I
The first time they met, though they didn’t know it, for they were
unconscious of each other, was at <i>The Immortal Hour</i>, then playing to
almost empty houses away at King’s Cross; but they both went so often,
and the audience at that time was so conspicuous because there was so
little of it and so much room to put it in, that quite soon people who
went frequently got to know each other by sight, and felt friendly and
inclined to nod and smile, and this happened too to Christopher and
Catherine.
She first became aware of him on the evening of her fifth visit, when
she heard two people talking just behind her before the curtain went up,
and one said, sounding proud, ‘This is my eleventh time’; and the other
answered carelessly, ‘This is my thirty-secondth’--upon which the first
one exclaimed, ‘Oh, I <i>say</i>!’ with much the sound of a pricked balloon
wailing itself flat, and she couldn’t resist turning her face, lit up
with interest and amusement, to look. Thus she saw Christopher
consciously for the first time, and he saw her.
After that they noticed each other’s presence for three more
performances, and then, when it was her ninth and his thirty-sixth--for
the enthusiasts of <i>The Immortal Hour</i> kept jealous count of their
visits--and they found themselves sitting in the same row with only
twelve empty seats between them, he moved up six nearer to her when the
curtain went down between the two scenes of the first act, and when it
went down at the end of the first act, after that love scene which
invariably roused the small band of the faithful to a kind of mystic
frenzy of delight, he moved up the other six and sat down boldly beside
her.
She smiled at him, a friendly and welcoming smile.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ he said apologetically, as if this explained his
coming over to her.
‘Perfectly beautiful,’ she said; and added, ‘This is my ninth time.’
And he said, ‘This is my thirty-sixth.’
And she said, ‘I know.’
And he said, ‘How do you know?’
And she said, ‘Because I heard you tell someone when it was your
thirty-secondth, and I’ve been counting since.’
So they made friends, and Christopher thought he had never seen anybody
with such a sweet way of smiling, or heard anybody with such a funny
little coo of a voice.
She was little altogether; a little thing, in a little hat which she
never had to take off because hardly ever was there anybody behind her,
and, anyhow, even in a big hat she was not of the size that obstructs
views. Always the same hat; never a different one, or different clothes.
Although the clothes were pretty, very pretty, he somehow felt, perhaps
because they were never different, that she wasn’t very well off; and he
also somehow felt she was older than he was--just a little older,
nothing at all to matter; and presently he began somehow also to feel
that she was married.
The night he got this feeling he was surprised how much he disliked it.
What was happening to him? Was he falling in love? And he didn’t even
know her name. It was the night of her fourteenth visit and his
forty-eighth--for since they had made friends he went oftener than ever
in the hope of seeing her, and the very programme young women looked at
him as though they had known him all their lives--that this cold feeling
first filtered into his warm and comfortable heart, and nipped its
comfort; and it wasn’t that he had seen a wedding ring, for she never
took off her absurd, small gloves--it was something indescribably not a
girl about her.
He tried to pin it down into words, but he couldn’t; it remained
indescribable. And whether it had to do with the lines of her figure,
which were rounder than most girls’ figures in these flat days, or with
the things she said, for the life of him he couldn’t tell. Perhaps it
was her composure, her air of settled safety, of being able to make
friends with any number of strange young men, pick them up and leave
them, exactly when and how she chose.
Still, it might not be true. She was always alone. Sooner or later, if
there were husbands they appeared. No husband of a wife so sweet would
let her come out at night like this by herself, he thought. Yes, he
probably was mistaken. He didn’t know much about women. Up to this he
had only had highly unsatisfactory, rough and tumble relations with
them, and he couldn’t compare. And though he and she had now sat
together several times, they had talked entirely about <i>The Immortal
Hour</i>--they were both so very enthusiastic--and its music, and its
singers, and Celtic legends generally, and at the end she always smiled
the smile that enchanted him, and nodded and slipped away, so that they
had never really got any further than the first night.
‘Look here,’ he said, or rather blurted, the next time he saw her
there--he now went as a matter of course to sit next to her--‘you might
tell me your name. Mine’s Monckton. Christopher Monckton.’
‘But of course,’ she said. ‘Mine is Cumfrit.’
Cumfrit? He thought it a funny little name; but somehow like her.
‘Just’--he held his breath--‘Cumfrit?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, there’s Catherine as well,’ she said.
‘I like that. It’s pretty. They’re sweet and pretty, said together.
They’re--well, extraordinarily like you.’
She laughed again. ‘But they’re not both like me,’ she said. ‘I owe the
Cumfrit part to George.’
‘To George?’ he faltered.
‘He provided the Cumfrit. All I did was the Catherine bit.’
‘Then--you’re married?’
‘Isn’t everybody?’
‘Good God, no,’ he cried. ‘It’s a disgusting thing to be. It’s hateful.
It’s ridiculous. Tying oneself up to somebody for good and all.
Everybody! I should think not. <i>I’m</i> not.’
‘Oh, but you’re too young,’ she said, amused.
‘Too young? And what about you?’
She looked at him quickly, a doubt on her face; but the doubt changed to
real surprise when she saw how completely he had meant it. She had a
three-cornered face, like a pansy, like a kitten, he thought. He wanted
to stroke her. He was sure she was exquisitely smooth and soft. And now
there was George.
‘Does he--does your husband not like music?’ he asked, saying the first
thing that came into his head, not really wanting in the least to know
what that damned George liked or didn’t like.
She hesitated. ‘I--don’t know,’ she said. ‘He--usedn’t to.’
‘But he doesn’t come here?’
‘How can he?’ She stopped, and then said softly, ‘The poor darling’s
dead.’
His heart gave a bound. A widow. The beastly war had done one good
thing, then,--it had removed George.
‘I say, I’m most frightfully sorry,’ he exclaimed with immense
earnestness, and trying to look solemn.
‘Oh, it’s a long while ago,’ she said, bowing her head a little at the
remembrance.
‘It can’t be so very long ago.’
‘Why can’t it?’
‘Because you haven’t had time.’
She again looked quickly at him, and again saw nothing but sincerity.
Then she was silent a moment. She was thinking, ‘This is rather
sweet’--and the ghost of a wistful little smile passed across her face.
How old was he? Twenty-five or six; not more, she was sure. What a
charming thing youth was,--so headlong, so generous and whole-hearted in
its admirations and beliefs. He was a great, loosely built young man,
with flame-coloured hair, and freckles, and bony red wrists that came a
long way out of his sleeves when he sat supporting his head in his hands
during the love scene, clutching it tighter and tighter as there was
more and more of love. He had deep-set eyes, and a beautifully shaped
broad forehead, and a wide, kindly mouth, and he radiated youth, and
the discontents and quick angers and quicker appreciations of youth.
She suppressed a small sigh, and laughed as she said, ‘You’ve only seen
me at night. Wait till you see me in broad daylight.’
‘Am I ever to be allowed to?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Don’t you ever come to the <i>matinées</i>?’
She knew he didn’t.
‘Oh--<i>matinées</i>. No, of course I can’t come to <i>matinées</i>. I have to
grind all the week in my beastly office, and on Saturdays I go and play
golf with an uncle who is supposed to be going to leave me all his
money.’
‘You should cherish him.’
‘I do. And I haven’t minded till now. But it’s an infernal tie-up
directly one wants to do anything else.’
He looked at her ruefully. Then his face lit up. ‘Sundays,’ he said
eagerly. ‘Sundays I’m free. He’s religious, and won’t play on Sundays.
Couldn’t I----?’
‘There aren’t any <i>matinées</i> on Sunday,’ she said.
‘No but couldn’t I come and see you? Come and call?’
‘Hush,’ she said, lifting her hand as the music of the second act began.
And at the end this time too, before he could say a word, while he was
still struggling with his coat, she slipped away as usual after nodding
good night.
The next time, however, he was more determined, and began at once. It
seemed to him that he had been thinking of her without stopping, and it
was absurd not to know anything at all about a person one thinks of as
much as that, except her name and that her husband was dead. It was of
course a great stride from blank knowing nothing; and that her husband
should be dead was such a relief to him that he couldn’t help thinking
he must be falling in love. All husbands should be dead, he
considered,--nuisances, complicators. What would have happened if George
had been alive? Why, he simply would have lost her, had to give up at
once,--before, almost, beginning. And he was so lonely, and she
was--well, what wasn’t she? She was so like what he had been dreaming of
for years,--a little ball of sweetness, and warmth, and comfort, and
reassurance and love.
The next time she came, then, the minute she appeared he went over to
where she sat and began. He was going to ask her straight out if he
might come and see her, fix that up, get her address; but she chanced to
be late that night, and hardly had he opened his mouth when the lights
were lowered and she put up her hand and said ‘Hush.’
It was no use trying to say what he wanted to say in a whisper, because
the faithful, though few, were fierce, and would tolerate nothing but
total silence. Also he was much afraid she herself preferred the music
to anything he might have to say.
He sat with his arms folded and waited. He had to wait till the very end
of the act, because though he tried again when the curtain went down
between its two scenes, and only the orchestra was playing, he was
shoo’d quiet at once by the outraged faithful.
She, too, said, putting up her hand, ‘Oh, hush.’
He began to feel slightly off <i>The Immortal Hour</i>. But at last the whole
act was over and the lights were up again. She turned her flushed face
to him, the music still shining in her eyes. She was always flushed and
her eyes always shone at the end of the love scene; nor could he ever
see that lovely headlong embrace of the lovers without feeling
extraordinarily stirred up. God, to be embraced like that.... He was
starving for love.
‘Isn’t it marvellous,’ she breathed.
‘Are you ever going to let me come and see you?’ he asked, without
losing another second.
She looked at him a moment, collecting her thoughts, a little surprised.
‘Of course,’ she then said. ‘Do. Though----’ She stopped.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I was going to say, Don’t you see me as it is?’
‘But what is this?’
‘Well, it’s two or three times every week,’ she said.
‘Yes, but what is it? Just a casual picking up. You come--you happen to
come--and then you disappear. At any time you might happen not to come,
and then----’
‘Why then,’ she finished for him as he paused, ‘you’d have all this
beautiful stuff to yourself. I don’t think they ever did that last bit
<i>more</i> wonderfully, do you?’ And off she went again, cooing on as usual
about <i>The Immortal Hour</i>, and he hadn’t a chance to get in another word
before the confounded music began again and the faithful with one accord
called out ‘Sh--sh.’
Enthusiasm, thought Christopher, should have its bounds. He forgot that,
to begin with, his enthusiasm had far outdone hers. He folded his arms
once more, a sign with him of determined and grim patience, and when it
was over and she bade him her smiling good night and hurried off without
any more words, he lost no time bothering about putting on his coat but
simply seized it and went after her.
It was difficult to keep her in sight. She could slip through gaps he
couldn’t, and he very nearly lost her at the turn of the stairs. He
caught her up, however, on the steps outside, just as she was about to
plunge out into the rain, and laid his hand on her arm.
She looked round surprised. In the glare of the peculiarly searching
light theatres turn on to their departing and arriving patrons he was
struck by the fatigue on her face. The music was too much for her--she
looked worn out.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘don’t run away like this. It’s pouring. You wait
here and I’ll get you a taxi.’
‘Oh, but I always go by tube,’ she said, clutching at him a moment as
some people pushing past threw her against him.
‘You can’t go by tube to-night. Not in this rain. And you look
frightfully tired.’
She glanced up at him oddly and laughed a little. ‘Do I?’ she said.
‘Well, I’m not. Not a bit tired. And I can quite well go by tube. It’s
quite close.’
‘You can’t do anything of the sort. Stand here out of the rain while I
get a taxi.’ And off he ran.
For a moment she was on the verge of running off herself, going to the
tube as usual and getting home her own way, for why should she be forced
into an expensive taxi? Then she thought: ‘No--it would be low of me,
simply low. I must try and behave like a little gentleman----’ and
waited.
‘Where shall I tell him to go to?’ asked Christopher, having got his
taxi and put her inside it and simply not had the courage to declare it
was his duty to see her safely home.
She told him the address--90<small>A</small> Hertford Street--and he wondered a moment
why, living in such a street with the very air of Park Lane wafted down
it from just round the corner, she should not only not have a car but
want to go in tubes.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ she asked, leaning forward at the last moment.
He was in the taxi in a flash. ‘I was so hoping you’d say that,’ he
said, pulling the door to with such vigour that a shower of raindrops
jerked off the top of the window-frame on to her dress.
These he had to wipe off, which he did with immense care, and a
handkerchief that deplorably was not one of his new ones. She sat
passive while he did it, going over the evening’s performance, pointing
out, describing, reminding, and he, as he dried, told himself definitely
that he had had enough of <i>The Immortal Hour</i>. She must stop, she must
stop. He must talk to her, must find out more about her. He was burning
to know more about her before the infernally fast taxi arrived at her
home. And she would do nothing, as they bumped furiously along, but
quote and ecstasise.
That was a good word, he thought, as it came into his head; and he was
so much pleased with it that he said it out loud. ‘I wish you wouldn’t
<i>ecstasise</i>,’ he said. ‘Not now. Not for the next few minutes.’
‘Ecstasise?’ she repeated, wondering.
‘Aren’t your shoes wet? Crossing that soaking pavement? I’m sure they
must be wet----’
And he reached down and began to wipe their soles too with his
handkerchief.
She watched him a little surprised, but still passive. This was what it
was to be young. One squandered a beautiful clean handkerchief on a
woman’s dirty shoes without thinking twice. She observed the thickness
of his hair as he bent over her shoes. She had forgotten how thick the
hair of the young could be, having now for so long only contemplated
heads that were elderly.
To him in the half darkness of the taxi she looked really exactly like
the dream, the warm, round, cosy, delicious dream lonely devils like
himself were always dreaming, forlornly hugging their pillows. And as
for her feet--he abruptly left off drying them. The next thing he felt
he would be doing would be kneeling down and kissing them, and he was
afraid she mightn’t like that, and be angry with him, and never let him
see her again.
‘You’ve spoilt your handkerchief,’ she remarked, as he put it, all
muddy, into his pocket.
‘I don’t look at it like that,’ he said, staring straight out of the
front windows, and sitting up very stiff and away in his corner because
he didn’t trust himself, and was mortally afraid of not behaving.
It was now quite evident to Christopher that he was in love, deeply in
love. He felt very happy about it, because for the first time he was, as
he put it, in love properly. All the other times had been so odious,
leaving him making such wry faces. And he had longed and longed to be in
love--properly, with somebody intelligent and educated as well as
adorable. These three: but the greatest of these was the being adorable.
Out of the corners of his eyes he stole a glance at her. She didn’t look
tired any more. What ideal things these dark taxis were, if only the
other person happened to be in love as well. Would she ever be? Would
she ever be again, or was all that buried with that scoundrel George?
She had been fond of George; she had called him poor darling; but then
one easily called the dead poor darlings, and grew fond of them in
proportion as the time grew long since they had left off being alive and
obstructive.
‘Where do you want me to drop you?’ she asked.
‘We’ve passed it,’ he said. ‘At least, he hasn’t gone anywhere near it.
I live in Wyndham Place. I’ll see you safely home and then take him on.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to let me pay my
share.’
‘And I say,’ he went on quickly, waving whatever she was doing with her
purse impatiently aside, for by now they were careering across Berkeley
Square and he knew the time was short, ‘you haven’t said if I may come
and see you. I would like so frightfully to come and see you. There are
such a lot of things I want to say--I mean, hear you say. And we do
nothing but talk about that infernal <i>Immortal Hour</i>.’
‘What? Why, I thought you loved it.’
‘Of course I love it, but it isn’t everything. And we’ve given it a
fairly good innings, haven’t we. Do let me come and see you. I
shall’--he was going to say ‘die if you don’t,’ but he was afraid that
might put her off, though he’d be hanged, he said to himself, if it
wasn’t very likely perfectly true, so he quickly substituted ‘I shall be
in London all next Sunday.’
They were at the bottom of Hertford Street. They were rushing along it.
Even while he was speaking they were there at 90<small>A</small>. With a grinding of
the brakes the taxi pulled up,--a violent taxi, the most violent he had
ever met; and he might just as easily have had the luck to get one of
those slow, cautious ancient ones, driven by bearded patriarchs who
always came to his call when he had to catch a train or was late for a
dinner, and always at every cross street drew back with an old-world
courtesy and encouraged even horse-traffic to pass along first.
‘May I come next Sunday?’ he asked, obliged to lean across her and open
the door, because she was preparing, as he didn’t move and merely sat
there, to open it herself. ‘No--don’t get out,’ he said quickly, as she
showed signs of going to. ‘It’s no use standing in the wet. Wait here
while I go and ring----’
‘But look--I have a latchkey,’ she said. ‘Besides, the night porter is
there.’
The night porter was; and hearing a taxi stop he opened the door at that
moment.
‘And about Sunday?’ asked Christopher, with a desperate persistence, as
he helped her out.
‘Yes--do come and see me,’ she said, smiling up at him her friendly, her
adorable smile; and his spirits leapt up to heaven. ‘Only not this
Sunday,’ she added; and his spirits banged down to earth.
‘Why not this Sunday?’ he asked. ‘I shall be free the whole day.’
‘Yes, but I won’t,’ she said, laughing, for he amused her. ‘At least, I
feel sure there is something----’
She knitted her brows, trying to remember. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘Stephen.
I’ve promised to go out with him.’
‘Stephen?’
His heart stood still. George was settled, completely, felicitously, and
now here was Stephen.
Then, just as the door was going to shut on her, leaving him out there
alone, a warm and comforting light flooded his understanding: Stephen
was her son; her little son, her only little son. Hateful as it was to
reflect upon--really marriage was most horrible--George had perpetuated
himself, and this delicate small thing, this exquisite soft little
creature, had been the vehicle for his idiotic wish to carry on his
silly name.
‘I suppose,’ he said, detaining her, his hat still in his hand, the rain
falling on his bare head, the porter holding the door open and looking
on, ‘you’re taking him to the Zoo?’
He could think of no place so likely as the Zoo on Sunday for Stephen,
and to the Zoo he also would go, and have a look at those jolly little
monkeys again.
‘The Zoo?’ she repeated, puzzled.
Then she began to laugh. ‘I wonder,’ she said, her face brimming over
with laughter, ‘why you think Stephen wants to be taken to the Zoo. Poor
darling’--another poor darling, and this time a live one--‘why, he’s as
old as I am.’
As old as she was. Stephen.
She waved her hand. ‘Come some other Sunday,’ she called out as the door
shut.
He stood for a moment staring at it. Then he turned away slowly, putting
his hat on as he went down the steps, and he was walking away through
the rain lost in the most painful thought, mechanically heading for
home, when the taxi-driver, realising with amazed indignation what his
fare was doing, jerked him back to his obligations by vigorously and
rudely shouting ‘Hi!’