Till the following Friday his week was harassed. It was wonderful to be
in love, to have found her, but it would have been still more wonderful
if he had known a little more about her. He wanted to be able to think
of her and follow her through each minute of the day,--picture her, see
her in his mind’s eye doing this and doing that, going here and going
there; and there was nothing but a blank.
They were such strangers. Only, of course, strangers on the lower level
of everyday circumstances. On the higher level, the starry level of
splendid, unreasoning love, he had, as he told her, always known her.
But to know her on that level and not on any other was awkward. It cut
him off so completely. He couldn’t think what to do next.
Once, before he met her, in those dark days when he was still a fool and
reasoned, he had remarked to Lewes that he thought it a pity and liable
to lead to disappointment that love should begin, as it apparently did
begin, suddenly, at the top of emotion. There ought, he said, to be a
gradual development in acquaintanceship, a steady unfolding of knowledge
of each other, a preparatory and of course extremely agreeable
crescendo, leading up to the august passion itself. As it was, ignorant
of everything really about the woman except what she looked and sounded
like, why--there you were. It was bad, finished Christopher, aloofly
considering the faulty arrangements of nature, to start with
infatuation, because you couldn’t possibly do anything after that but
cool off.
Now, remembering this when he couldn’t sleep one night, he laughed
himself to scorn for a prig and an idiot. That’s all one knew about it
when one wasn’t in love oneself. Love gave one a sixth sense. It
instantly apprehended. The symbol of the sweet outer aspect of the loved
one was before one’s eyes; from it one was aware of her inward and
spiritual grace. The beloved looked so and so; therefore she was so and
so. Love knew. But, on a lower level, on the level of mere convenience,
it would be better, he admitted, to have had some preliminary
acquaintance. He worshipped Catherine, and they were strangers. This was
awkward. It cut him off. He didn’t know what to do next.
‘<i>I must see you</i>,’ he wrote, after three evenings at <i>The Immortal
Hour</i> by himself. ‘<i>When can I?</i>’
And he sent the note with some roses,--those delicate pale roses in bud
that come out so exquisitely in a warm atmosphere. They reminded him of
her. They too were symbols, he said to himself, symbols of what would
happen to her also if only she would let him be her atmosphere, her
warmth; and though these roses were very expensive--ever so much for
each bud--he sent three dozen, a real bunch of them, rejoicing in the
extravagance, in doing something for her that he couldn’t really afford.
She wrote back: ‘<i>But you are coming to tea on Sunday. Didn’t we say you
were? Your roses are quite beautiful. Thank you so very, very much.</i>’
And when he saw the letter, her first letter, the first bit of her
handwriting, by his plate at breakfast, he seized it so quickly and
turned so red that Lewes was painfully clear as to who had written it.
<i>Poor Chris. Cumfrit. Clutches.</i> ...
So he wasn’t to see her till the next Sunday. Well, this state of things
couldn’t be allowed to go on. It was simply too starkly ridiculous. He
must get on quicker next time; manage somehow to explain, to put things
on their right footing. What the things were, and what the right footing
was, he was far too much perturbed to consider.
Of course he had gone to St. Paul’s on the Sunday after his visit, but
he had not seen her. He might as easily have hoped to find the smallest
of needles in the biggest of haystacks as Catherine at that evening
service, with the lights glaring in one’s eyes, and rows and rows of
dark figures, all apparently exactly alike, stretching away into space.
Stephen he had seen, and also heard, and had dismissed him at once from
his mind as one about whom he needn’t worry. No wonder she had laughed
when he asked if she were going to marry him. Marry Stephen? Good God.
The same age as she was, indeed! Why, he was old enough to be her
father. Standing up in the pulpit he looked like a hawk, a dry hawk.
What he said, after the first sentence, Christopher didn’t know, because
of how earnestly he was still searching for Catherine; but his name, he
saw on the service paper a sidesman thrust into his hand, was
Colquhoun,--the Rev. Stephen Colquhoun, Rector of Chickover with Barton
St. Mary, wherever that might be, and he was preaching, so Christopher
gathered from the text and the first sentence, in praise of Love.
What could he know about it, thought Christopher, himself quivering with
the glorious thing,--what could he know, that hawk up there, that
middle-aged bone? As well might they put up some congealed spinster to
explain to a congregation of mothers the emotions of parenthood. And he
thought no more about Stephen. He no longer wanted him stoned. It would
be waste of stones.
Of Ned that week he did sometimes think, because although Ned was
manifestly a worm he was also equally manifestly a rich worm, and might
as such dare to pester Catherine with his glistening attentions. But he
felt too confident in Catherine’s beautiful nature to be afraid of Ned.
Catherine, who loved beauty, who was so much moved by it--witness her
rapt face at <i>The Immortal Hour</i>--would never listen to blandishments
from anyone with Ned’s nose. Besides, Ned was elderly. In spite of the
fur rug up to his chin, Christopher had seen that all right. He was an
elderly, puffy man. Elderliness and love! He grinned to himself. If only
the elderly could see themselves....
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday he went to <i>The Immortal Hour</i>, and sat
and wilted because she wasn’t there. Thursday morning he sent her the
roses. Friday morning he got her letter, and spent several hours when he
ought to have been working in assuring himself that this couldn’t go on,
this being separated, this having to wait two more whole days and a
half, and then perhaps call there only to find ossifications like the
Fanshawes calling there too, and turgescences like Ned, and that
callosity Stephen.
At lunch-time on Friday he telephoned to her, and held his breath while
he waited, for fear she should be out.
No--there was her voice, her heavenly little coo. ‘Oh, my <i>darling</i>!’ he
was within an ace of crying down the thing in his relief. Only just did
he manage not to, and as it took him a moment to gulp the word back
again she repeated with gentle inquiry--what a perfect telephone
voice--‘Yes--who is it?’
‘It’s me. Chris. Look here----’
‘Who?’
‘Chris. Oh, you know. You said you’d call me Chris. Christopher, then.
Monckton. Look here, I wish you’d come and dine, will you? To-night?
There’s an awfully jolly little restaurant--what? You can’t? Oh, but you
<i>must</i>. Why can’t you? What? I can’t hear if you laugh. You’re not going
to that thing <i>again</i>? Why, what nonsense. It’s becoming an obsession.
We’ll go to it to-morrow night. Why didn’t you go last night? And the
night before? No--I want to talk. No--we can’t talk there. No, we <i>must</i>
talk. No it isn’t--not at all the same thing. I’ll come and fetch you at
half-past seven. Yes but you <i>must</i>. I think I’d better be at your place
at seven. You’ll be ready, won’t you? Yes I know--but that can wait till
to-morrow night. All right then--seven. I say, it’s simply frightfully
ador--nice of you. Hullo--hullo--are you there? They tried to cut us
off. Look here--I’d better fetch you a little before seven--say a
quarter to--because the place might be crowded. And I say, look
here--hullo, hullo--don’t cut us off--oh, damn.’
The last words were addressed to deafness. He hung up the receiver, and
snatching at his hat went off to the restaurant, an amusing one that
specialised in Spanish dishes and might, he thought, interest her, to
choose and secure his table. He then went out and bought some more of
the roses she said were quite beautiful, and took them to the head
waiter, who was all intelligence, and instructed him to keep them
carefully apart in water till a quarter to seven, when they were to be
put on his table. Then he went to Wyndham Place to see if Lewes, who was
working at economics and sat indoors writing most of the day, would come
out and play squash with him, for he couldn’t go back to his office as
if it were a day like any other day, and exercise he must have,--violent
exercise, or he felt he would burst.
Lewes went. He sighed to himself as he pushed his books aside, seeing in
this break-up of his afternoon a further extension of the Cumfrit
clutches. Poor Chris. He was in the bliss-stage now, the merest glance
at his face showed it; but--Lewes, besides being a highly promising
political economist, was also attached to the poets--
Full soon his soul would have her earthly freight,
And widows lie upon him with a weight
Heavy as frost....
Alas, alas, how could he have committed such a profanity? Lewes loathed
himself. The woman, of course, goading him,--Mrs. Cumfrit. And his
feeling towards a woman who could lower him to parody a beautiful poem
became as icily hostile as Adam’s ought to have been to Eve after she
had lowered him to the eating of half the apple; instead of which the
inexperienced man was weak, and let himself be inveigled into doing that
which had ultimately produced himself, Chris, and Mrs. Cumfrit.
Adam and Chris, reflected Lewes, sadly going to the club where they
played, and not speaking a word the whole way, were alike in this that
they neither of them could do without a woman. And always, whenever
there was a woman, trouble began; sooner or later trouble began. Or, if
not actual trouble, what a deadly, what a disintegrating dulness.
Lewes knew from his friend’s face, from the way he walked, from the
sound of his voice, and presently also from the triumphant quickness and
accuracy with which he beat him at squash, that something he considered
marvellous had happened to him that day. What had the widow consented
to? Neither of them now ever mentioned her; and if he, Lewes, said the
least thing about either women or love,--and being so deep in Donne and
wanting to discuss him it was difficult not to mention these two
disturbers of a man’s peace--if ever he said the least thing about them,
his poor friend at once began talking, very loud and most unnaturally,
on subjects such as the condition of the pavement in Wyndham Place, or
the increasing number of chocolate-coloured omnibuses in the streets.
Things like that. Stupid things, about which he said more stupid things.
And he used to be so intelligent, so vivid-minded. It was calamitous.
‘Shall we go and dine somewhere together to-night, old man?’ he couldn’t
resist suggesting, as Christopher walked back with him, more effulgent
than ever after the satisfaction of his triumphant exercise, and
chatting gaily on topics that neither of them cared twopence for. Just
to see what he would say, Lewes asked him.
‘I can’t to-night,’ said Christopher, suddenly very short.
‘<i>The Immortal Hour</i> again, I suppose,’ ventured Lewes after a pause,
trying to sound airy.
‘No,’ snapped Christopher. ‘I’m dining out.’
And Lewes, silenced, resigned, and melancholy, gave up.
V
When Christopher got to Hertford Street Catherine wasn’t ready because
he was earlier than he had said he would be; but Mrs. Mitcham opened the
door, wide and welcomingly this time, and looked pleased to see him and
showed him at once into the drawing-room, saying her mistress would not
be long.
The fire had been allowed to go out, and the room was so cold that his
roses were still almost as much in bud as ever. People had been there
that afternoon, he saw; the chairs were untidy, and there were cigarette
ashes. Well, not one of them was taking her out to dinner. They might
call, but he took her out to dinner.
Directly she came in he noticed she had a different hat on. It was a
very pretty hat, much prettier than the other one. Was it possible she
had put it on for him? Yet for whom else? Absorbed in the entrancingness
of this thought he had the utmost difficulty in saying how do you do
properly. He stared very hard, and gripped her hand very tight, and for
a moment didn’t say anything. And round her shoulders was the white fox
thing he had held to his face the other day; and her little shoes--well,
he had better not look at them.
‘This is great fun,’ she said as he gripped her hand, and she
successfully hid the agony caused by her fingers and her rings being
crushed together.
‘It’s heaven,’ said Christopher.
‘No, no, that’s not nearly such fun as--just fun,’ she said, furtively
rubbing her released hand and making a note in her mind not to wear
rings next time her strong young friend was likely to say how do you do.
The pain had sent the blood flying up into her face. Christopher gazed
at her. Surely she was blushing? Surely she was no longer so
self-possessed and sure? Was it possible she was beginning to be shy? It
gave him an extraordinary happiness to think so, and she, looking at him
standing there with such a joyful face, couldn’t but catch and reflect
some at least of his light.
She laughed. It really was fun. It made her feel so young, frolicking
off like this with a great delighted boy. He was such an interesting,
unusual boy, full of such violent enthusiasms. She wished he need never
grow older. How charming to be as young and absurd as that, she thought,
laughing up at the creature. One never noticed how delightful youth was
till one’s own had finished. Well, she was going to be young for this
one evening. He treated her as if she were; did he really think it? It
was difficult to believe, yet still more difficult not to believe when
one watched his face as he said all the things he did say. How amusing,
how amusing. She had been solemn for so long, cloistered in duties for
such years; and here all of a sudden was somebody behaving as if she
were twenty. It made her <i>feel</i> twenty; feel, anyhow, of his own age.
What fun. For one evening....
She laughed gaily. (No, he thought, she wasn’t shy. She was as secure as
ever, and as sure of her little darling self. He must have dreamed that
blush.) ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t been to a
restaurant for ages. Though I’m not sure we wouldn’t have been happier
at <i>The Immortal Hour</i>.’
‘I am,’ said Christopher. ‘Quite sure. Don’t you know we’ve got
marvellous things to say to each other?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said, ‘but I daresay some may come into my head as we go
along. Shall we start? Help me into my coat.’
‘What a jolly thing,’ he said, wrapping her in it with joyful care. He
knew nothing about women’s clothes, but he did feel that this was
wonderful--so soft, so light, and yet altogether made of fur.
‘It’s a relic,’ she said, ‘of past splendour. I used to be well off. Up
to quite a little while ago. And things like this have lapped over.’
‘I want to know all about everything,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell you anything you ask,’ she answered. ‘But you must promise to
like it,’ she added, smiling.
‘Why? Why shouldn’t I like it?’ he asked quickly, his face changing.
‘You’re not--you’re not going to be married?’
‘Oh--don’t be silly. There. I’m ready. Shall we go down?’
‘I suppose you insist on walking down?’
‘We can go in the lift if you like,’ she said, pausing surprised, ‘but
it’s only one floor.’
‘I want to carry you.’
‘Oh--don’t be <i>silly</i>,’ she said again, this time with a faint
impatience. The evening wouldn’t be at all amusing if he were going to
be silly, seriously silly. And if he began already might he not grow
worse? George, she remembered, used to be quite different after dinner
from what he was before dinner. Always kind, after dinner he became
more than kind. But he was her husband. One bore it. She had no wish for
more than kindness from anybody else. Besides, whatever one might
pretend for a moment, one <i>wasn’t</i> twenty, and one naturally didn’t want
to be ridiculous.
She walked out of the flat thoughtfully. Perhaps she had better begin
nipping his effusiveness in the bud a little harder, whenever it cropped
up. She had nipped, but evidently not hard enough. Perhaps the simplest
way--and indeed all his buds would be then nipped for ever at
once--would be to tell him at dinner about Virginia. If seeing her as he
had now done in full daylight hadn’t removed his misconceptions, being
told about Virginia certainly would. Only--she hadn’t wanted to yet; she
had wanted for this one evening to enjoy the queer, sweet, forgotten
feeling of being young again, of being supposed to be young; which
really, if one felt as young as she quite often very nearly did,
amounted to the same thing.
‘You’re not angry with me?’ he said, catching her up, having been
delayed on the stairs by Mrs. Mitcham who had pursued him with his
forgotten coat.
She smiled. ‘No, of course not,’ she said; and for a moment she forgot
his misconceptions, and patted his arm reassuringly, because he looked
so anxious. ‘You’re giving me a lovely treat. We’re going to enjoy our
evening thoroughly,’ she said.
‘And what are you giving <i>me</i>?’ he said--how adorable of her to pat him;
and yet, and yet--if she had been shy she wouldn’t have. ‘Aren’t you
giving me the happiest evening of my whole life?’
‘Oh,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘we mustn’t talk on different levels.
When I say something ordinary you mustn’t answer’--she laughed--‘with a
shout. If you do, the conversation will be trying.’
‘But how can I help what you call shouting when I’m with you at last,
after having starved, starved----’
‘Oh,’ she interrupted quickly, putting her hands up to her ears, ‘you
wouldn’t like it, would you, if I went deaf?’
He must go slower. He knew he must. But how go slower? He must hold on
to himself tightly. But how? How? And in another minute they would be
shut up close and alone in one of those infernal taxis.... Perhaps they
had better go by tube; yet that seemed a poor way of taking a woman out
to dinner. No, he couldn’t possibly do that. Better risk the taxi, and
practise self-control.
‘You know,’ she said when they were in it,--fortunately it was a very
fast one and would soon get there--‘only a few days ago you used to sit
at <i>The Immortal Hour</i> all quiet and good, and never say anything except
intelligent things about Celts. Now you don’t mention Celts, and don’t
seem a bit really intelligent. What has happened to you?’
‘You have,’ he said.
‘That can’t be true,’ she reasoned, ‘for I haven’t seen you for nearly a
week.’
‘That’s why,’ he said. ‘But look here, I don’t want to say things
that’ll make you stop your ears up again, and I certainly shall if we
don’t talk about something quite--neutral.’
‘Well, let’s. What is neutral enough?’ she smiled.
‘I don’t believe there’s anything,’ he said, thinking a moment. ‘There’s
nothing that wouldn’t lead me back instantly to you. There’s nothing in
the whole world that doesn’t make me think of you. Why, just the paving
stones--you walked on them. Just the shop-windows--Catherine has looked
into these. Just the streets--she has passed this way. Now don’t, don’t
stop up your ears--please don’t. Do listen. You see, you fill the
world--oh <i>don’t</i> put your fingers in your ears----’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said. ‘I was only just thinking that I believe
I’m going to have a headache.’
‘A headache?’
‘One of my headaches.’
‘Oh no--not really?’
He was aghast.
‘You’ll be all right when you’ve had some food,’ he said. ‘Are they bad?
Do you get bad ones?’
‘Perhaps if we don’t talk for a little while----’ she murmured,
shutting her eyes.
He went as dumb as a fish. His evening ... it would be too awful if it
were spoiled, if she had to go home....
She sat in her corner, her eyes tight shut.
He sat stiff in his, as if the least movement might shake the taxi and
make her worse, stealing anxious looks at her from time to time.
She didn’t speak again, nor did he.
In this way they reached the restaurant, and as he helped her out, his
alarmed eyes on her face, she smiled faintly at him and said she thought
it was going to be all right. And to herself she said, ‘At dinner I’ll
tell him about Virginia.’