1
One morning a very young cherry-tree that Mary herself had planted in
the garden was doing the most delightful things—it was pushing out
leaves and tight pink buds along the whole length of its childish
branches. Stephen made a note of it in her diary: ‘Today Mary’s
cherry-tree started to blossom.’ This is why she never forgot the date
on which she received Martin Hallam’s letter.
The letter had been redirected from Morton; she recognized Puddle’s
scholastic handwriting. And the other writing—large, rather untidy, but
with strong black down-strokes and firmly crossed T’s—she stared at it
thoughtfully, puckering her brows. Surely that writing, too, was
familiar? Then she noticed a Paris postmark in the corner—that was
strange. She tore open the envelope.
Martin wrote very simply: ‘Stephen, my dear. After all these years I am
sending you a letter, just in case you have not completely forgotten the
existence of a man called Martin Hallam.
‘I’ve been in Paris for the past two months. I had to come across to
have my eye seen to; I stopped a bullet with my head here in France—it
affected the optic nerve rather badly. But the point is: if I fly over
to England as I’m thinking of doing, may I come and see you? I’m a very
poor hand at expressing myself—can’t do it at all when I put pen to
paper—in addition to which I’m feeling nervous because you’ve become
such a wonderful writer. But I do want to try and make you understand
how desperately I’ve regretted our friendship—that perfect early
friendship of ours seems to me now a thing well worth regretting.
Believe me or not, I’ve thought of it for years; and the fault was all
mine for not understanding. I was just an ignorant cub in those days.
Well, anyhow, please will you see me, Stephen? I’m a lonely sort of
fellow, so if you’re kind-hearted you’ll invite me to motor down to
Morton, supposing you’re there; and then if you like me, we’ll take up
our friendship just where it left off. We’ll pretend that we’re very
young again, walking over the hills and jawing about life. Lord, what
splendid companions we were in those early days—like a couple of
brothers!
‘Do you think it’s queer that I’m writing all this? It does seem queer,
yet I’d have written it before if I’d ever come over to stay in England;
but except when I rushed across to join up, I’ve pretty well stuck to
British Columbia. I don’t even know exactly where you are, for I’ve not
met a soul who knows you for ages. I heard of your father’s death of
course, and was terribly sorry—beyond that I’ve heard nothing; still, I
fancy I’m quite safe in sending this to Morton.
‘I’m staying with my aunt, the Comtesse de Mirac; she’s English, twice
married and once more a widow. She’s been a perfect angel to me. I’ve
been staying with her ever since I came to Paris. Well, my dear, if
you’ve forgiven my mistake—and please say you have, we were both very
young—then write to me at Aunt Sarah’s address, and if you write don’t
forget to put “Passy.” The posts are so erratic in France, and I’d hate
to think that they’d lost your letter. Your very sincere friend, Martin
Hallam.’
Stephen glanced through the window. Mary was in the garden still
admiring her brave little cherry-tree; in a minute or two she would feed
the pigeons—yes, she was starting to cross the lawn to the shed in
which she kept pigeon-mixture—but presently she would be coming in.
Stephen sat down and began to think quickly.
Martin Hallam—he must be about thirty-nine. He had fought in the war
and been badly wounded—she had thought of him during that terrible
advance, the smitten trees had been a reminder. . . . He must often have
been very near her then; he was very near now, just out at Passy, and he
wanted to see her; he offered his friendship.
She closed her eyes the better to consider, but now her mind must
conjure up pictures. A very young man at the Antrims’ dance—oh, but
very young—with a bony face that glowed when he talked of the beauty of
trees, of their goodness . . . a tall, loose-limbed young man who
slouched when he walked, as though from much riding. The hills . . .
winter hills rust-coloured by bracken . . . Martin touching the ancient
thorns with kind fingers. ‘Look, Stephen—the courage of these old
fellows!’ How clearly she remembered his actual words after all these
years, and her own she remembered: ‘You’re the only real friend I’ve
ever had except Father—our friendship’s so wonderful somehow. . . .’
And his answer: ‘I know, a wonderful friendship.’ A great sense of
companionship, of comfort—it had been so good to have him beside her;
she had liked his quiet and careful voice, and his thoughtful blue eyes
that moved rather slowly. He had filled a real need that had always been
hers and still was, a need for the friendship of men—how very
completely Martin had filled it, until. . . . But she resolutely closed
her mind, refusing to visualize that last picture. He knew now that it
had been a ghastly mistake—he understood—he practically said so. Could
they take up their friendship where they had left it? If only they could
. . .
She got up abruptly and went to the telephone on her desk. Glancing at
his letter, she rang up a number.
‘Hallo-yes?’
She recognized his voice at once.
‘Is that you, Martin? It’s Stephen speaking.’
‘Stephen . . . oh, I’m so glad! But where on earth are you?’
‘At my house in Paris—35, Rue Jacob.’
‘But I don’t understand, I thought . . .’
‘Yes, I know, but I’ve lived here for ages—since before the war. I’ve
just got your letter, sent back from England. Funny, isn’t it? Why not
come to dinner to-night if you’re free—eight o’clock.’
‘I say! May I really?’
‘Of course . . . come and dine with my friend and me.’
‘What number?’
‘Thirty-five—35, Rue Jacob.’
‘I’ll be there on the actual stroke of eight!’
‘That’s right—good-bye, Martin.’
‘Good-bye, and thanks, Stephen.’
She hung up the receiver and opened the window.
Mary saw her and called: ‘Stephen, please speak to David. He’s just
bitten off and swallowed a crocus! Oh, and do come here: the scyllas are
out, I never saw anything like their blueness. I think I shall go and
fetch my birds, it’s quite warm in the sun over there by the wall.
David, stop it; _will_ you get off that border!’
David wagged a bald but ingratiating tail. Then he thrust out his nose
and sniffed at the pigeons. Oh, hang it all, why should the coming of
spring be just one colossal smell of temptation! And why was there
nothing really exciting that a spaniel might do and yet remain lawful?
Sighing, he turned amber eyes of entreaty first on Stephen, and then on
his goddess, Mary.
She forgave him the crocus and patted his head. ‘Darling, you get more
than a pound of raw meat for your dinner; you mustn’t be so untruthful.
Of course you’re not hungry—it was just pure mischief.’
He barked, trying desperately hard to explain. ‘It’s the spring; it’s
got into my blood, oh, Goddess! Oh, Gentle Purveyor of all Good Things,
let me dig till I’ve rooted up every damned crocus; just this once let
me sin for the joy of life, for the ancient and exquisite joy of
sinning!’
But Mary shook her head. ‘You must be a nice dog; and nice dogs never
look at white fantail pigeons, or walk on the borders, or bite off the
flowers—do they, Stephen?’
Stephen smiled. ‘I’m afraid they don’t, David.’ Then she said: ‘Mary,
listen—about this evening. I’ve just heard from a very old friend of
mine, a man called Hallam that I knew in England. He’s in Paris; it’s
too queer. He wrote to Morton and his letter has been sent back by
Puddle. I’ve rung him up, and he’s coming to dinner. Better tell Pauline
at once, will you, darling?’
But Mary must naturally ask a few questions. What was he like? Where had
Stephen known him?—she had never mentioned a man called Hallam—where
had she known him, in London or at Morton?
And finally: ‘How old were you when you knew him?’
‘Let me think—I must have been just eighteen.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Twenty-two—very young—I only knew him for quite a short time; after
that he went back to British Columbia. But I liked him so much—we were
very great friends—so I’m hoping that you’re going to like him too,
darling.’
‘Stephen, you are strange. Why haven’t you told me that you once had a
very great friend—a man? I’ve always thought that you didn’t like men.’
‘On the contrary, I like them very much. But I haven’t seen Martin for
years and years. I’ve hardly ever thought about him until I got his
letter this morning. Now, sweetheart, we don’t want the poor man to
starve—you really must go off and try to find Pauline.’
When she had gone Stephen rubbed her chin with thoughtful and rather
uncertain fingers.
2
He came. Amazing how little he had changed. He was just the same
clean-shaven, bony-faced Martin, with the slow blue eyes and the
charming expression, and the loose-limbed figure that slouched from much
riding; only now there were a few faint lines round his eyes, and the
hair had gone snow-white on his temples. Just beside the right temple
was a deep little scar—it must have been a near thing, that bullet.
He said: ‘My dear, it is good to see you.’ And he held Stephen’s hand in
his own thin brown ones.
She felt the warm, friendly grip of his fingers, and the years dropped
away. ‘I’m so glad you wrote, Martin.’
‘So am I. I can’t tell you how glad I am. And all the time we were both
in Paris, and we never knew. Well, now that I’ve found you, we’ll cling
like grim death, if you don’t mind, Stephen.’
As Mary came into the room they were laughing.
She looked less tired, Stephen thought with satisfaction, or perhaps it
was that her dress became her—she was always at her best in the
evening.
Stephen said quite simply: ‘This is Martin, Mary.’
They shook hands, and as they did so they smiled. Then they stared at
each other for a moment, almost gravely.
He proved to be wonderfully easy to talk to. He did not seem surprised
that Mary Llewellyn was installed as the mistress of Stephen’s home; he
just accepted the thing as he found it. Yet he let it be tacitly
understood that he had grasped the exact situation.
After dinner Stephen inquired about his sight: was it badly injured? His
eyes looked so normal. Then he told them the history of the trouble at
full length, going into details with the confidence displayed by most
children and lonely people.
He had got his knock-out in 1918. The bullet had grazed the optic nerve.
At first he had gone to a base hospital, but as soon as he could he had
come to Paris to be treated by a very celebrated man. He had been in
danger of losing the sight of the right eye; it had scared him to death,
he told them. But after three months he had had to go home; things had
gone wrong on some of his farms owing to the mismanagement of a bailiff.
The oculist had warned him that the trouble might recur, that he ought
to have remained under observation. Well, it had recurred about four
months ago. He had got the wind up and rushed back to Paris. For three
weeks he had lain in a darkened room, not daring to think of the
possible verdict. Eyes were so tiresomely sympathetic: if the one went
the other might easily follow. But, thank God, it had proved to be less
serious than the oculist had feared. His sight was saved, but he had to
go slow, and was still under treatment. The eye would have to be watched
for some time; so here he was with Aunt Sarah at Passy.
‘You must see my Aunt Sarah, you two; she’s a darling. She’s my father’s
sister. I know you’ll like her. She’s become very French since her
second marriage, a little too Faubourg St. Germain perhaps, but so
kind—I want you to meet her at once. She’s quite a well-known hostess
at Passy.’
They talked on until well after twelve o’clock—very happy they were
together that evening, and he left with a promise to ring them up on the
following morning about lunch with Aunt Sarah.
‘Well,’ said Stephen, ‘what do you think of my friend?’
‘I think he’s most awfully nice,’ said Mary.
3
Aunt Sarah lived in the palatial house that a grateful second husband
had left her. For years she had borne with his peccadilloes, keeping her
temper and making no scandal. The result was that everything he
possessed apart from what had gone to her stepson—and the Comte de
Mirac had been very wealthy—had found its way to the patient Aunt
Sarah. She was one of those survivals who look upon men as a race of
especially privileged beings. Her judgment of women was more severe,
influenced no doubt by the ancien régime, for now she was even more
French than the French whose language she spoke like a born Parisian.
She was sixty-five, tall, had an aquiline nose, and her iron-grey hair
was dressed to perfection; for the rest she had Martin’s slow blue eyes
and thin face, though she lacked his charming expression. She bred
Japanese spaniels, was kind to young girls who conformed in all things
to the will of their parents, was particularly gracious to good-looking
men, and adored her only surviving nephew. In her opinion he could do no
wrong, though she wished that he would settle down in Paris. As Stephen
and Mary were her nephew’s friends, she was predisposed to consider them
charming, the more so as the former’s antecedents left little or nothing
to be desired, and her parents had shown great kindness to Martin. He
had told his aunt just what he wished her to know and not one word more
about the old days at Morton. She was therefore quite unprepared for
Stephen.
Aunt Sarah was a very courteous old dame, and those who broke bread at
her table were sacred, at all events while they remained her guests. But
Stephen was miserably telepathic, and before the déjeuner was half-way
through, she was conscious of the deep antagonism that she had aroused
in Martin’s Aunt Sarah. Not by so much as a word or a look did the
Comtesse de Mirac betray her feelings; she was gravely polite, she
discussed literature as being a supposedly congenial subject, she
praised Stephen’s books, and asked no questions as to why she was living
apart from her mother. Martin could have sworn that these two would be
friends—but good manners could not any more deceive Stephen.
And true it was that the Comtesse de Mirac saw in Stephen the type that
she most mistrusted, saw only an unsexed creature of pose, whose cropped
head and whose dress were pure affectation; a creature who aping the
prerogatives of men, had lost all the charm and the grace of a woman. An
intelligent person in nearly all else, the Comtesse would never have
admitted of inversion as a fact in nature. She had heard things
whispered, it is true, but had scarcely grasped their full meaning. She
was innocent and stubborn; and this being so, it was not Stephen’s
morals that she suspected, but her obvious desire to ape what she was
not—in the Comtesse’s set, as at county dinners, there was firm
insistence upon sex-distinction.
On the other hand, she took a great fancy to Mary, whom she quickly
discovered to be an orphan. In a very short time she had learnt quite a
lot about Mary’s life before the war and about her meeting with Stephen
in the Unit; had learnt also that she was quite penniless—since Mary
was eager that every one should know that she owed her prosperity
entirely to Stephen.
Aunt Sarah secretly pitied the girl who must surely be living a dull
existence, bound, no doubt, by a false sense of gratitude to this
freakish and masterful-looking woman—pretty girls should find husbands
and homes of their own, and this one she considered excessively pretty.
Thus it was that while Mary in all loyalty and love was doing her best
to extol Stephen’s virtues, to convey an impression of her own
happiness, of the privilege it was to serve so great a writer by caring
for her house and her personal needs, she was only succeeding in getting
herself pitied. But as good luck would have it, she was blissfully
unconscious of the sympathy that her words were arousing; indeed she was
finding it very pleasant at Aunt Sarah’s hospitable house in Passy.
As for Martin, he had never been very subtle, and just now he must
rejoice in a long-lost friendship—to him it appeared a delightful
luncheon. Even after the guests had said good-bye, he remained in the
very highest of spirits, for the Comtesse was capable of unexpected
tact, and while praising Mary’s prettiness and charm, she was careful in
no way to disparage Stephen.
‘Oh, yes, undoubtedly a brilliant writer, I agree with you, Martin.’ And
so she did. But books were one thing and their scribes another; she saw
no reason to change her opinion with regard to this author’s unpleasant
affectation, while she saw every reason to be tactful with her nephew.
4
On the drive home Mary held Stephen’s hand. ‘I enjoyed myself awfully,
didn’t you? Only—’ and she frowned; ‘only will it last? I mean, we
mustn’t forget Lady Massey. But he’s so nice, and I liked the old aunt
. . .’
Stephen said firmly: ‘Of course it will last.’ Then she lied. ‘I enjoyed
it very much too.’
And even as she lied she came to a resolve which seemed so strange that
she flinched a little, for never before since they had been lovers, had
she thought of this girl as apart from herself. Yet now she resolved
that Mary should go to Passy again—but should go without her. Sitting
back in the car she half closed her eyes; just at that moment she did
not want to speak lest her voice should betray that flinching to Mary.