Tono had brought a mechanical frog, which hopped about the table. He pretended to try teaching it tricks, which ended in its jumping into his glass of wine, after which he announced that it was drunk. He and Miss Troup, with a finger under each of its front legs, helped it home into the paper bag from which he had produced it. It was all very silly, but Vera laughed. She was glad to have some way of giving vent to her feelings. Tono became very gay. Even Mrs. Troup thawed a little, and made some shy conversational excursions.
After dinner Mrs. Troup, her daughter, and Tono went for a stroll on the promenade. Mr. Hartopp fetched two big chairs to a secluded part of the terrace. He seemed very friendly, and much at his ease. She wouldn’t mind asking his advice, Vera decided. He had a charming discretion, and would never talk, she felt sure. She waited till their silence had become intimate. Then she turned a little in her chair.
“What do you really think about Prince Pinesco?” Mr. Hartopp offered her a cigarette as though it were an answer.
“What do you think of him yourself?” he said after a pause. That was his method of approaching a subject, Vera imagined.
“It is rather difficult to put into words,” she told him.
“That’s so often the difficulty in polite society.” He was watching her, she knew, but she kept her gaze upon the calm, fading levels of the sea. One didn’t have to dot every “i” with him as one did with most Englishmen.
“I’ve so little to go on,” she said presently.
“Precisely. I myself have only talked with the person for a few minutes. So, like you, I’ve very little to go on—practically nothing. Really, I can form no conclusion except, of course, that he is the type of young man who, for no apparent reason, selects to spend several weeks alone in a pleasure resort where he knows no one, which is neither cheap, accessible, nor—for one who wants gaiety—amusing: which offers no particular facility for any sport or pastime, nor any other inducement: and which lies in a country, the language of which he doesn’t speak, and the cuisine and habits of which are alike disgusting (I’m prejudiced, I know): that he wastes his time most of the day, but not at all at night: that he is not at ease with other men. On the other side it must be admitted that his dress and manners do credit to whatever actor he copies them from: that he has had the discrimination to make friends with two pretty and delightful girls . . . the only two in the place: that he is, or may be, a prince—though Tono, who knows his country, assures me that to be a prince on a passport for purposes of foreign travel only costs a Roumanian some odd thousands of lei (which are probably worth about as much as an ill-favoured pipe, and a second-hand tooth-brush). But then Tono, like yourself and myself and probably most of the people we care about, is prejudiced. So nothing he or I might think can possibly be of the slightest importance. That’s what people in the Diplomatic Service are always told when the Government ask for, and we give, advice on a subject we’ve studied intimately for years.”
Vera waited for a little. She was glad to have had his opinion. Presently she turned and looked towards him.
“Thank you,” she said. “We do agree that he might not be the best companion for a young married woman who . . . happens to be alone for a little.”
Mr. Hartopp smiled, uncrossed his ankles, and recrossed them the other way. “Oh, far be it from me to suggest anything half as definite as that about a young man of whom—you so truly said—we know nothing whatever!”
Vera was awakened by the sound of Lindy’s return. The door between the two rooms must have been ajar, for it was swung open a little by the draught of her entry. Vera heard her close it quietly, but for a long while she could not get to sleep again. She lay there in the darkness, trying to keep her mind empty. What the time might be she had no idea, and she would not look at her watch. That would have seemed to her like trying to spy. . . . Lindy must live her life as she found best. She had a perfect right to dine with whomever she liked! And what time she chose to come home was her own concern. It was clear by now that she could not get on without an admirer . . . not even for a few weeks: and, if she must have some man in attendance, she must. . . . And that was the end of it!
Vera, after her talk with Mr. Hartopp and after consideration, had decided upon her own course of action. She didn’t like the Roumanian, but whether she liked him or not didn’t matter. She was not there to amuse herself. She had come to Rügen only to make it easier for Lindy to forget: and now if Lindy had found another distraction, there was no reason at all to remain. There was plenty for her to do at home, and she had no wish to be mixed up in this affair.
She had spoken to Tono, and, though the rest of the party must go back to Berlin the next morning, he would stay another day, and would take her there on her way back to England. Lindy didn’t want her advice. Why should she? But in future she must go as she chose to.
Presently Vera became conscious that the glimmer of dawn had begun to spread across the ceiling. So Lindy had been as late as that, she thought: and was sorry she had come to know it.
Lindy slept late. Vera had gone out and was alone on the terrace reading when she appeared. She came languidly through the open, arched window, and so from the dimness of the restaurant into white sunlight. The glare of the concrete dazzled her. She blinked and drew at her cigarette till it spluttered. The sea was calm and very blue: the glitter of it annoyed her. All sound seemed hushed: the line of coast was lost in haze. The promenade was almost empty. Scarcely any one was moving about the sands, but she could see a few forms basking against the ramparts around the strand-corben. She leant against the side of the open window, stretched herself and yawned. Then she noticed for the first time Vera in a long wicker chair. She went across to her. Vera looked up and smiled. Where had the others gone to? Lindy asked. They’d gone bathing—an hour before! She sat down on the edge of the balustrading. They might have waited for her!
Vera laid down her book. “They’re going by the train soon after lunch, you know, so they had to get their things dry in time.”
“They’re all going?”
“All except Tono!” She paused, wondering how to tell Lindy of her decision. Presently she turned on her side—so that she was able to look up at her. “Tono’s staying till to-morrow afternoon. He must go then. So I’ve been thinking that, as I want to get back home soon, I may as well go with him as far as Berlin. I can break the journey there, and then go on to London.”
For a long while Lindy made no answer. She had been taken aback, Vera realised, and felt the tensity of the silence. Lindy sat there on the balustrade, gazing along the coast, her lips and eyes motionless. From far away came the yapping of a dog, softened in the stillness of noonday sunlight. Presently Lindy turned towards her.
“Is this because I went out to dinner with Prince Pinesco?” Her voice was changed. It was measured and without any animation.
Vera considered before she replied. “To be honest . . . yes . . . and no.” She paused and regarded her interlaced fingers. She didn’t want to appear irked. “Yes, because you see I came here so that you should have some one to talk with and go about with. And now that you have the Prince there’s really no need for me to stay. And no: because it isn’t that I’m annoyed with you about him. At first I was rather, I admit, because it seemed silly before the others. Perhaps I was jealous, too, or disappointed. But even before I went to bed last night I’d got rid of that. It was silly of me to have ever fancied that I could be enough for you, and that for a while you wouldn’t want anyone else. I do understand now that that was not possible. I could live quite happily in a world without men—though I’m very fond of some—but we are all made differently.”
Lindy nodded slightly. “And really it’s because you don’t approve of the Prince that you feel you must go.”
Vera considered. She wanted to be as truthful as possible without hurting Lindy. “No, it’s because I see there’s no necessity for me to remain. As for what I may have thought about him, I hadn’t realised that he meant anything to you. But as you are so fond of him that you are prepared even to marry him, there’s nothing left for me to do but to bow to your views. If I had known that, I wouldn’t have let you guess what I felt about him.”
Lindy turned away. “Very well, if you’re going I shall come too.” She paused and went on with flat emphasis, plodding. “Only, if I do, I don’t suppose I’ll ever see the Prince again.”
Vera paused before she answered. “But really I can’t see why you should say that. If he is fond enough of you to want to marry you, surely he’ll come to London, or wherever you are going.”
She could see that Lindy’s shoulders were drooping—with her, a sure sign of despondency.
“Wouldn’t he?” she added.
Lindy turned a little towards her, but without raising her eyes from her lap.
“He hadn’t actually asked me to marry him.”
Vera watched her rather pityingly. Poor Lindy! How could she be so silly? It seemed clear enough that this Roumanian had no intentions at all about her . . . at least, none that were flattering. Yet if Lindy couldn’t or wouldn’t see that, anything that one said on the subject would only throw her more towards him, make her more obstinate, and therefore she kept silent. She felt certain that in any case Lindy must guess the trend of her thoughts. And she must have done so, for presently she began again.
“But he is serious. I know he is. He had meant to go to Paris more than a week ago: he’d made all arrangements for that, but meeting me he’s let everything slip. He told me so only last night. If he hadn’t meant something serious would he have stayed? . . . Would he?”
She’d make one more effort to bring Lindy to her senses, Vera determined: that in friendship she must do. It might mean that Lindy would be angry with her, but she must do what she could.
“The answer to that isn’t really an answer at all, for it’s simply to ask you another question. Very likely I’m doing him an injustice by suggesting it. But listen, Lindy, just for this once. What do most men mean when they run after a young woman whom they’ve only just got to know in a seaside hotel, and who’s got a vague, unmaterialised husband somewhere in the background?”
Lindy fidgeted.
“Yes . . . I know. Of course, all that’s true. As you don’t know Pinesco . . . you’d naturally expect that. But I do know that he isn’t like that. Besides . . . even if he was like that, I’d . . . I’d . . . never do anything of that sort.”
Vera narrowed her eyes. It was no good going over it all again.—“I don’t want to interfere with your plans . . . as a matter of fact I’ve never known what they were. . . . We’ve never discussed where we’d go next. But now that I’m not absolutely necessary, I really must go home. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t stay on here.”
Lindy got up and looked abstractedly at the sea. “I hadn’t wanted to go back to London . . . but I couldn’t stay on here alone. If I did, then the Prince would think I was . . . without any one belonging to me: and then probably he would think I was the sort it wasn’t necessary to marry. If you go away I would have no chance of his taking me seriously. . . .” She moved over to Vera’s chair, and sat down on the arm of it. “Darlingest, couldn’t you stay . . . just till the end of this week . . . only till then. I’d promise and swear not to ask you to stay longer.”
Vera shook her head slowly. A peacock-blue boat emerged from behind the little wooden pier. The men in it were rowing fast and the water thrown up by their oars glittered in the sunlight.
“After the end of this week the Prince is going to Paris, anyhow . . . Darling . . . I’ve . . . I’ve got no one else now. Harry’s gone . . . I did love him . . . and Oliver’s gone. Now I’ve got this other chance . . . and I do think the Prince cares for me. He’s so wonderfully sweet when we’re alone. It might make all . . . all the difference to me.”
Vera listened dully. She was not in any way convinced. She hated to refuse Lindy, but she’d made up her mind. “I can’t stay,” she said, looking up. Lindy, she could see, was biting the skin of her hand. She was near tears. For a time neither spoke. Then Lindy rose and walked away. Her head was bowed. Her step dragged. Vera watched her move towards the window. She’d been firm: she was glad of it. There was no purpose in staying on. Yet, as Lindy reached the window, she sat up suddenly, and without knowing that she intended to do so called after her. Lindy turned quickly. “I’ll stay till Sunday,” said Vera.
Lindy’s mood was changed in an instant. She was back on the arm of the chair again. She squeezed Vera’s hand.—She was so, so happy! She hadn’t deserved such kindness. She’d never forget it. She’d be sensible. She’d do nothing foolish. The Prince was a dear, but if he didn’t mean to marry her—she was sure he did, but if he didn’t, well . . . then he needn’t think there was anything doing!
“I’ll stay till Sunday,” Vera repeated slowly. “Then I’ll go straight back to London . . . whatever happens!”
Lindy was content. Till Sunday! Vera’d stay till Sunday. The future—beyond the next few days—was seldom as important to her as the present. Vera lay very still watching the sea, almost without thought. She’d meant to go at once. She’d said she would: and then at the last minute she’d given way. Why? Why? She didn’t want to, but now that she had promised, she’d have to stay. She was sorry . . . very sorry . . . and tired of it all . . . tired . . . sick of it. She wanted to be alone. . . . to forget the world as it was . . . and Lindy . . . as she was. She was tired of reality . . . so, so tired!
Vera found Tono, and informed him of her changed plans. She wasn’t leaving till the end of the week. Something over which she had no control . . . (she smiled a little bitterly at the aptness of the phrase) . . . had prevented her leaving when she had meant to.
Tono was in the act of lighting a cigarette. He paused and looked at her with the slightest raising of his eyebrows.
“So?” Then, changing to his usual good-humour, he went on, “Excellent! Quite excellent! I will go with the others to-day. But you do not forget that I expect you both to stay at my appartement . . . when you come to Berlin en route for England?”
Vera thanked him, scarcely considering the meaning of his words. Tono puffed his cigarette into a steady glow, and held the end of it close to the palm of his hand.
“So she has found the attraction even more great than we thought?”
Vera nodded.
“Do you know,” said Tono, turning in his chair and drawing his knees under him, “I have discovered it too late that it is of any advantage to myself, but I find that—after all—women also are only fools.”
Tono went away with the others. Vera and Lindy, who had gone to the station to see them off, stood on the platform in the glowing sunshine amidst the clamour of rural leave-taking. The little train snorted and jerked itself into movement, and laboured round the curve through the field of yellow lupins again. The last Vera saw of them was Tono leaning out of the window and waving his green Tyrolean hat. Then the train swung behind some poplars and out of sight. He’d come just because she’d asked him to: now he’d gone again. He’d been nice . . . as he always was, but it had been no use. She wanted to be clear of the whole affair. The noise of the little train died out gradually under the sleepy drone of afternoon. Vera turned, and Lindy, with the past forgotten and the future calling, followed her eagerly. They passed through the comatose shadows of the little station, and out on to the dusty road.
“I’ll be in time for a game of tennis with the Prince before tea,” she laughed. Vera nodded. The air was very hot and still. The vision of trim wooden houses and towering elms danced in the sunlight. From the gardens floated the warm, pepper scent of phlox.
That night Prince Pinesco dined at their table. To Vera he was very polite, nervously so, she thought. With Lindy he was insinuatingly familiar. That she was aware of this, and of how it would strike an onlooker, Vera was conscious. And perhaps to deaden any awkwardness she might feel, Lindy sent for another cocktail after dinner had begun. The Prince insisted in ordering champagne. He chose a sugary wine which he “knew was in the taste of ladies.” Vera hated sweet wine. She sipped as much as manners demanded, and leant back in her chair—her lips parted in a half-smile, her thoughts elsewhere. No . . . she did not feel de trop. She did not fancy the Prince would have sooner dined alone with Lindy. She wouldn’t credit him with that degree of simplicity. No, to have two women at his table would make him more conspicuous. It was all part of the same sense of display as was the champagne bottle in the ice bucket by his side. After dinner he proposed going to some cabaret to dance. He had a friend—a man he’d met playing poker at the tennis club—who’d make a fourth. Lindy and he had better go alone, Vera told him. It was kind of him to think of finding the fourth, but she was tired . . . she would go to bed early.
Lindy was watching her. She wanted to go and dance, but it seemed hardly fair, after persuading Vera to stay on, to leave her. Her chin on her hands, she consulted the waved silver cornice and the strange, “modern” pictures below it. But after all Vera needn’t be left if she didn’t want to! She drained her liqueur glass, and waited for it to be refilled. Vera, her eyes on another table, heard the chink as the bottle touched the lip of the glass.
“You’d better start,” she said. “Otherwise you’ll be missing such a lot.”
The Prince was pressing. She was sure she wouldn’t come? She was quite sure! Smilingly she left them at the table, went upstairs and out on to the balcony of her room.
Below her, beyond the cheap ribbon of the promenade, the sea spread wide and level, melting into the night. A lean moon hung in the sky, and the light of it threw a narrow streak of silver over the ripples. Five more nights, and she would be on her way hack to London! She wanted to be home again. She wanted to see Sari . . . to see the Bo’sun. He was waiting for her. She wanted to see him, and yet she dreaded doing so. He’d ask her again to marry him. She was fond of him, very, very fond. Her heart felt heavy. Lindy and herself were drifting apart . . . this time irrevocably, she believed. If Lindy were gone, there’d be no one left whom she loved: there’d be no one who loved her . . . except the Bo’sun. He’d be there waiting. She felt as if the nets of Fate were closing in upon her.
Two mornings later, as if in continuation of her thought, Vera found a letter from the Bo’sun on her breakfast tray.
—When was she coming back? He was counting the days . . . at least he would be, if only he knew how many there were to count! But, seriously, wouldn’t she come back soon? He couldn’t settle down to anything, simply couldn’t. She knew what he wanted. He hoped to God she’d be able to feel a little differently about him. News? There wasn’t much. As there’d been no chance of seeing her, and as there was a bit of leave to be had, he’d been away for a fortnight—a week on his cousin’s yacht—quite a small affair: ketch with an auxiliary motor, doing most everything themselves. He’d learnt how to make a most passable omelette. Then he’d put in a few days potting the wily grouse-bird. He’d seen Harry Hawkins the day before, at the Boat Club. Harry’d been away, said he’d been trout fishing somewhere abroad, but looked more as if he’d been doing a month as chief mourner with a prosperous undertaking firm. He’d felt extraordinarily sorry for him. In a way, being fond of Vera had helped him to know how the poor devil must be feeling. He’d insisted on taking Harry out with him in a Canader, otherwise Harry’d have spent the whole afternoon looking at the water, first on one leg and then on the other. Lindy’s father had been abroad with him, but he wouldn’t have been in the Bo’sun’s selection for the ideal consoler, especially when he’d got some excuse for having a grouse himself. They paddled up as far as Boulter’s Lock. The General never spoke the whole way there—had properly stabbed the worthy Father Thames as though he’d a “down” on him. He hadn’t much to say for himself even on the way back, but Bo’sun had known he was wanting to ask about young Lindy. He’d made a good many false starts, but at last he’d got it off. Where was she? What was she going to do now that worthy friend Oliver had executed that masterly and dignified retirement of his? Bo’sun had written to him, she’d remember, some time before and had given Harry her messages. He hadn’t referred to that. The Bo’sun had gathered they hadn’t got a move on with the divorce proceedings yet. In point of absolute fact, his personal view (he wouldn’t put a friend on to it necessarily, but it was his “fancy”) was that Harry Hawkins would take Lindy back like a shot, if only he felt reasonably certain she wouldn’t “go and do it again”—which was, he supposed, not so easy to be sure of.
Vera laid down the letter, and let her glance rest on the vases of scarlet and purple gladioli. Their colour had paled a little, but they had not yet begun to wither. Lindy’s intimacy with Prince Pinesco had developed as quickly as that! Those were his first flowers, and they were not dead yet. They might outlive the whole flirtation! That was what Lindy was like . . . to-day. . . . And there was Harry who, the Bo’sun said, would possibly take her back if there was a reasonable chance that she wouldn’t “go and do it again”! She must be asleep still. She’d been late the night before, later even than usual. Each day she seemed to be growing more greedy of excitement, and more reckless.
Vera took up the Bo’sun’s letter again.—Harry had been going to have tea with him when they got back to the Club. The Bo’sun had gone to find a waiter and order the goodly dish, but when he returned he discovered that Harry had slipped off without a word, had gone round to his car, and buzzed off back to London. . . .
—Ally Ackroyd would hardly speak to him just because he’d borrowed their pram for the pram race, and that hefty Grace O’Hara had done in the springs. If people didn’t want one to borrow their prams when they were away they should say so, and leave instructions about it. That was all the news there was. He’d been waiting very patiently. She’d remember that, wouldn’t she? He sent her all the affection she’d accept. His love to young friend Lindy. He hoped she hadn’t consoled herself with a Super-Boche. He’d bet she had. Vera could tell her so!
That afternoon she did so. Lindy and she were on the terrace, talking over their empty tea cups, and Lindy had already ordered her first cocktail!
“I have had a letter from Bo’sun,” Vera told her.
“What had he got to say for himself?” There was a suggestion of defiance in the tone. England and the sort of men she’d been brought up with were very far from her at the moment, Vera felt.
“He hopes you haven’t consoled yourself with a Super-Boche.”
Lindy took the cocktail from the waiter and sipped it. “Well, I haven’t done that, have I?” she answered with a rather forced laugh. She emptied the glass and set it down, with the accuracy of an accustomed action.
“He’s seen Harry,” Vera remarked, watching her.
“Oh!”
Lindy uncrossed her legs, recrossed them, and arranged the hem of her short skirt with a nice precision. Vera’s glance was on the far horizon, where a long feather of a steamer’s smoke hung above the level sea. These two weeks with the Roumanian had altered Lindy more than any two years since she had known her. She didn’t like now to be reminded of Harry, of the past—that was natural perhaps—or even of the future. Yet there were only three more days! That they would ever see Prince Pinesco again, she herself did not believe. If Lindy could get through those three days without any real complications, then she’d be out of the wood. If only her pride could be stirred! It was the loss of that which seemed to Vera so dangerous. To be reminded of Harry, and that he was still legally her husband, might help her to some recovery of old standards. After all, it was only nine weeks since they’d all been down on the river at Mrs. Van Neck’s house-party.
“Harry’s very broken,” Vera added in a far-away tone.
Lindy swung her foot and frowned. “There’s not much object in telling me, is there?” She pointed to her glass and gave a quick nod to the waiter.
Vera’s fingers tightened on the book she held. “I think there may be.”
Lindy turned to her. There was no softness left in her eyes. “Well, there isn’t.”
Vera met her glance. For her there was no sense of anger. Lindy was Lindy! And there were only three days more. If only she could be induced to be sensible for three days. After that there’d be the future to be thought of, but that was different! Lindy’s present recklessness, her defiance, wouldn’t last. It was her reaction to the sense of being outcast.
“The divorce proceedings haven’t been commenced,” said Vera presently. The waiter had returned. Lindy took the glass from his tray.
“Haven’t they?”
Vera watched her. “But you still care for Harry, don’t you?”
Lindy emptied her glass before answering. “What’s the exact object of talking about all that . . . now?” Her tone was that of a retort. Vera waited till she was able to keep the echo of resentment out of her answer. After all, she wasn’t telling Lindy this for amusement. If she’d done what she wanted herself, she’d be back in London.
“The only object in telling you is that Bo’sun said in his letter that Harry’d asked about you: and that he’d got the idea that, if only Harry believed he could . . . trust you, he’d drop the proceedings and take you back.”
Vera looked away from Lindy. It wasn’t fair to watch how she’d take that. The waiter came up and removed the tray. From a table at the end of the terrace came a trickle of conversation. Vera watched a little excursion steamer gay with flags coming alongside the wooden jetty. Lindy had turned and was looking towards her, she knew.
“I wonder if you really fancy that by telling me that you will stop me going out with the Prince?”
Vera let her hand slip from the arm of her chair into her lap. Really, it wasn’t worth noticing that sort of remark. If Lindy really believed that of her, they had drifted further apart than she had believed. Her nerves were often on edge now, of course: still . . . !
“I suppose you think,” Lindy went on, “that just because you’ve been right so far, and because he hasn’t said anything about marriage, that I ought to be ready to chuck him up? Well . . . well . . .” She checked herself and then went on in a kinder tone, “I’m sorry I was snappy just now, only I’ve had a lot of things to annoy me to-day. It started with a letter from Lucy this morning . . . a horrid letter. He really never thinks of anything except how it affects him. But you’re always sweet to me, darlingest, and I’d no right to be beastly, especially as you’re staying just to please me. But it isn’t just because I want to marry the Prince that I go about with him. It may sound ‘sour grapes,’ but I don’t know now that I’d really want to, if he asked me. So I didn’t like your feeling—as I thought you were—that I was just trying to get him to propose. It isn’t that at all. I don’t think I’m even in love with him.”
Lindy paused to light a cigarette. Vera nodded. Lindy’s feelings for the Prince weren’t her concern. Deliberately she had avoided considering them. She’d never believed his attitude was serious, so she needn’t be expected to express surprise when it was found not to be. Only three more days, then they’d go back to London: or she would, at any rate.
Lindy tossed the match box back on to the table. “No. What really pleases me about him is that he’s exciting. You never quite know what he’s thinking about or exactly what he’ll do next. He’s always quite obedient and good . . . you know what I mean . . . but you always feel there’s something else way down inside him. It’s . . . it’s rather fun! It’s all like that with the Prince. You know I feel that really he hasn’t a bit our Western views about women: yet he’s been to a university and has had an appartement in Paris. With an Englishman you always know what he’ll say and do next. But you don’t with the Prince. Sometimes I feel as if he were stalking me. Do you understand?”
Vera felt herself shrinking deeper into her chair. That was the side of humanity which she hated . . . hands upon flesh . . . hungry, hot breath . . . possession . . . Only three more days . . . Only three more nights! It wasn’t any longer her business what Lindy did. She’d force herself not to say or think any more about it. Still . . . oh, she’d be glad when they were back in London.
Vera closed the book she had been reading, and looked towards the clock on her dressing-table. Nearly midnight! And Lindy had said she’d be back early, and had asked her to wait up! She’d been silly not to have gone to bed long ago. Lindy’d forgotten. With a sigh she rose from her chair, and crossed to the open window. The lamps along the promenade had been extinguished, and the sweep of it was only just distinguishable against the velvet gloom. The night was darker, and very still. Sometimes on the heavy air came a sigh from the sea asleep.
This stay in Rügen had been a fiasco, but now it was nearly over. Another day, another night, and they’d be gone! As for this Roumanian, they’d hear no more of him. Once in England again her Lindy’d come back to her. Where was Lindy now? Only another day! Only another night! Vera turned from the window, and went slowly towards her bathroom door.
“We really must be going,” Lindy announced. The little hotel garden in which they dined was now quite deserted. The other tables had long been cleared, and the proprietor hovered expectantly in the doorway of the kitchen. One by one the lights in the other rooms had gone out, and now the windows faced like blind eyes the still surface of the lake.
“Moi, ch’suis tou’ a fait prêt!” Prince Pinesco assured her in thick tones, refilling her liqueur glass, and draining the bottle into his own.
“Go on, you must fetch the car round,” Lindy told him.
Pinesco set down his glass, and with his hands on the edge of the table levered himself to his feet. He’d go and see about it, he told her, and made his way towards the garden gate with a careful steadiness. Lindy watched him disappear into the darkness, and then she turned to the lake. It’s surface like a dimmed mirror stretched to incalculable distances. The branches overhead stretched motionless in the summer night. She took another cigarette, struck a match and watched the light of it glitter on the sticky glasses and empty bottle. They’d “punished it most fittingly,” as Lucy used to say. She’d drunk as much as she should have . . . quite as much: Pinesco had taken rather too much. It had been a jolly evening—ever such fun. . . . Still, perhaps he had drunk too much. It was rather a pity: still it was almost their last night . . . their last but one. His repartee had become more and more inert, his instincts more obvious. He’d been nice, but in a way she was glad they were going home soon. It must be very late, and she’d asked Vera to wait up for her! He was taking his time about that motor! She could hear him talking to some one . . . She drew at her cigarette, and then on a sudden impulse threw it away.
Presently Pinesco returned, coming out through the door of the kitchen. The car was en panne, he informed her. He strolled towards the table, smoothing his hair with one hand, and keeping the other in the pocket of his jacket.
Lindy’s hand tightened on the back of her chair. “But not really broken down. You can put it right, can’t you?”
Pinesco leant against the table, folded his arms, and looked down at her. The automobile was absolutement kaput! They’d have to stay the night.
Lindy rose to her feet. “What a good excuse too! And such an original one!” she laughed, with a sense of fading security.
Pinesco’s confidence hardened. He’d engaged rooms, he told her. Lindy looked at him, uncertain whether he was joking. The pleasant lethargy of the hour was gone altogether. She drew her cloak round her shoulders, and looked at the windows of the little hotel.
“Well, we must go by train,” she said.
Pinesco withdrew his hand from his pocket, and it became explanatory. There was no train. His fingers cut horizontal gashes in the air. None at all! The last had gone—two hours ago. If she didn’t believe him (this, with a convincing suggestion of triumph) she could ask the proprietor. As he’d told her before, he’d engaged rooms. Lindy stiffened, but she did not alter her tone. “No, but seriously . . .” she pleaded.
“Mais . . . ch’suis bigrement sérieux.”
Lindy was conscious that the innkeeper was listening and was wondering about them. Pinesco became still more at his ease. As he had told her, he had already engaged rooms. There was nothing to discuss.
Lindy clenched her hands, and stood resolute. “But this is absurd. Naturally I wouldn’t stay.”
Pinesco straightening himself from the table, and with a dignity which came out of a bottle, took a step towards her.
“Why not?”
“Because . . .”
He laid a loose, weighty hand upon her shoulder. She was not to be silly! If she liked, they could telephone to Vera and let her know that the car had broken down. That would appease the convenances.
Lindy looked at him, and then towards the innkeeper.
“Herr Wirt,” she called to him. He came forward with an air of awkward knowingness. Where could the gracious lady come by an automobile? From Sassnitz one might be obtained. He would telephone. He withdrew, and Lindy and Pinesco regarded each other in silence. She opened her case and started to light another cigarette. He was not—as he usually was—at hand with a match, Lindy noted. She turned a shoulder to him, and gazed out across the lake into the limpid darkness. He threw some remark at her, but she did not answer. Presently the innkeeper returned. No garage in Sassnitz had answered the telephone. He was sorry. He could make nothing more!
Pinesco sidled towards her. He was right. Wasn’t it so? They must stay the night. Lindy disregarded him. Wasn’t there a motor car or carriage in the village, she asked the innkeeper. There was a poor conveyance to be found at the second house after the cross roads, he told her. Lindy thanked him, and turned towards the gate. They’d better be going, she called over her shoulder to Pinesco. He followed with his eyes, she was conscious, and after she had gone a few yards he came up with her. She would stay? Lindy shook her head, and stepped out along the sandy road. “As you wouldn’t go and find a cab, I’ve got to look for it myself,” she told him unpleasantly.
Pinesco caught her elbow. His fingers were clammy. There was no cab to be obtained! Lindy stopped for an instant and turned to him.
“Well, if there isn’t one, I’ll walk,” she said.
Pinesco’s hand passed up her arm. But he had ordered rooms! She would not make a fool of him! Lindy hurried on. “If you look silly, it’s quite your own fault.”
His hand slipped around her, and brought her to a sudden standstill. Why couldn’t she stay?
Lindy swung herself round and faced him. “I’ve made it clear that I’m not like that all along . . . haven’t I?”
The shadow of some pines lay across them. Pinesco drew himself up into an attitude of remonstrance. Not at all! How should he have known?
Lindy drew back a pace. “Let’s come on. We must find a cab.”
There was plenty of time! He caught her frock and held her. She’d been leading him on! Why?
Lindy tried to free herself. “You’ve no right to say that. You can’t say I ever have . . . not even ever so little. I’ve stood up for you when the rest were against you . . . but that’s all.”
He leant towards her, and tried to take her in his arms, but Lindy slipped from his grasp.
“If you are going to go on like this, you’d better go back to the rooms you ordered, and I’ll find my own way home.” Pinesco nodded at her. It was like that, was it? Lindy regarded him with frankness.
“Good night,” she said, and turned. But as she did so his hand caught her arm and swung her round.
“Let go,” she said, hotly, and struggled to disengage herself. She looked round. All about them were the pine woods, full of shadows and lurking mystery. The road stretched pale and empty in the uncertain light. . . . Pinesco lurched over her. He wasn’t going to let her go! Did she think he would!! His arms clasped her to him. She struggled, and strained her face away from him. Then suddenly he reached down, caught her around her knees, and swung her off her feet.
Vera woke with a sense of premonition. The window showed pale with the first luminance of dawn. From Lindy’s room came a faint sound. She sat up in bed, and listened. Lindy had returned. She had just closed the door and was moving slowly from it. Some sudden fear woke in Vera. She lowered her feet to the floor, tiptoed to the doorway. A slit of light poured through. She reached for the wall, and with a hand against it, looked into the other room.
Lindy was on the bed, stretched as though she had fallen across it. She lay very still, an arm across her face. Her frock was crushed, crumpled and torn, so that her shoulder was bare. Her arm was mottled with bruises. Suddenly she turned over with a sob.
Vera leant back against the wall. Her muscles stiffened. Lindy had begun to cry, softly but without restraint.
After a long while she was still. Vera watched and waited. For her it was frightful. It was all clearer than if she had seen everything. What could she do? Time passed. Presently she tiptoed into her room. Lindy was now between consciousness and sleep, she fancied. She went over to her bed, drew off her frock, and covered her with a blanket. Then she turned out the light and stole from the room again.
Once she was through the doorway, she paused. Perhaps it would have been kinder not to have gone to her. Perhaps that might have saved for Lindy a little of any pride she might have remaining to her. But she couldn’t have left her so . . . couldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . Her Lindy . . . her . . .
Vera leant against the wall, and began to sob softly . . . Her Lindy! Oh, God, be merciful!
Never had a journey seemed so long to Vera as that across Germany. All afternoon as the train wound its way across the placid monotony of the Westphalian Plain, Lindy sat silent in her corner, shoulders limp, hands inert, her gaze on nothing. Vera gave her a book, but she did not read it. The day was hot: the air seemed exhausted: the train stopped at station after station, but no one entered their compartment. At intervals an attendant passed along the corridor announcing meals. Lindy would eat nothing: she would not smoke. The light glowed on the rusty brown blinds: atoms danced in each narrow shaft of sunlight. The train rumbled on through flat, languid meadows, or clanked over iron bridges. Vera was thankful when at last they reached Bentheim, and had to descend for the examination of luggage.
Night came. Vera bought some fruit at a station. It was too hot to eat anything else, she decided. The lamps in the carriage glimmered dimly. She could hardly see to read. By night the watery levels of Holland seemed even more wearisome than the meadowlands of Germany. The stations at which the train stopped were large, empty, and under the pale artificial light intolerably clean. The hours dragged by slowly. Perhaps Lindy was asleep. Her pose was not a comfortable one, but that might be due to some desire for penance. At last, when Vera had almost ceased to care, the train reached the Hook. There were very few other passengers, and the process of getting aboard the steamer went quickly. Vera had secured a deck cabin for Lindy and herself. Lindy sat down on the settee, and leant back against the corner of it. Neither of them spoke. Vera was tired out. She slipped off her clothes, lay down and was soon asleep.
When she woke it was still dark. The cabin throbbed slightly. From the passageway came the faint drumming of machinery. There was no other indication that the ship was moving. She turned over and looked across the cabin. Lindy, still fully dressed, had lain on the settee. She was sobbing very quietly. For a long while Vera lay listening to the soft catch of her breathing. There was nothing she could do to help her. It was kindest not to let Lindy know that she was awake. She kept very still. The blind of the window fluttered in the breeze: the rhythmic drone of machinery persisted. Presently she slept again.
The train reached London early. Sari was waiting for them on the doorstep. Breakfast was laid in the dining-room, she told them. She could attend to the cabman and the baggage. They must go straight in and have it, or it would become cold. It was, already, they found, but Lindy, who had eaten scarcely anything during the previous day, was ravenous. Vera sipped her tepid coffee, and looked round the room. It was good to be home again. The rugs had been quite well cleaned, and the gros point seat of the big chair had been repaired.
Sari entered with some letters, all for Vera. One, from the Bo’sun, was marked “To await.” When could he see her? Would she dine with him the first night she could? . . . or sup? . . . or anything? She wouldn’t forget to let him know, would she? Another was from Mrs. Van Neck. She’d been laid up and hadn’t seen any one for some weeks. She didn’t know whether Vera was home again yet. What was happening about Lindy Hawkins and her husband? The other letters were of no interest. She looked up from them, and towards Lindy who had just finished breakfast.
“I’ve heard from Mrs. Van Neck,” she said. “She’s been ill.”
“Sorry,” Lindy murmured in dull tone. She rose and crossed to the window. For a full minute she stood there, motionless, gazing out upon the dusty green of the park. Her attitude was one of despair. Then she turned and went out into the hall. Vera, still at the table, heard her go slowly upstairs.
She did not appear for lunch, nor for tea. All afternoon Vera was busy in the house, her mind largely occupied with other matters. In the evening she strolled into Kensington Gardens, and sat upon a solitary chair beneath the elms. The air was sultry: the grass looked tired and thirsty. Summer was near its end: soon it would sink into the resigned fatalism of autumn: but as yet the season struggled on. Vera sighed. She liked to be abroad at this time of the year: she’d meant to be. When they’d been in Rügen, and Lindy had taken up with the Roumanian, she’d been weary of Lindy and her ways, and she meant to come back to London for a few days, and then go off again to Tuscany. She’d wanted so much to be alone. But now that Lindy was down and out, she must stand by her. She watched the sky deepening. Time to go back, she decided. Regretfully, she got up and set out on her way home. She’d have to find out Lindy’s plans . . . if she had any. Or she’d have to make plans for her. In any case, they’d have to talk about the future. She must hear what Lindy wanted. Till then she could make no arrangements for herself. For three days she’d not spoken of what must now be uppermost in the minds of both of them. Lindy had had those three days in which to recover as much as she could from whatever her experience had been that night. She must talk things over with her, Vera determined. She didn’t want to, but it had to be done.
Lindy was down a few minutes before dinner. Her eyes were red. During the meal she talked little, and would drink nothing. Vera saw Sari watching her. What did old Sari think, she wondered. Afterwards in the drawing-room Lindy sat on the arm of a chair, and turned fitfully the pages of an illustrated book. Vera on the divan looked through the evening paper without understanding what she saw. Their silence was uneasy. From some far distance came the rumble of thunder: presently it began to rain. Vera could hear the drops splashing outside the window upon the leads above the dining-room. She gave up any attempt to read, and sat listening to the patter of the rain. They ought to be discussing plans for the future, yet she found it difficult to open the subject. Just when she had made ready to do so, Lindy rose.
“Perhaps I’ll go to bed now,” she announced, in empty tones.
Vera nodded. Lindy went slowly to the door.
“Do please come and say good night to me,” she added.
Vera waited till she was certain that Lindy must be in bed, then she went upstairs and into her room. The light was out, but the form of things was discernible. Lindy was curled up on the near side of the low bed.
“Here, darling,” she whispered, and patted a place beside her. Vera sat down and Lindy, slipping an arm round her, snuggled her cheek against Vera’s shoulder.
“I’ve been disgusting to you,” she whispered. “Will you ever forgive me?”
Vera nodded in the darkness.
“Will you? . . . Ever? . . . ever?”
“Yes, yes, . . . there’s nothing to forgive.” Vera watched a gleam of light pass across the table. Forgive? What did it matter? What did anything matter?
Lindy kissed her. “I’ve been punished . . . God knows. You . . . warned me. I’m . . . I’m a beast. . . . I’m no good, any more.”
For a little Vera rocked her. “There, there. Don’t talk about what’s passed.”
Presently Lindy drew herself more upright. “No, that isn’t any good. It’s . . . it’s . . . what is ahead that’s worst now. Vera darling, will you keep me here a little longer?”
Vera was very still, her eyes on the glimmer of light between the drawn curtains.
“This is always your home, whenever you want to be here,” she said. Her voice was deep and controlled. She’d said the same thing to Lindy years ago . . . before she’d been married: she’d said it again . . . afterwards: and again, only a few weeks ago. It was true: it would always be true. Lindy was all she’d got . . . or ever could have, and if Lindy wanted . . . this was her home.
From Knightsbridge came the dull roar of traffic. By an effort Vera broke from her thoughts. “And after you go . . . away from here?”
Lindy moved, and leant against the back of the bed. “I’ll go right away. . . .”
“When?”
“I don’t know when I’ll be ready to go. I haven’t thought. But I can’t stay on here . . . after . . . after the way I’ve behaved to you.”
Vera changed her pose. She was very tired, nearly at the end of her nervous strength, while Lindy’d been resting all day.
“What does it matter?” she said. What did anything matter? She was glad that Lindy should be there. She couldn’t argue: she was too tired.
By talking Lindy had escaped a little from the depression of the last three days. “I do love you, I do,” she whispered. “You’ve always been good to me. . . . Men. . . . Oh, I know I’ve said it before, but now I mean it. . . . If I’d only known. . . . If you only knew what I’ve been through, how I’ve been punished. . . .”
Vera tried to draw back from the present into the twilight of unreality. “Don’t! Don’t!” she murmured. She didn’t want to hear facts. That she couldn’t bear: not to-night at any rate. She’d thought too long of what must have happened to Lindy on that night in Rügen. She was near the limit of her endurance.
“Men are beasts,” Lindy went on with rising fervour. “All beasts . . . all except Harry. He wasn’t. But in those days I knew only him, really. I didn’t know the rest were different . . . then. They’re awful, Vera. You’d never believe how vile they can be. You never could. . . . Darling, I’ve . . . I’ve no one but you now. Even Lucy can’t manage to be decent. . . . But I’ll not go and see him . . . not till he is. He cares for nothing and nobody but himself really. No, I’ve no one but you now. You won’t go back on me, will you? You will keep me till . . . till I’m ready to go abroad?”
Vera heard her words, as if from far away. All this talk of going away had no meaning! She’d thought once that it had: but now she knew better. By going to another place one couldn’t escape from what one was . . . or what one had been . . . or from what one was to be.
“You’ll go abroad? . . . Alone?” she asked.
“I can’t stay in England,” Lindy went on as if to herself. “I’ve nothing left to do. I’ll . . . I’ll go away and . . . and I’ll disappear. That’s all I’m fit for.”
To Vera, she seemed like a child, with a child’s turning to desperate expedients. “Don’t, darling,” she whispered comfortingly. But unconsciously Lindy had found the solace that lies in self-abasement.
“I’m no good. There’s nothing else for me to do, but to go away and just vanish. I’ll disappear as if I’d never been. But, oh, you won’t forget me, will you, Vera? You’re the only person I want to remember me, the only one. You’ll never forget me, will you? . . . Will you?”
Presently she grew quieter.
“If only these last six weeks had never happened, and if you and I were starting off again together, like we were then! I’d never leave you for any one. I’d never want to see anyone else. You’re the only one who loves me: you’re the only one I love.”
Her voice was rising. Vera slipped an arm around her. Lindy was suffering more than she had supposed she was capable of. Something must be done to calm her.
“I’ll get you a sleeping draught,” she said, rising.
Lindy caught her hand and held it. She reached up Vera’s arm. “Would you give me another chance? No one else on earth would, I know. But you might . . . perhaps . . . Would you? Would you let me come abroad with you again? . . . As soon as ever you can, I mean. I want to get away. I want to forget . . . if I can. I want to forget everything and every one but you.” She drew at her arm, but Vera stood watching across the low bed the bar of light between the curtains. She was just conscious of the murmur of traffic in the street below, of her surroundings, of Lindy looking up at her . . . just conscious. She was conscious too, more conscious, of the irony of life. To go away and to take Lindy with her! Was she willing? That was all she wanted . . . all. Yet she couldn’t do it. A few hours before, even an hour before, she could have: but not now, for she had just realised what she must do: what at any rate she must try to do. She would go abroad, but she mustn’t take Lindy with her. If she did, the story of Rügen would be repeated—in some form or other—eventually, inevitably! For herself she wouldn’t care. It would mean losing Lindy for a little, but Lindy would come back to her . . . after it was over! . . . as she had this time. She’d not be jealous . . . or if she would, even that would be better than doing without Lindy. No, it wasn’t for her own sake, but for Lindy’s that she mustn’t take Lindy with her. She must give her up. And now that she wanted to come to her, she must turn her away.
Lindy must stay: it was she herself who must go abroad . . . alone . . . not to disappear. . . . No, there’d be no purpose in doing so. . . . One couldn’t throw off one’s thoughts and one’s memories by that. No, she’d go to her mother’s old home: she’d go back and watch the sad, endless sunsets of the Plain. She’d watch the evenings growing shorter and shorter, till winter came. She’d watch the falling light across the level fields, the rich turned earth, the snows, the rain and wind. She’d wait there till spring came—till the little flowers broke once more, till the birds sang about the low, white house, till all the recurring joy of nature mocked her melancholy, till all that was eternal mocked all that was passing. Passing! She’d wait till lovers walked again beneath the moon. Lovers! Lovers! She caught her breath, and checked a bitter laugh.
“I’ll get the sleeping draught,” she said. Her voice was gentle and controlled again.
With her thoughts far away she went to her room, found the medicine, and returned. Lindy drank it: in a little while she slept. Vera, standing beside her in the darkness, listened to her regular breathing. What would happen to her? She might marry: that would give her a background and the protection of a name. But most likely there’d be only adventures . . . with intervals of repentance between them. On those terms she could have Lindy to herself, but a Lindy who would grow cheaper, whose standards would become shoddier, till in a few years . . .
She turned suddenly to the open door, and went downstairs. She hadn’t the power to give Lindy what might save her. Only a man could ever do that. She saw that now! And there was only one man who could help Lindy now. Would he?
She entered the drawing-room and glanced towards the clock. It was only a little after half-past eleven. Lucius would be up. Harry might still be there. She went downstairs, took up a theatre wrap and slipped it over her shoulders. For a moment she watched her dim reflection in the tall mirror. The dark cloak hung open, and the orange of her dress strengthened the tawny glow of her hair. Her face was very pale: her expression very pure, she thought, and laughed. Cold! Cold! Cold in that way . . . That was all purity was! Almost she despised her chastity. Could she never be like . . . like the rest? Would she never be able to give herself to any one? There must be joy in giving . . . Yes . . . to feel . . .
She turned from the dim mirror, and opened the door to the street.
The taxi drew up before the door of No. 5. Vera descended and told the driver to wait. There was a light in the Yellow Room. She rang. No one answered the bell, so she knocked, and after a while heard some one—Lucius by the slowness—coming along the passage. He was whistling a theme from Prince Igor. The bolts were drawn back with tiresome ineptitude and the door was opened.
“Vera!” said Lucius, his hand on his chin. “What on earth . . . ? But come in! Come in! This is very delightful.”
She entered, let him take her cloak from her shoulders, and watched him lay it down with careful womanly fingers. Then she passed before him through the open door into the Yellow Room. He had been reading. A large volume, a hock bottle and a glass stood on the little table beside the “winter chair.” The chequered marble of the hearth was littered with cigarette ends. Lucius drew up a chair for her, returned to his own, and crossed his thin legs with an air of surreptitious luxury.
“So you’re back . . . !” which as an opening shows the conversational depths to which it is possible to descend when one lives alone!
“We came back yesterday morning,” she told him.
Lucius grasped a thin ankle, and his lips twisted whimsically. “Lindy hasn’t seen good to come and see me . . . or to inform me of her return!”
“She’s rather annoyed with you . . . besides, she’s in great trouble.”
Lucius ignored the second part of her sentence and concentrated on that which concerned himself. “It’s no good Lindy thinking she can play the stern child to my prodigal father. It won’t do! I know her too well . . . the little baggage! And without suggesting any perfection in myself, it’s she who’s been breaking through the convenances lately.”
Vera watched him. Men were like that!
“She’s in great trouble,” she repeated.
“Of course she’s in great trouble,” her father continued, tapping the back of his knuckles with the fingers of his other hand. “Of course she is. First she chose to get married to Harry—I was always against the idea—even if I didn’t see fit to oppose the marriage openly. Still, having married Harry, she could have had all the fun of the fair—side-shows and swing-boats included—if she’d only been reasonably careful. But, instead of that, she must needs do her best to get unmarried. After that, what is she likely to be in except trouble? . . . I’m sure I’ve no notion what I can be expected to do to help her.”
Vera looked away and waited. She’d taken him by surprise: she’d alarmed him into fearing his ease might be disturbed. When he’d fussed a little more, it would be possible to get him to tell her what she wanted to know.
A little discretion! he grumbled on, already conscious that he must be appearing slightly ridiculous. Discretion! It wasn’t much to ask. Even in this age people didn’t announce their coming indiscretions in the social columns . . . not as far as he knew. They would . . . ! Not a doubt of it . . . ! The young women of the day must point their naughty toes still higher to the indulgent skies before the swing of manners swept back the other way.
Vera, half listening, watched his Hondecotte—his beloved “Dead Hen”—above the chimney-piece. That pair of Chinese horsemen on the mantelshelf below it were new, she fancied. He had finished! At last he was ready!
“Harry’s staying here, isn’t he?” she asked.
“He’s living here, but he’s gone down into the country for the night. Can’t sleep, he tells me.”
Vera’s spirits fell. What she had intended to try was the forlornest of forlorn hopes, and even if it should succeed it would mean losing Lindy: yet a sense of action and of sacrifice had elated her.
“I had so hoped to see him to-night,” she said, completely discouraged.
“Now?” The tone was tinged with his mocking reaction to all urgency. Vera, lost in sudden gloom, nodded. Lucius leant back and regarded her. She was a very beautiful girl. . . . Woman . . . yes, a woman. Delightful! The classic quality of her pose so rare in these days, the slender neck, the chaste idealism of the chin, the warm chestnut hair so harmonious with the scarlet of the chair back, the exultance of the lips. . . . Wonderful! Too pure for his personal taste . . . not for him, nor for men like him . . . perhaps not for any man. And she had asked him something. . . . Yes! Yes, she was wanting to see Harry. Why? To wish to see Harry at such an hour suggested unwelcome possibilities . . . even probabilities, some fresh disturbance of the tenor of his life. He folded his arms and smiled at Vera, his head a little on one side, his eyebrows a trifle cynical.
“Would it be solecism to ask whether what you want with our friend concerns Lindy . . . ? I ask because—much though I try to escape my responsibilities—what affects her somehow succeeds as a rule in affecting me, too.”
Vera, her chin resting on her hand, closed her dark lashes. Didn’t Lucius ever judge anything except from the point of view of his own comfort? But the difficulty of her task lay far beyond him and his comfort, and she wasn’t going to let his selfishness distract her.
“I’ve got to see Harry, because there’s been another . . . trouble.”
“A Teutonic trouble?” His tone was one of ironic resignation.
“No, she met him there. But he was a Roumanian.”
As comment Lucius looked towards his favourite Wouwerman and sighed. They managed things differently then!
“She’s had a horrible time of it,” Vera continued. “Horrible. She’s lost her pride, her hope even. They’ll come back to her later . . . of course . . . but damaged.”
Lucius fretted with his spread finger-tips.
“After all, my dear Vera, after all . . . are you not perhaps taking an overlugubrious view?”
Vera looked straight before her. “No,” she answered. “You haven’t seen her for weeks, so you can’t tell how she’s changed. I’ve been with her all the while: I know. I’d believed I could be enough for her . . . that I could give her a home, and a background that’s more important to a woman alone than a mere somewhere to live in is. But I was wrong. . . . Only a man could help her . . . and only a man she . . . yes, ‘respects’ is the word. She’s had a bad time with men lately: and in her present mood she says she hates them. That won’t last for very long—if only it would! Actually what she feels about them now is more dangerous than that for her. . . . She won’t be able to do without one in her life, but she despises men, which means that she’ll never meet another in good faith. Harry’s the only one who’s always been good to her: and now he’s the only one she still could trust.”
Lucius set down his glass as if in protest to that. Vera was conscious of his thought.
“One doesn’t have to explain to some one who’s as . . . intelligent as you are . . .”—(“cynical” she had almost said)—“that loving and being faithful don’t necessarily go together.”
Lucius smoothed his forehead with his hand. No, she’d got him there! Katharine! He’d loved Katharine! He nodded. Vera paused a moment, then she continued with warming conviction.
“What I want to see Harry for is to ask him . . . to beseech him to take her back. . . . It’s the only thing that can save her now. If he can’t . . . it’s the end. . . . She’ll go down! Down! . . . Down!”
Depth of feeling had given her voice some lyric quality, and Lucius, quickly responsive to emotion in others, felt his heart grow suddenly heavy. His breathing quickened at the sense of danger. . . . Down! . . . Down! . . . Down! . . . He could see it all. . . . Facile Descensus! It would be so easy, so inevitable . . . . Ye gods! He staggered up from the “winter” chair, and went over to the chimney-piece. What was he to do? What was there to be done? He’d tried everything . . . long ago! He’d failed . . . as he always failed. Failed . . . and his youth gone! He looked down at the empty grate, at the litter of cigarette ends. He’d had good chances, but he’d frittered them away: he’d failed . . . everywhere! Now it was too late. He’d wait and he’d try to forget. Presently Time would come with his dust sheets and would whisper . . . “What have you done? Eh? Who’s ever blessed you? Eh?” And the dust sheets would sweep over him, and fall. . . . He shivered, and shifted quickly as though to shake them off.
“I tried to get him to take her back . . . at the time,” he said. “I nearly got him to . . . but I failed, as I usually do. . . .”
He smiled weakly towards Vera, and straightened the points of his waistcoat. “No,” he went on gloomily. “No, I suppose Harry’d do more for me than any one on earth . . . except for Lindy herself . . . which reminds me——” He sat down on the arm of the chair. “By the way, does she know you’ve come?”
“No,” said Vera quickly. “She’s no idea. I only made up my mind to see Harry after she went to sleep to-night. But, as I can’t, I must be going.”
Lucius turned towards the mantelshelf. Ten past twelve. . . . Yes, a jolly clock . . . a very jolly fellow. He’d had to pay a sensational price for it . . . not too much perhaps, all considered . . . Louis Quinze . . . and the modelling of that obese, porcelain Chinaman on it was really superb. Still, one couldn’t get away from the facts of the twentieth century by regarding the fancies of the eighteenth!
“. . . But I was going to tell you about asking Harry to take Lindy back,” he went on. “I’d got him to . . . almost! Success is always so tantalisingly near, isn’t it? I suppose one isn’t quick enough, or hasn’t confidence enough. I’d got to that point, and then Harry put a final question . . . the crucial one. . . . Would I as his oldest friend promise him that I believed she . . . wouldn’t repeat her . . . indiscretion? He’d have taken my word, though obviously it was all to the advantage of me and mine to lie: also it was an issue of so great importance to himself. Yet he was willing to accept my word, and if I’d told him he could trust Lindy he’d have taken her back. Strange he should have been ready to trust me. And yet not so strange when you consider it. The attitude of man towards man is based on a desire, at any rate, for truth: without that desire our civilisation—such as it is—could not have been evolved. Of course the attitude of man towards woman (I abstain from touching on woman’s attitude towards man) is, and always has been, based upon deception. For what after all is the bragging of a savage, the roaring of the drawing-room lion? What, also . . . But, to return to our theme, Harry’d have taken her back if I’d lied to him, but . . . well, I couldn’t. That was the end of it! And if he wouldn’t take her back then . . . well, now that she’s hung another scalp . . . an oily and marcel-waved one at that . . . at her girdle . . . Well!”
Lucius got up and kicked a footstool with half-genuine spite. It turned over and lay with its four inverted, urn-shaped legs raised as if in protest. He regarded it. True! Yet, he’d never before believed that tale of St. John the Divine being modelled on Good Queen Anne’s kicked-over stool. (So relieving to know that she wasn’t always “Good.”)
Vera looked at the clock again, and rose. “When will Harry be back?” she asked.
“Soon after lunch,” Lucius told her. “Shall I tell him to call on you?”
“I’ll come here,” she said.
Lucius stood before her, wondering what hope she could have. He took up his glass. “That you succeed now, where I failed when it was easier . . . ! I’ve not a notion how you can expect to . . . but . . . here’s to hoping!”
He emptied the glass and set it down with an appreciation of the gesture, and with a sense of finality. Obviously she could do nothing with Harry! Obviously! Vera smiled at him not unkindly. Poor Lucius! He’d run away from everything that was unpleasant. He couldn’t help Lindy. Perhaps no one could. She’d got to try . . . till then she couldn’t let herself collapse. But she was tired . . . tired! Till to-morrow! She’d got to wait . . . wait . . . ! Another night! Another night! She turned sadly towards the door.
Lucius watched her taxi drive away, then he went back into the house. The Yellow Room seemed cheerless, he thought. He wandered round it, looked at the ranks of leather-backed books, at his two favourite pictures, at the sweeping lines of the drawn curtains, at his empty glass, at the cigarette ends on the hearth. Bed! He might as well go to bed. Not that he’d sleep . . . ! Vera had driven away that sense of peace which as one grew older was one’s most treasured state of mind. No peace left now . . . ! Not that he deserved any! No, he ought to be thinking how to help Lindy. He ought to be, obviously. He was shirking, as he always did. He had responsibilities to Lindy, just as he had had to Katharine. Katharine . . . Lindy. Lindy was a grown woman now, of the same age as Katharine had been that autumn when he’d gone alone to Italy, and when . . .
Suddenly, and for the first time, Lindy appeared to him as a woman, a grown woman, who had claims upon him. Claims! He drew towards the “winter” chair, and leant his elbows on the high back of it. Lindy! Just like any other woman he’d had to do with. Claims on him! Of course she had: and he ought to be doing something about these troubles of hers. Without a doubt he ought. But what could he? He knew Harry. Ye gods, how well he knew him! There wasn’t a chance of him taking her back now. None. Few men would, and Harry wasn’t one of them. What more could he do now? One was only human. Only too human! He tapped out a bar or so of some melancholy Italian air. Yes, only too human! . . . And after all one had some duties to oneself . . . to oneself . . . such as keeping as free from worry as possible. He straightened himself, tidied the cushion in the chair, and went hastily out of the room.
At the foot of the stairs he wavered. An orange! He’d take an orange up to bed with him. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he might as well. . . . Perhaps he’d take a couple of them . . . or even three. A mild indulgence . . . a very mild one . . . curiously mild, in fact! Going into the dining-room he turned on the concealed lamp which diffused a soft, even light over the portrait above the sideboard, and which left the rest of the room in half darkness. The oranges were piled in a pyramid on a flat gilt dish. Lucius slipped one into either pocket of his jacket, and taking a third turned it round in his fingers. The colour he loved . . . or had loved once. A sphere of dusky fire, a little dusky planet . . . ! Perhaps . . . And the subtle, drowsy smell of it! He lifted it and drew a deep breath. Colour he’d loved once! From that he might have escaped, but from the scent of it, never!
Sense of smell . . . that wouldn’t leave one alone . . . ! . . . Smell, sound, colour . . . all interwoven and cross-written . . . calling back memories from a world of shadows. An orange was so exactly the colour it should be . . . so exactly: a quiet flame amidst dark leaves . . . glowing in slumbrous shade . . . in the hot twilight that lingered from far-off days . . . ancient shade such as he’d found amongst the glades of La Granja . . . fancies, gone but unfading . . . of those infantas of Spain, wrenched from their gaieties, trapped and imprisoned, pearl-hung and plumed, silver and rose . . . wasted afternoons . . . lips no one kissed . . . fading rebelliously . . . held in their palaces. . . . Gone, ages back, gone! . . . Gone with the ghosts of yesterday, of his own youth! Gone with ghosts of oranges at the festa. Just the colour to lend translucence to her cheeks. (The cigarette girls. . . . How long ago it seemed! Did one still go to the factory to look for them?) Eulalia? Had that been her name? Or was that . . . ? Yes, she’d been Eulalia. Or she’d told him so! The indolent Andalusian, scarcely parting her lips. The dusty road . . . the hot night . . .
The waning flares of the Easter fair . . . the warm whispers . . . the maddening invitation of her sigh . . . She must be old now, a bag of leather wrinkles, huddled on some low threshold . . . or fat! Eulalia fat! Let her be dead . . . dead . . . decently dead! . . . All long ago now! Time had passed on. There’d be new oranges and new cigarette girls on the cañada . . . new oranges to be sucked, new . . . Hah! Yes, there’d be oranges and laughter at their lips. There’d be oranges to add their glow to the clamour of scarlets and of magentas, and to clash with the violets in the horse-mane darkness of their hair. Time was passing: but the scent of oranges would never let one forget one’s youth. . . . Oh, the coaxing nudge of her hip against one’s own, her glance over her shoulder, the twisted tendons of her sunburnt neck, her lashes eloquent as a fan, her lips opening to a sudden tremor, the rustlings of her skirts as she passed again to the shadows. . . . All over now . . . for him! Yet it was still going on . . . and one was missing it! Lips one had known . . . and the . . . Oh, the oranges! . . . And to-morrow morning it would be the same as it had always been, the dusty road, and pieces of torn peel, to flame underfoot amidst the purples and pinks of the trodden paper streamers . . . !
He was past it now . . . or should be! Peace, that was all he needed. Peace! And to-morrow Harry’d be coming back, and Vera’d be seeing him, and then . . . then there’d be no more peace. He’d not tolerate it. Why should he? Lindy was living her life—he’d live his. The trouble had all started because he hadn’t bolted that morning when he’d been meaning to go on the river but, looking out of the window, had seen Harry striding towards the house. He’d been a fool then. He wouldn’t be again . . . not the same sort of fool at any rate. He’d do a bolt. Damned if he wouldn’t. Harry and Vera should have the stage to themselves. The weather seemed settled. Let them have it out in London. He’d go on the river . . . the river . . . drifting . . . alone with a favourite book . . . not to read perhaps . . . a classical chaperon on a topical reach: very likely not to read . . . : no, not on a drowsy afternoon: but, oh, the joy of opening a book for the mere pleasure of laying it down.
For a moment more he stood irresolute, then with a wise nod he turned to the door and went out.
When Harry next day after lunching at his club arrived back at No. 5 he found on the hall table a note from Lucius, and while Hamley was taking his golf clubs and suitcase out of the taxi, he began to read it. Lucy had gone away for the night. Vera wanted to see him . . . about Lindy.
—Lindy! He turned from the open front door, and still reading the note, hurried into the greater privacy of the Yellow Room. Lindy! . . . Lindy was in trouble. . . . Lindy in . . . er . . . trouble? Trouble. . . . He looked round at the rows of contented books, at the heedless splendour of the “Dead Hen,” at the cynically grotesque Ming horsemen. . . . Lindy in trouble! And . . . Lucy’d cleared out . . . !
He sat down on the edge of the scarlet chair and, his elbow between his knees, read on.—Vera’d be calling to see him at three o’clock. It was . . . er . . . nearly that already. She wanted to ask him what was to be done. It would be best to leave her to explain for herself, Lucius had ended—with “in haste” and the thin cipher of his signature. . . . In haste! . . . Lindy was in trouble . . . so Lucy’d been in haste . . . ! Harry covered his eyes. . . . Clearing out like that . . . and leaving Lindy . . . to face it, whatever it was. . . . Damn it, pretty cheap . . . pretty cheap! But no, poor old Lucy, that wasn’t fair to him. He hadn’t meant it like that, couldn’t have! Most likely he’d simply had to go away about . . . about . . . Besides, what good could he have done by staying? What could he have done for her? What could any one do for her? . . . She’d loved that Oliver Dashwood . . . and he’d . . . he’d chucked her. . . . Poor little girl! Rough, damned rough! . . . They were pretty . . . er . . . left and . . . lost, both of them, Lindy and himself. Of course some day she’d . . . er . . . find some one else. . . . He wouldn’t.
For a while he sat thinking of the past, of those first months of their marriage. He’d been happy . . . happy as he’d never guessed was possible. . . . He’d never be again. . . . Then . . . then it had . . . er . . . happened. And after he’d . . . after it came out there was no goin’ back. Lindy’d got too much of her father in her . . . and of his upbringin’ for a feller like himself to have been enough for her: besides, there’d been the difference of their ages. And once . . . it had . . . er . . . come out, it was clear—clear as daylight there couldn’t have been any . . . er . . . And there it was! And feelin’ he couldn’t tell about whether . . . it would happen a second time, no man could have . . . er . . . started again. Couldn’t.
His thoughts went back to that afternoon when last he had seen her in her bedroom at Mrs. Van Neck’s, the hot drone of summer-time, the laughter of the people on the tennis court floating up to them, and Lindy . . . ! How lovely she’d been . . . how lovely. . . .
He reread the note and finally put it away. For a long time he sat sadly, his head in his hands, just as he’d often sat during the past weeks beside some Slovak stream which he should have been fishing, and beside which instead he had been thinking of all that was over.
Presently a taxi drew up before the house. Rising from the chair, he leant back against the mantelshelf, waiting. He heard Hamley cross the hall, and Vera being admitted. The door of the room was opened and she entered quickly, her lips set. With his long jerky stride he went to meet her. They shook hands without any greeting, and the door closed silently. She was very pale, he thought.—Must have been worryin’ terribly. She loved Lindy too. Had been thinkin’ only of how it affected himself . . . only that.—He snatched away the newspaper which Lucius had left on the “winter” chair, but Vera sat down instead on the high stool beside the wall. Her lemon-coloured summer frock looked cool, and, against the warmer paint-work of the room, mournful.
“You’ve heard?” she asked, turning towards him. Her eyes were dark with distress. Harry leant his shoulder against the chimney-piece and nodded.
“Had a note from . . . er . . . Lucy.” His hand went to his pocket, but was withdrawn. “He said you wanted ter . . . ter see me . . . : that . . . that Lindy was in some trouble.”
Vera, her elbows on her knees, rested her chin in her linked hands and gazed at him. She was very tired: she had not slept. How she was to start she had no idea. She had planned so many arguments, but they had been no good. A sense of coming failure was heavy on her.
“Yes,” she said, “Lindy’s in trouble. Lucy didn’t tell you what it was about? Do you want to hear?” Her voice reflected her physical weariness, but no tinge of the irony which the question might have carried.
Harry faced the Wouwerman “Hunting Scene” above the bureau. He swayed forward a little, one foot still on the curb of the hearth.—Lindy was in trouble. Did he want to . . . er . . . hear about it? . . . about the trouble? . . . Did he? Then as he considered, the meaning that lay behind the words took form. There’d been some . . . er . . . other man . . . some other man who’d . . . His eyes narrowed, and his jaw set.—Who’d . . . and who’d treated her badly. Another Dashwood! . . . Lindy! His Lindy! . . . They’d dared. . . . He passed his hand across his eyes.—She wasn’t his any more. She was her own mistress now. She’d chosen her way. Had tried but hadn’t been enough for her! What could he do? If he could have helped her, he would have. He was sorry for her. God knew he was sorry. His gaze on nothing, he fingered his chin.
“Don’t see that there’s . . . er . . . anything I can do.”
Vera sat silent. She hadn’t got strength enough for unnecessary words. She must keep it for the struggle which lay before her. If she wasted any of what she had left, she’d break down before it was over. Not that it would matter much! There were some things that couldn’t be accomplished—fools’ errands—yet which one had to attempt . . . if one loved.
Harry leant back against the chimney-piece again, his head on one side.
“What . . . er . . . could I do?” he went on, as though there could be no useful answer to the question.
Vera waited: then, when the silence had prepared for her the perfect opening, she turned a little on her stool and began in a low, steady voice.
“I wonder if you’d do something very fine.”
Their glances met and were steady. Harry drew a breath as though to answer but said nothing.—Something very fine? . . . Something . . . She wasn’t going to ask him to take Lindy back? Was she? But it must be that. He’d sooner that she should ask him anything but that . . . anything. He could never do it . . . still less now . . . not after . . . not after there’d been . . . been still another.—He moved from the fireplace and sat down on the chair near him so as to be on the same level as Vera.—Lookin’ down at her like that . . . didn’t seem . . . Understood her asking, of course; hated sayin’ No to Vera who’d always been so decent by Lindy and him: but . . . but . . . there it was! Utterly impossible . . . utterly.
Vera leant back against the wall, her hands were clasped on her knees.
“I’ve come on the strangest quest,” she went on in a dead, even tone. “It’s my last forlorn hope. It’s all I’ve got to try. Lindy’s at the end of everything now, at the edge of life. Unless something is done she’ll go under . . . altogether, without any chance of her rising again. She’ll drop down out of her class into God knows what awful sort of half world, winter at Monte Carlo with people cutting her, summer in the sort of French plages where she won’t see them. Chance acquaintances for her circle, and a series of men—each worse than the last: sitting with them in Casino bars, driving with them in flashy cars. . . . You must have known women of our class who’ve gone under like that.”
Harry moved involuntarily as if to draw away from some scene visualised. Vera was not watching him. In the silence her sense of coming failure grew. It wasn’t really any good going on. She’d known there hadn’t been any chance. She’d known it all those long night hours when she’d lain awake, thinking what she must say to Harry. It hadn’t been worth while coming. Harry’d be nice about it—he always was—but it wasn’t any kind of good. She and Lindy’d have to go off. . . . It would mean . . . She closed her eyes and held her breath. She’d come there to plead for Lindy. She must do it . . . must. . . . Then she could rest . . . rest. She was so tired. A lorry clattered past the house, but she heard nothing. Presently she went on again in a tone slow and even, as though she were trying to remember those pleas which she had formed through the night.
“I’ve come to ask you to save her . . . there’s no one else who can. . . . I’ve tried myself. I failed. . . . I see now that no woman could be of use to her . . . nor any man but you. She’s lost her faith in men, in humanity, so to her it doesn’t seem to matter now what she does next. It isn’t that she doesn’t care . . . but that she’s broken, just broken. She’s been crying on and off for four days now. It can’t keep on like this. Anyhow, she wouldn’t stay in London any more. She’ll go away soon . . . abroad. And that will be the end. After she’s gone away no one will ever be able to help her . . . ever. I don’t feel I’ve the strength to go with her. I can’t do any more . . . in fact, I haven’t been able to do anything at all, really . . . so I’ve come to you. If nothing can be done within the next day or so, it’ll be too late. I know the magnitude of what I’m going to ask you to do. I’ve thought it out . . . step by step . . . from your point of view. . . . Harry, will you save her?”
Harry, grasping his elbow, tapped out some slow, unconscious rhythm on it with the closed fingers of his other hand. His eyes were narrowed, his lips parted.—Yes, she was goin’ ter ask him ter try with Lindy again. He’d . . . he’d . . . known it was goin’ to be that, when she’d first started. She’d built up for him the picture of what would happen if he did not. But he couldn’t do it. He’d have forgiven near anything . . . but . . . It wasn’t even a case of forgivin’ the past. It was the future. God, no man could take her back, never knowing that any hour the woman he loved mightn’t be in another’s arms. He couldn’t do it . . . not . . . not even to save Lindy. It wasn’t because he didn’t love her enough: it was because he did. So Vera was going to ask him just what Lucy had . . . that morning . . . the morning he’d first known. He couldn’t do it then . . . and still less now.
Vera stirred. “What I’ve come to you for is to beseech you to take her back. I know what you’ll say. I know what any man would. And I know too that it’s unanswerable. You’ll ask how you’re to believe that she’ll change and be faithful.”—She paused. For a moment she was conscious of the sunlight in the street, of time, of her own utter fatigue, that she was pleading as so many thousands . . . millions of other women had before for a little of that greatness, that spark of the divine in man, with which against all reasoning their belief had endowed him. Then she continued—“Listen, I’m only asking you for what I myself could give. I’d give that: I’d give more . . . more . . . oh, so much more. I’m trying to be fair, because for women it is different. We are this . . . we are that . . . but we aren’t possessive in the way men are. You don’t know what I’ve been through—not that it matters—in these last weeks. I love Lindy . . . not in the way a man would . . . only I do love her as jealously . . . as fiercely as you could. . . . Listen, what I’m asking you I could do. I could take her back. It isn’t that I’m more unselfish. Perhaps in a way it’s because I’m more selfish, and I love her . . . love . . . love . . . love. And so I couldn’t face the prospect of her sinking. . . . I’d burn first, I’d suffer anything. Jealousy doesn’t matter, self doesn’t matter, only that Lindy, whom I love, should be happy.”
Vera on her stool leant her back against the wall, and covered her face with her hands. Harry, without thought, watched her.—She loved Lindy like that . . . like that. He . . . Then the vision of those others’ arms about her came to him. No, he couldn’t endure it, he couldn’t! A hot anger against the men who might desire her rose in him. He leant forward in his chair.
“But,” he began, “. . . but if I couldn’t believe . . . couldn’t believe that she wouldn’t . . . mightn’t do it again? And I . . . I couldn’t be certain . . . couldn’t. . . . Could you yourself?”
Vera did not answer.—There it was! . . . The question she’d known he would ask, the question which would wreck all she could urge. For a little while she paused for rest, her consciousness withdrawn beyond the reach of the material world.
“Could you trust her yourself?” Harry insisted.
Then she uncovered her face, and met his gaze.
“It’s just because of that that I’m asking you to take her back. I’m putting it as clearly as I can . . . I can’t be fairer or more open. . . . I’m telling you the truth, the worst truth. You’ve asked me if I could trust her, and my answer’s—No! It mayn’t ever happen again, but it’s just because it may happen . . . just because she’s light . . . and because we love her . . . that you must take her back. If she was different it wouldn’t matter. But you’re the only chance she has of . . . not going under.”
Harry moved as if to rise from his chair, but he only turned in it, and was still again. Vera looked away from him.
“Aren’t you big enough? Aren’t men ever . . . ever big enough? A woman could be . . . lots of them . . . most of them. We haven’t that sort of pride, not that pride of possession.”
He got up and moved towards the window. Vera watched him.
“Harry, don’t you love her enough?”
He leant his shoulder against the framing of the window, and looked out into the street.—It was too much . . . too much to ask any man. Perhaps men and women were different. He didn’t know. How could any one ever know that? No one had been both. . . . Perhaps a woman could have gone on with it, knowing that . . . Yes, lots of ’em had, must have. But it was different with them, whatever one said. . . . Why couldn’t Vera understand that . . . He’d had all this out, weeks ago . . . when it had happened. He didn’t feel any different now. He’d loved Lindy then. He’d loved no other woman ever. But that was the very reason why . . . He went back to his chair again, and sat down. He leant his chin on his hands. The blind fluttered softly. Vera watched him.
“Harry, think! She’s going down, she’s sinking—I’m not trying to tell you how you’ll be happiest—she’s going to sink further and further . . . deep down into that other world. . . . Perhaps some day you’ll see her: perhaps by the chance drama of accident you’ll run into her. . . . Don’t you understand? It’s either that you’ve got to help her—no one else can—or she’s finished.”
He bent forward and covered his eyes with his hands.—Lindy finished . . . finished . . . his little . . . She would become like . . . like . . . God, it couldn’t be! He couldn’t bear it. Lindy, whom he’d loved . . . whom he loved . . . always would love!—He leant back suddenly and looked towards Vera. She had turned from him and had buried her face in the crook of her arm. Her shoulders moved, she was sobbing softly. . . .
“Weller . . .” he began, and checked.
Vera did not appear to hear him. It was over, all over. She couldn’t do any more. What she’d hoped for in coming to see Harry she didn’t know. Men were different. This was the end! She rose painfully.
Harry watched her.—She was going . . . going back to Lindy . . . to tell her he wouldn’t do it.
“Don’t,” he said. “Wait a minute.”
Vera, her face still turned from him, checked and leant against the wall, almost without thought.
“Does she,” he began, “does she want ter . . . ter . . . come back ter me?”
Vera was very still. His words seemed to come to her from another world. She’d left it . . . and hope.
“She’d want to come back. She’s broken. You’re the only man who’s been good to her. You could save her. For the moment all she wants is security, but that doesn’t mean her whole nature is changed. She may have learnt her lesson. She mayn’t. Nobody could tell. So it wouldn’t be fair to you to pretend that I can promise you she’d be different: and of course I see that as I can’t, you——”
She began to cry painfully, bitterly, with all the abandon of an emotion long held in check. Harry rose from his seat: he straightened himself jerkily and squared his shoulders—Lindy goin’ under. He couldn’t endure the thought. She’d got to be saved . . . somehow . . . somehow, and if he might be able to help her, he’d . . .
With his hand on the back of the chair, and with his chin high he faced the open window and the . . . drowsy, autumn sky.
“I’ll . . . I’ll do it,” he said.
Vera nodded, but did not move. She’d succeeded . . . and when her courage and endurance were exhausted. She felt tired out . . . so tired that she could scarcely realise what she had accomplished.
“I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll do it. I’ll try again,” Harry repeated.
Vera rose blindly from her stool, and with her arm still before her eyes came towards him. He took the hand she extended, and held it. For a moment they stood so, motionless, overcome by their separate emotions.
“I can’t thank you,” she said in dead tones. “Simply I haven’t the words. I’d have given all that I may ever have for you to take her back. I didn’t believe any man with your traditions would. But you’re better than that, you’re bigger than your traditions. You’re very fine, Harry. Thank you, thank you.”
Harry drew a breath. “Shall I come with you . . . now?”
She reached the door. “No. . . . Give me time. I can’t take it all in yet. And Lindy knows nothing about my seeing you. Come later. Come at six this evening . . . and . . . and take her away . . . for good. I’m, I’m giving her up”—she began to sob again—“I’ve loved her, but I wasn’t any use to her! No use . . . and you . . . ! Oh, thank you, Harry. You’ll be good to her: pray God she’ll be good to you. . . . Take her right, right away . . . don’t stay in London. . . . Take her away into the country . . . to-night. Don’t come to see me out.”
She opened the door, and by an effort composed herself. For a moment she looked towards him, then she narrowed Her eyes, nodded just perceptibly, and was gone.
Driving home, Vera leant back in the corner of the taxi, her eyes closed. She was tired, but there was much to be done before she could rest. She was giving up Lindy, and she was glad that there were practical matters to which she must attend. By the time she reached home her plans were made.
“Sari,” she said, as soon as the front door had been closed behind her, “Miss Lindy will be motoring into the country this evening. She’ll be away several days. Pack everything that’s necessary for her.”
Old Sari looked at her with shrewd eyes. “You do not go, Miss Vera?” Her tone was one of comment rather than of question.
Vera shook her head. “No, I don’t go.” She went towards the stairs, but at the foot of them turned for a moment. “It’s a secret that she is going. You needn’t start to pack till you’ve brought tea. Miss Lindy will be in the drawing-room then, you won’t disturb her. And when General Hawkins . . .”—Sari moved her head and poised it a little on one side—“And when he comes, show him into the dining-room. . . . You needn’t announce him. I shall know. He’ll be here at six in his car. And when I’m with him you can take Miss Lindy’s things and put them in the car.”
Sari smoothed her cheek, closed her eyes, and nodded. It was so! was it? It was so! When she’d been a girl the world had seemed a strange place, but now that she knew it better, nothing surprised her. Even when the old Countess Palfry . . . Without any remark she turned and shuffled off to the kitchen stairs.
Tea-time came. Vera waited in the drawing-room. The French windows were open, the afternoon was close and still. Lindy came in, slowly, with her listless arms and tired eyes. Vera gave her a cup.
“I’ve been thinking over what you asked me to do,” she said, “and I’ve taken on myself to plan for you.”
Lindy sipped her tea. “What are the plans?” Her voice was numb.
“You’re to go off into the country this evening. Sari’s packing your things.”
“Into the country?”
“In London you won’t forget. A change will be good for you. It’s better you should go away.”
A shaft of sunlight slanted across the Knightsbridge end of the long room. Vera watched the specks of dust dancing in it. A sense of peace was all about her, everywhere, but in herself.
“You’re not sending me away . . . alone,” Lindy pleaded presently.
“No, not alone.”
Lindy would eat nothing. They sat in silence. Time passed. Vera found herself listening to the drone of the traffic in the streets. She’d not hear Harry’s car when it drew up: she’d not know of his arrival till she heard him in the hall. She’d tell Lindy nothing . . . nothing. To do so would mean explanations, would mean . . . Oh! She hadn’t the strength left to face them! She was worn out. She drew up her feet on to the sofa and leant back against the cushions. . . . There wasn’t much more to be done . . . not much more. Harry a come and take Lindy away. After that . . . after that she would see the Bo’sun. She’d promised to send for him as soon as she was free to do so. She must telephone to him. She went down to the hall, rang up his flat and left a message with his soldier-servant. Unless she heard to the contrary, she would expect him to dine with her that evening. After telephoning she changed the water in the flower vases. . . . Not that it mattered . . . not that anything did, not now! . . . There would still be two for dinner although Miss Lindy was going away, she told the cook: and doing so, she reflected how she like everyone else had become a slave of possessions, and of the mere mechanism of daily life. To possess, to be possessed, it was all the same. She wanted . . . she wanted . . .
When she came upstairs again, she went back to the drawing-room, and sat down by the long, open window. Lindy was turning over the leaves of a poetry book. She watched her. Soon she’d be gone. Perhaps she’d never sit in that chair again. For four years Lindy had been the one person she’d loved. Everything had an ending. Perhaps this was the end, the absolute end. The end! Lindy’d go, and she’d leave behind her nothing but memories, happy memories, sad ones. She’d not be without any of them! They’d be all that would be left of the days when they’d been together. She watched the hour hand creeping round the clock. Half-past five, quarter to six. The minutes seemed to her to grow longer and more painful. Lindy went up to her bedroom and she sat on alone. The sunlight had stolen out of the room, but the park outside was golden with it. Several times she thought she heard a car stop before the front door, but under the softened rumble from the street few sounds were distinct. Presently she heard the bell ring, and after a while Sari’s eternal slippers crossing the hall. The door opened. In her fancy she followed Harry as he came in, laid down his hat, and was shown into the dining-room. She heard Sari’s shuffle and Harry’s footfall, slow, decided, decisive, yet jerky. For a moment she waited by the open window, then she went resolutely out into the passage. Sari had almost reached the top of the stairs. Vera stopped, and she and her old nurse regarded each other steadfastly. Sari’s mouth was grim, but her eyes showed her dogged sympathy.
“It’s all right, Sari dearest,” Vera told her, in a voice so low that the words scarcely carried.
Turning, she went upstairs. Lindy was on the edge of her bed, her shoulders limp, gazing at the packed and strapped portmanteau which lay before her.
“Put on your coat and hat,” Vera told her, and waited by the door. Lindy rose and moved about the room with dull movements.
“And your own things?” she asked.
“I’m not coming.”
“But you said . . .”
Vera took her arm softly and led her into the passage.
“There’s some one waiting downstairs who’s come to take you away. I . . . I can’t go with you.”
Lindy nodded. There was no resistance left in her. They reached the hall and went towards the dining-room. Just outside it Vera checked, and drawing Lindy to her, kissed her gently.
“Be happy, darling,” she said, and opened the door.
Her arm still about Lindy, she led her round the screen and into the room. Harry was at the further end of it, his back to the window. Lindy saw him, and stopped suddenly, her hands clasped.
“Harry!” she whispered.
Vera went to the door again. With her eyes to the wall she heard Harry stride towards Lindy.
“Lindy . . . I’ve . . . I’ve come ter take yer away.”
Vera heard Lindy gasp. For a while there was silence. She waited. Then, without turning, and with her hand on the door, she spoke.
“Don’t come and make your adieux, Harry, and don’t let her. Take her away when you’re ready. Sari’s put her things in your car. . . . Lindy darling, good . . .”—she had meant to say good-bye, but she could not—“Good . . . luck!”
The screen was hiding her from them. They couldn’t see her going: she was thankful for that. With her arm before her eyes, she went into the hall, and closed the door softly behind her. Then she leant her forehead against the wall. . . . Lindy was in Harry’s arms again. She’d done it . . . done it . . . succeeded . . . and it must be good-bye . . . good-bye! She hadn’t been any other use to Lindy, and to see her would remind Lindy of the past, so she mustn’t see her, mustn’t. . . . Perhaps some day . . . but not for months . . . not for years. When she’d gone to ask Harry to do it, she’d known what the success of that mission would mean to her. She’d given up Lindy. She’d no one left . . . no one who cared except the Bo’sun. . . . Yes, but . . . but . . . She couldn’t wait there, or they’d come out and find her. Her lips parted her eyes blind with tears, she felt her way along the wall and climbed the stairs.
Evening faded into night, and after what seemed to her to have been eternity Vera grew aware once more of the present. From the park outside came the hum of passing cars, distinct against the distant never-ceasing drone from streets beyond. She lay very still. Her eyes were dry again. Crying had exhausted her but had soothed her senses. Presently the dim walls began to steal in upon her consciousness. The muslin blinds hung faintly luminous. Just discernible in the unlit bedroom were the shadows of familiar things. She had chosen them: she had loved them: but now they had lost their old meaning. They belonged to the past, to all that mattered to her. The past: her life with Lindy. She did not regret it: she had done what she had had to do . . . but now it was all over. The future stretched empty—weeks, months, years—for her mere time, not seasons with their changing rote, with their consolation of the fall and spring, but days and nights, like glitter and darkness on a stream flowing from nowhere . . . towards her . . . past her.
Since her mother had died, there had been no one but Lindy . . . and she had let Lindy go. Her mother had gone but she had not been lost to her, as Lindy had. The dead remained as they were when we knew them. Her mother could never alter now. With Lindy it would not be so. All that she had been would become a memory: and as the real Lindy altered so it would dim. . . . Perhaps some day they’d meet again. Then the Lindy she had loved would be dead indeed.
It was over! The shadows of their little play had sped apart. Never again would they come together. For a moment she remembered that evening in the cellars of Clympham when she had watched the shadows of Lindy and Tono, as they danced, flitting across the rough whitewashed walls, while on the big slate dairy-table the gramophone had blared and pattered. Those shadows of the Jazz age! They had meant nothing: they had left nothing, no biding shade. They had passed too lightly for that. No one would model and colour statuettes from their fêtes champêtres. The age had neither the wealth nor the care to fix its impermanence in porcelain.
Tono was back in Hungary now. It was scarcely likely that Lindy’d ever see him again. He hadn’t been even an incident! For herself she would always be fond of Tono . . . her own cousin. There was a certain quality of courage even in his dissipation. He’d be a good loser—or generous winner—like Bo’sun . . . Bo’sun!
Somewhere a clock chimed. It must be past dinner time. Sari had not disturbed her. Sari had understood, dear old Sari. . . . And the Bo’sun . . . he could not have reached home and received her message yet or he would have come. . . . And when he did, what was she to say to him? What? . . . She would wait. When they met then she would know.
Vera scarcely heard Sari tapping at the door. The old woman shuffled in without turning on the light and announced that the Bo’sun had arrived.
“The Captain is only this minute come from the country, but he has had dinner by the road,” she said. “It is already late, past ten. But I knew that you would not eat and so I would not trouble you.”
“Thank you, Sari dear.”
Vera sat up and rose from the bed. Sari helped her to change her frock for an evening one: and, still in the dim twilight of the room, she sat down before her mirror. She owed that to him, she thought as she tidied her dark hair, to herself perhaps, to the occasion.
What were his thoughts, what did he expect, she wondered as she went down the silent stairs. How greatly did he need her? Why did he want her? She was so different from himself. What could she bring him that he would need? Her lips were parted but composed, her eyes full of thought. She opened the drawing-room door and entered into the flushed twilight which radiated from a single table-lamp. The Bo’sun had been sitting by the open windows which overlooked the park. He rose as she entered, and came towards her.
“Vera.”
She had never heard his tone so grave before. He took her outstretched hand and held it between his own, so that this action gave their grouping an unexpected intimacy. Serious, he seemed to her younger, less assured—like a mere boy facing for the first time life’s hazard. For a space of time they stood so.
“Let’s sit down here,” she said presently.
They took the two ends of the divan which ran along the bare wall, between the cabinet of scarlet lac and the windows. Vera drew her feet up under her and turned towards him. His face was shadowed while hers was lit by the peaceful glow from the lamp behind him. The Bo’sun settled himself on the divan and stretched his arm towards her along the back of it.
“I’m so incredibly glad to see you again. . . . I’ve longed for this,” he went on. “I’ve counted the days till you’d be back.”
His hand was close to her elbow, but to Vera his voice seemed to come from far away as if it belonged to the happy past when Lindy had still been with her. She had lost Lindy. Should she tell him? Unless he knew he would misunderstand her sadness . . . and she didn’t want that. No, he was all that now remained to her of those days. . . .
“Lindy’s gone,” she said, her voice very low. The words seemed to her empty, inept. They could not carry what Lindy’s going meant to her. “She’s gone with Harry. . . . He’s taken her back.”
The Bo’sun was leaning towards her now. She could not see his expression, but she could hear his breathing. The steady glitter of light outlined her head and shoulders. Beyond him were the open windows and the night.
“Harry’s taken her back?”
Her thought turned for a moment to Harry again.
“He loved her enough to do that,” she added.
The Bo’sun’s fingers touched her elbow as it rested on the back of the divan. His hand was warm and steady.
“Vera darling,” he said, “I love you as much.” . . . The soft echo of the city’s tumult floated in to her. . . . “You do know that?”
He loved her so? Vera was very still. What could she give him?
“Bo’sun, dear . . .” she answered.
“You do know that, don’t you?”
Vera had let herself slide out of the present into some half state where time had no power to steal, where Lindy was and always would be with her. There the Bo’sun’s words reached her like a caress.
“Listen before you answer,” he went on. “I must tell you. I’ve been able to do nothing since you’ve been away. I’ve tried things, this and that. I went yachting. I had a few days’ shooting. Nothing was any good. I tried to but I couldn’t forget you at all. All the time I was thinking what will Vera say? How can I persuade her? You’ve never seen me like that; probably you’ll hardly believe I could be. I never was before—if it comes to that. Then I came back to London and duty, and I tried working hard: but as soon as I had finished work each day it came back to me. I used to sit at nights alone in my flat thinking of you and getting scared to death you’d not be persuaded. One night I couldn’t sleep for fear you would not have me. In the end I got up and dressed again and walked about the streets till it was light. I don’t think I’ve ever wandered about so aimlessly before. I can’t forget you . . . you see, even for an hour. I’m not the sort that worries in the ordinary run. You know that. . . . Darling . . .”
Vera, very still at her end of the divan, felt drawn to him. His voice was about her, warm and insistent.
“If I can’t have you . . . Vera, dear, listen. I can’t bear it. I couldn’t stand anything I’ve ever cared for if I can’t have you. There’s a job going in Central Africa—somewhere clean off the map—soldiering, I mean . . . of a roughish sort—some place where one wouldn’t see a white man more than once in six months. I’m pretty sociable sort in the ordinary run: and I’d about as soon be buried alive as take on a show like that: and I suppose it sounds rank . . .”
“Bo’sun, dear.”
Vera felt his grasp tighten on her arm. Her eyes were closed: she opened them and saw him leaning still closer towards her. If he moved a little closer, his lips would touch her neck. In her fancy she could almost feel their kiss.
“Vera, I’m in love with you: not just caring for, or a fancy, or that kind of thing, but something . . . oh, different from anything I’ve known or dreamt about. I’ve thought about you a lot these two years. But all the summer I’ve been able to think of nothing else. I haven’t ever been in love before. I say that though I don’t suppose that would make a difference to you. I’ve liked here and there, but I’d never guessed there could be anything like this. I expect most people fancy, because I rag a lot, that I can’t ever be serious. . . . I am now, by God, even if I’ve never been before in my life.”
He paused and watched her. He could not bear to think of life without her. If he must go away he must be able to take with him the perfect remembrance of her. He tried to sear on his memory the picture of her: of her eyes now so dark, steadfast, yet with glint in their depths of something he might never reach, which perhaps no one ever would reach. He must be able to take with him the remembrance of her lips, so passionate yet so chaste, of her calm brow, of the yearning delicacy of her chin, of the strangely virginal quality of her neck. That was where he would wish to kiss her . . . first . . . soft, gentle kisses . . . till forgetfulness came.
A sense of realisation stole round them both. Vera held her breath. She’d never thought that any man could want her so.
“Vera, can’t you care for me? Can’t you . . . can’t you?”
His voice was all about her. Vera laid a slow hand upon his shoulder. She could not bear that he should suffer.
“To me you’re a child, Bo’sun. While I’m old . . . old as sorrow—or joy . . . older. But I do care for you. I care more for you than any man I’ve ever met . . . more than I’d have believed I could care for a man . . . more than I ever will for any other man.”
She could feel the Bo’sun struggling against the implication of her words. Then he began to plead.
“But couldn’t you ever, ever love me? I’d wait . . . if you said you could ever care or that you’d ever marry me, I’d wait. I wouldn’t hurry you . . . and, Lord, I’d be happy.”
Vera was very still. How could she make him understand her feeling? Presently her ideas formed more clearly.
“I’m not for such things. But, Bo’sun dear, when you’re begging me like that I wish I could be different. I can see the joy in surrender. I could give myself to you if only to afford you an hour’s happiness, if only . . . if only I were different.”
She turned her head a little.
“If it were only myself—just the physical side of me that I could give . . . if it were only that, I’d give myself to you. But what I’d be giving would be more. . . . I’d be giving what does not properly belong to myself . . . and I should know that I was doing so. . . . It is as if it were the symbol of a faith for me. . . . I have that . . . yes . . . that vocation for virginity. In another age or in some other country I suppose I should have taken the vow. Here it would seem to me no solution, just running away. Don’t you understand, Bo’sun? It’s more than myself?”
Bo’sun nodded slowly . . . as it seemed to her, painfully. For a while he was silent, then he went on in a slower tone.
“I’d not ask you for anything physical, I wouldn’t. I’d wait. . . . And if you felt you never could . . . I’d . . . I’d do without. Perhaps I don’t understand well, but I’d do without that, Vera. I could do without anything, but I can’t do without you. . . .”
Vera stirred.
“Oh, don’t turn me down. . . . Don’t, Vera . . . I love you so.”
She took his hand and held it fast, soothingly, and as if in answer. Presently he went on again:
“Can’t you ever love, Vera? Can’t you love?”
Her eyes were closed. She tried to pray, but no prayer formed itself.
“Can’t I ever love!”
Could she ever love? . . . and she’d just given up Lindy! A little of the bitterness of the thought came through her voice. Then she went on kindly.
“It isn’t that, Bo’sun dear: but I’d be no good to you. I’m not for marriage, I’m not for that side of life. Go and marry some simple jolly girl who’d make you happy.”
He drew back from her, and turning to the room sank his chin into his hands.
“I’ll never marry anyone else. No one who’d loved you could. You’re not like other women. You’ve spoiled me for them. I’d think of you always. It would be . . . Oh, Vera, couldn’t you bear it . . . just the being always with me, I mean?”
“Oh, Bo’sun dear, Bo’sun dear,” she comforted, so low that the words scarcely reached him.
He bent his head disconsolate.
“I’m not good enough I know, but I’d try—God—I’d try.”
Vera shook her head.
“It’s I who am not good enough. . . . If I were big enough to, I’d love you—love you as you want.”
For a time there was silence in the room, and the silence carried its message.
Presently he got up from the divan and crossed to the open French windows. There he remained, his shoulder against their panel, looking out into the darkness.
“I understand,” he said, as if to the night. “I’ll go away now. I’ll take this job in Africa and get right away. I couldn’t be in England and you here and . . . and do without you. I just couldn’t bear it.”
Vera rose and crossed to him.
“You must do as you must, Bo’sun dear. But you needn’t go on my account. I’m going away myself—back to where my mother came from. Perhaps there I’ll find what I am looking for. I’ll be alone. I’ll stay there—through the winter when the snow lies for weeks on end. I’ll be alone and I’ll think of you . . . always . . . of you and Lindy . . . Lindy whom I’ve lost, and you whom I’m not big enough to take. Bo’sun, you are all that’s left to me; don’t think hardly of me.”
They stood so, close together, behind them the soft glow of the room, before them the night.
“And you’ve never loved any other man,” he said presently. “If you had or did still I’d understand better.”
Vera paused before she answered.
“Never, never. No man has ever meant anything to me . . .” From the park came the drone of a passing car. “No man has known me better than you have.”
“I wouldn’t ask for that. . . . I’d understand you couldn’t bear the idea of me in that way.”
Vera waited. He mustn’t think that.
“Bo’sun,” she said. He turned to her. Vera lifted her hands and took his face between them.
“Look,” she whispered vibratingly, in that ecstasy which giving brings to some, and drew him to her till their lips met in a kiss . . . unhurried, yet not lingering. And as she kissed she prayed.—Let him be happy. Take from me and give to him. Any joy that might be mine, let him have. Don’t let him suffer: I can endure. Let him love some one. Let him . . . Let him.—She could not go on. She checked, near tears. Presently she stepped back.
“Do you understand?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“I understand. . . . Out there, off the map, I’ll remember that always . . . all my life. Now I’ll go.”
He stretched out his hands to her. She took them.
“And I’ll go to my Plains. . . . Perhaps solitude will be kindest to us, to you and me. Some day . . . some day . . .”
“Vera, Vera . . . darling,” he broke in. “One more kiss, give me one more kiss to remember by.”
She closed her eyes and let him take her in his arms. She gave him her lips utterly. The shadows were thick about them. The sounds of the city faded out. He’s a child, she thought. . . . He’s . . . His arms held her tightly. She could understand the joy that surrender must bring to others. She understood what love of him might be to them. Then very slowly she drew away from him, and stood a little breathless, gazing at him.
He steadied himself against the window framing.
“Vera, darling, I’ll never forget . . . never. I’ll never forget what you’ve given me. Thank you, thank you. . . .”
“But, Bo’sun dear,” she whispered, “but, dear, it . . . it was little.”
“I’ll never love any woman but you, I know that. I’ll go away now. I won’t try to see you again before I leave. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . Oh, Vera.”
Their fingers met. Then he turned from her. Vera watched him cross to the door, open it and go out. He did not look round. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, in the hall. The sound of traffic increased. The front door had been opened. She heard it close. He was gone. The echoes faded quickly.
Vera stood gazing before her with unseeing eyes. In the house no one stirred. The night was very still. She was alone now . . . alone . . . alone.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.
Book cover is placed in the public domain.
[The end of Whipped Cream by Geoffrey Moss]