YOUNG LOVE
Roland said nothing to his people of Mr Marston's conversation with
Gerald. He disliked scenes and an atmosphere of expectation. When
everything was settled finally he would tell them, but he would not risk
the exposure of his hope to the chill of disappointment. He could not,
however, resist the temptation to confide in April. She was young; she
could share his failures as his successes. Life was before them both.
No sooner had he turned the corner of the road than he saw the door of
the Curtises' house open. April was in the porch waiting for him. "She
must have been looking for me," he thought. "Sitting in the window-seat,
hoping that I should come." His pride as well as his affection was
touched by this clear proof of her interest in him.
"Well?" she said.
"I made a duck," he answered; and his vanity noted that her brown eyes
clouded suddenly with disappointment. "But that was only in the first
innings," he added.
"Oh, you pig!" she said, "and I thought that after all it had come to
nothing."
Roland laughed at the quick change to relief.
"But how do you know that I did do anything in the second innings?"
"You must have."
"But why?"
"'Cos--oh, I don't know. It's not fair to tease me, Roland; tell me what
happened." They had passed into the hall, shutting the door behind them,
and she pulled impatiently at his sleeve: "Come on, tell me."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I made forty-eight not out."
"Oh, how ripping, how ripping! Come and tell me all about it," and
catching him by the hand she led him to the window-seat, from which,
on that miserable afternoon, she had gazed for over an hour down the
darkening street. "Come on, tell me everything."
And though he at first endeavoured to assume an attitude of superior
indifference, he soon found himself telling the story of the match
eagerly, dramatically. Reticence was well enough in the presence of
the old and middle-aged--parents, relatives and schoolmasters--for all
those who had put behind them the thrill of wakening confidence and were
prepared to patronise it in others, from whose scrutiny the young had to
protect their emotions with the shield of "it is no matter." But April's
enthusiasm was fresh, unquestioning and freely given; he could not but
respond to it.
She listened to the story with alert, admiring eyes. "And were they
awfully pleased with you?" she said when he had finished.
"Well, it was pretty exciting."
"And did Mr Marston say anything to you?"
"Rather! Quite a lot. He was more excited than anyone."
"Oh, yes, but I didn't mean the cricket. Did he say anything about the
business?"
Roland nodded.
"Oh, but, Roland, what?"
"Well, I'm not quite certain what, but I think he's going to let me have
a shot at some sort of foreign representative affair."
"But, how splendid!" She felt that she shared, in a measure, in his
success. It was in her that he had confided his hopes; it was to her
that he had brought the news of his good fortune. Her face was flushed
and eager, its expression softened by her faith in him. And Roland who,
up till then, had regarded her as little more than a friend, her charm
as a delicate, elusive fragrance, was unprepared for this simple joy in
his achievement. The surprise placed in his mouth ardent, unconsidered
words.
"But I shouldn't have been able to do anything without you," he said.
"What do you mean?" she asked, feeling herself grow nervous, taut,
expectant.
"You encouraged me when I was depressed," he said. "You believed in
me. You told me that things would come right. And because of your
belief they have come right. If it hadn't been for you I shouldn't have
worried; I should have resigned myself to the bank. As likely as not I
shouldn't have gone down to the Marstons' at all. It's all you."
There was a pause. And when at last she spoke, the intonation of her
voice was tender.
"Is that true, Roland, really true?"
And as she looked at him, with her clear brown eyes, he believed
implicitly that it was true. He was not play-acting. His whole being
was softened and made tender by her beauty, by the sight of her calm,
oval face and quiet colour, her hair swept in a wide curve across her
forehead, gathered under the smooth skin of her neck. His manhood grew
strong through her belief in him. She was the key that would open for
him the gate of adventure. He leant forward, took her hands in his, and
the touch of her fingers brought to his lips an immediate avowal.
"It's quite true, April, every word of it. I shouldn't have done
anything but for you." Her brown eyes clouded with a mute gratitude.
Gently he drew her by the hand towards him, and she made no effort to
resist him. "April," he murmured, "April."
It was the first real kiss of his life. His mouth did not meet hers
as it had met Dolly's, in a hungry fierceness; he did not hold her in
his arms as he had held Dolly; did not press her to him till she was
forced, as Dolly had, to fling her head back and gasp for breath. For
an instant April's cheek was against his and his mouth touched hers:
nothing more. But in that cool contact of her lips he found for the
first time the romance, poetry, ecstasy, what you will, of love. And
when his arms released her and she leant back, her hand in his, a deep
tenderness remained with them. He said nothing. There was no need for
words. They sat silent in face of the mystery they had discovered.
Roland walked home in harmony with himself, with nature; one with
the rhythm of life that was made manifest in the changing seasons of
the year; the green leaf and the bud; the flower and the fruit; the
warm days of harvesting. Hammerton was stretched languid beneath the
September sunshine. The sky was blue, a pale blue, that whitened where
it was cut by the sharp outline of roof and chimney-stack. The leaves
that had been fresh and green in May, but had grown dull in the heat and
dust of summer, were once more beautiful. The dirty green had changed
to a shrivelled, metallic copper. A few mornings of golden mist would
break into a day of sultry splendour; then would come the first warning
of frost--the chill air at sundown, the grey dawn that held no promise
of sunshine. Oh, soon enough the boughs would be leafless, the streets
bare and wintersome. But who could be sad on this day of suspended
decadence, this afternoon laden with the heavy autumn scents. Were not
the year's decay, the lengthening evenings, part of the eternal law
of nature--birth and death, spring and winter, and an awakening after
sleep? The falling leaves suggested to him no analogy with the elusive
enchantments of the senses.
Two days later he received a letter from Mr Marston offering him a post
of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, with all expenses found.
"You will understand, of course," the letter ran, "that at present you
are on probation. Our work is personal and requires special gifts. These
gifts, however, I believe you to possess. For both our sakes I hope
that you will make a success of this. Gerald is sailing for Brussels
at the end of October, and I expect that you will be able to arrange to
accompany him. He will tell you what you will need to take out with you.
We usually make our representative an allowance of fifteen pounds for
personal expenses, but I daresay that we could in your case, if it is
necessary, increase this sum."
Roland handed the letter to his father.
Mr Whately, as usual in the morning, was in a state of nervous
excitement. He was always a considerable trial to his family at
breakfast. And as often as possible Roland delayed his own appearance
till he had heard the slam of the front door. It is not easy to enjoy a
meal when someone is bouncing from table to sideboard, reading extracts
from the morning paper, opening letters, running up and down stairs,
forgetting things in the hall. Mr Whately had never been able to face
the first hour of the morning with dignity and composure. When Roland
handed him Mr Marston's letter he received it with the impatience of a
busy man, who objects to being worried by an absurd trifle.
"Yes, what is it? What is it?"
"A letter from Mr Marston, father, that I thought you might like to
read."
"Oh, yes, of course; well, wait a minute," and he projected himself out
of the door and up the stairs. He returned within a minute, panting and
flustered.
"Yes; now what's the time? Twenty-five past eight. I've got seven
minutes. Where's this letter of yours, Roland? Let me see."
He picked up the letter and began to read it as he helped himself to
another rasher of bacon. His agitation increased as he read.
"But I don't understand," he said impatiently. "What's all this about Mr
Marston offering you a post in his business?"
"What's that, dear?" said Mrs Whately quickly. "Isn't Roland going into
the bank after all?"
"Yes, of course he is going into the bank," her husband replied hastily.
"It's all settled. Don't interrupt me, Roland. I can't understand what
you've been doing!"
And he flung the back of his hand against his forehead, a favourite
gesture when the pressure of the conversation grew intense.
"I don't know what it's all about, Roland," he continued. "I don't know
anything about this man. Who he is, and what he is. And I don't know why
you've been arranging all these things behind my back."
Roland expressed surprise that his father had not welcomed the offer of
so promising a post. But Mr Whately was too flustered to consider the
matter in this light. "It may be a better job," he said, "I don't know.
But the bank has been settled and I can't think why you should want to
alter things. At any rate, I can't stop to discuss it now," and a minute
later the front door had banged behind a querulous, irritable little
man, who considered no one had any right to disturb--especially at the
breakfast-table--the placid course of his existence. As he left the
room he flung the letter upon the table, and Mrs Whately snatched it up
eagerly. Roland watched carefully the expression of her face as she read
it. At first he noted there only a relieved happiness, but as she folded
the letter and handed it back he saw that she was sad.
"Of course it's splendid, Roland," she said. "I'm delighted, but.... Oh,
well, I do think you might have told us something about it before."
"I wanted to, mother, but one doesn't like to shout till one's out of
the wood."
"With friends, no, but with one's parents--surely you might have
confided in us."
There was no such implied disapproval in April's reception of the news.
He had not seen her since the afternoon when he had kissed her, and
he had wondered in what spirit she would receive him. Would there be
awkward stammered explanations? Would she be coy and protest "that she
had been silly, that she had not meant it, that it must never happen
again?" He had little previous experience to guide him and he was still
debating the point when he arrived at No. 73 Hammerton Rise.
What April Curtis did was to open the door for him, close it quickly
behind him as soon as he was in the porch, take him happily by both
hands and hold her face up to be kissed. There was not the least
embarrassment in her action.
"Well?" she said, on a note of interrogation.
For answer he put his hand into his pocket, drew out Mr Marston's letter
and gave it to her.
April pulled it out of the envelope, hurriedly unfolded it, and ran an
engrossed eye over its contents.
"Oh, but how splendid, Roland; now it's all right. Now there's no need
to worry about anything. Come at once and tell mother. Mother, mother!"
she shouted, and catching Roland by the hand dragged him after her
towards the drawing-room.
Mrs Curtis had, through the laborious passage of fifty-two uneventful
years, so trained her face to assume on all occasions an expression of
pleasant sentimental interest in the affairs of others that by now her
features could not be arranged to accommodate any other emotion. She
appeared therefore unastonished when her name was called loudly in the
hall, when the drawing-room door was flung open and a flushed, excited
April stood in the doorway, grasping by the hand an equally flushed but
embarrassed Roland. Mrs Curtis laid her knitting in her lap; a kindly
smile spread over her glazed countenance.
"Well, my dear, and what's all this about?" she said.
"Oh, it's so exciting, mother. Roland's not going into a bank after
all."
"No, dear?"
"No, mother. A Mr Marston, you know the man whom Roland went to stay
with last week, has offered him a post in his firm. It's a lovely job.
He'll be travelling all over the world and he's going to get a salary;
of how much is it--yes, a hundred and fifty pounds a year and all
expenses paid. Isn't it splendid?"
Mrs Curtis purred with reciprocated pleasure: "Of course it is, and how
pleased your parents must be. Come and sit down here; yes, shut the
door, please. You know I always said to Mr Whately, 'Roland is going
to do something big; I'm sure of it.' And now you see my prophecy has
come true. I shall remind Mr Whately of that next time he comes round to
see me, and I shall remind him, too, that I said exactly the same thing
about Arthur. 'Mr Whately,' I said," and her voice trailed off into
reminiscences.
But though Mrs Curtis was in many--and indeed in most--ways a
troublesome old fool, she was not unobservant. She knew that a young
girl does not rush into a drawing-room dragging a young man by the hand
simply because that young man has obtained a lucrative post in a varnish
factory. There must be some other cause for so vigorous an ebullition.
And as Mrs Curtis's speculation was unvexed by the complexities of
Austrian psychology, she assumed that Roland and April had fallen in
love with each other. She was not surprised. She had indeed often
wondered why they had not done so before. April was such a dear girl,
and Roland could be trained into a highly sympathetic son-in-law. He
listened to her conversation with respect and interest, whereas Ralph
Richmond insisted on interrupting her. Roland would make April a good
husband. Certainly she had been temporarily disquieted by Mr Whately's
sudden decision to remove his son from school; but no doubt he had had
this post in his mind's eye and had not wished to speak of it till
everything had been fixed.
Mrs Curtis's reverie traversed into an agreeable future; she pictured
the wedding at St Giles; they would have the full choir. There would
be a reception afterwards at the Town Hall. April would look so pretty
in orange blossom. Arthur would be the best man. He would stand beside
the bridegroom, erect and handsome. "What fine children you have,
Mrs Curtis!" That's what everyone would say to her. It would be the
prettiest wedding there had ever been at St Giles.... She collected
herself with a start. She must not be premature. Nothing was settled
yet; they were not even engaged. And of course they could not be engaged
yet. They were too absurdly young. Everyone would laugh at her. Still,
there might be an understanding. An understanding was first cousin to an
engagement; it bound both parties. And then April and Roland would be
allowed to go about together. It would be so nice for them.
When Roland had gone, she fixed on her daughter a deep, questioning
look, under which April began to grow uncomfortable.
"Well, mother?" she said.
"You like Roland very much, don't you, dear?"
"We're great friends."
"Only friends?"
April did not answer, and her mother repeated her question. "But you're
more than friends, aren't you?" But April was still silent. Mrs Curtis
leant forward and took April's hand, lifted for a moment out of her vain
complacency by the recollection of herself as she had been a quarter of
a century ago, like April, with life in front of her. Through placid
waters she had come to a safe anchorage, and she wondered whether for
April the cruise would be as fortunate, the hand at the helm as steady.
Her husband had risked little, but Roland would scarcely be satisfied
with safe travel beneath the cliffs. Would April be happier or less
happy than she had been? Which was the better--blue skies, calm water,
gently throbbing engines, or the pitch and toss and crash of heavy seas?
"Are you very fond of him, dear?" she whispered.
"Yes, mother."
"And he's fond of you?"
"I think so, mother."
"Has he told you so, dear?"
"Yes."
A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, stung her, welled, fell upon
her cheek, and this welcome relief recalled her to what she considered
the necessities of the moment.
"Of course I shall have to speak to the Whatelys about it."
A shocked, surprised expression came into April's face.
"Oh, but why, mother?"
"Because, my dear, they may have other plans for Roland."
"But ... oh, mother, dear, there's no talk of engagements or anything;
we've just ... oh, why can't we go on as we are?"
Mrs Curtis was firm.
"No, my dear," she said, "it would be fair neither to you nor to them.
It's not only you and Roland that have to be considered. There's your
father and myself and Mr and Mrs Whately. We shall have to talk it over
together."
And so when Roland returned that evening from an afternoon with Ralph he
found his father and mother sitting in the drawing-room with Mrs Curtis.
"Ah, here's Roland," said Mrs Curtis. "Come along, Roland, we've just
been talking about you."
Roland entered and sat on the chair nearest him. He looked from one to
the other, and each in turn smiled at him reassuringly: their smile
said, "Now don't be nervous. We mean you well. You've only got to agree
to our conditions and we'll be ever so nice to you." In the same way,
Roland reflected, the Spanish Inquisitors had recommended conversion
to the faith with a smile upon their lips, while from the adjoining
room sounds came that the impenitents would be wise to associate with
furnaces and screws and pliant steel.
"Yes, Roland," said Mr Whately, "we've been talking about you and
April."
"Damn!" said Roland to himself. It was like that ridiculous Dolly affair
all over again. It was useless, of course, to be flustered. He was
growing accustomed to this sort of scene. He supposed that April had got
frightened and told her mother, or perhaps the maidservant had seen them
kissing in the porch. In any case it was not very serious. They would
probably forbid him to see April alone. It would be rather rotten;
but the world was wide. In a few weeks' time he would be going abroad;
he could free himself of these entanglements, and when he returned he
would decide what he should do. He would be economically independent.
In the meantime let them talk. He settled himself back in his chair and
prepared to hear at least, with patience, whatever they might have to
say to him. What they did have to say came to him as a surprise.
"I was talking to April about it this morning," said Mrs Curtis. "Of
course I've noticed it for a long time. A mother can't help seeing these
things. Several times I've said to my husband: 'Father, dear, haven't
you noticed that Roland and April are becoming very interested in each
other?' and he's agreed with me. Though I haven't liked to say anything.
But then this morning it was so very plain, wasn't it?" She paused and
smiled. And Roland, feeling that an answer was expected of him, said
that he supposed it was.
"Yes, really quite clear, and so afterwards I had a talk with my little
April and she told me all about it. And, of course, we're all of us very
pleased that you should be fond of one another, but you must realise
that at present you're much too young for there to be any talk of
marriage."
"But..." Roland began.
"Yes, I know that you've got a good post in this varnish factory; but as
I was saying to Mr Whately before you came, you're only on probation,
and it's a job that means a lot of travelling and expense that you
wouldn't be able to afford if you were a married man or were even
contemplating matrimony."
"But..." Roland began again, and again Mrs Curtis stopped him.
"Yes, I know what you're thinking; you say that you are content to wait;
that four years, five years, six years--it's nothing to you, that you
want to be engaged now. I can quite understand it. We all can. We've all
been young, but I'm quite certain that..."
Roland could not believe that it was real, that he was sitting in
a real room, that a real woman was talking, a real scene was in the
process of enaction. He listened in a stupefied amazement. What, after
all, had happened? He had kissed April three times. She had asked no
vows and he had given none. They were lovers he supposed, but they were
boy and girl lovers. The romances of the nursery should not be taken
seriously. By holding April's hand and kissing her had he decided the
course of both their lives? What were they about, these three solemn
people, with their talk of marriage and engagements?
"But you don't understand," he began.
"Oh, yes, we do," Mrs Curtis interrupted. "We old people know more than
you think."
And she began to speak in her droning, mellifluous voice of the
sanctity of love and of the good fortune that had led him so early to
his affinity. And then all three of them began to speak together, and
their words beat like hammers upon Roland's head, till he did not know
where he was, nor what they were saying to him. "It can't be real," he
told himself. "It's preposterous. People don't behave like this in real
life." And when his mother came across and kissed him on the forehead
and said, "We're all so happy, Roland," he employed every desperate
device to recall himself to reality that he was accustomed to use when
involved in a nightmare. He fixed his thoughts upon one issue, focused
all his powers on that one point: "I will wake up. I will wake up."
And even when it was all over, and he was in his bedroom standing before
the looking-glass to arrange his tie, he could not believe that it had
really happened. It was impossible that grown-up people should be so
foolish. He could understand that Mrs Curtis should be annoyed at his
attentions to her daughter. He had been prepared for that. If she had
said, "Roland, you're both of you too old for that. It was well enough
when you were both children, but it won't do now; April is growing
up," he could have appreciated her point of view. Perhaps they were
too old for the love-making of childhood. But that she should take
up the attitude that they were too young for the serious matrimonial
entanglements of man and womanhood! It was beyond the expectation of any
sane intelligence.
In a way he could not help feeling annoyed with April. If she had not
told her mother nothing would have happened.
"Oh, but how silly," she said, when he told her about it next day. "I do
wish I had been there. It must have been awfully funny!"
Roland had not considered it in that light and hastened to tell her so.
"I felt a most appalling fool. It was beastly. I can't think why you
told your mother anything about it."
She looked up quickly, surprised by the note of impatience in his voice.
"But, Roland, dear, what else could I do? She asked me and I couldn't
tell a lie. Could I?"
"I don't know," said Roland. And he began to walk backwards and
forwards, up and down the room. "I suppose you couldn't help it, but....
Oh, well, what did you say to her?"
"Nothing much. She asked me.... Oh, but, Roland, do sit down," she
pleaded, "I can't talk when you're walking up and down the room."
"All right," said Roland, sitting down. "Go on."
"Well, she asked me if I liked you and I said that we were great
friends, and then she asked if we weren't more than friends."
"Oh, yes, yes, I know," said Roland, rising impatiently from his chair
and walking across the room. "Of course you said we were, and that I
had been making love to you, and that--oh, but what's the good of going
on with it. I know what she said and what you said, and the whole thing
was out in three minutes, and then your mother comes round to my mother
and they talk and they talk, and that's how all the trouble in the world
begins."
While he was actually speaking he was sustained by the white heat of
his impatience, but the moment he had stopped he was bitterly ashamed
of himself. What had he done? What had he said? And April's silence
accentuated his shame. She neither turned angrily upon him nor burst
into tears. She sat quietly, her hands clasped in front of her knees,
looking at the floor.
After a while she rose and walked across to the window. Her back was
turned to him. He felt that he must do something to shatter the poignant
silence. He drew close to her and touched her hand with his, but she
drew her hand away quietly, without haste or anger.
"April," he began, "I'm...."
But she stopped him. "Don't say anything. Please don't say anything."
"But I must, April. I've been a beast. I didn't mean it."
"It's quite all right. I've been very foolish. There's nothing more to
be said."
Her voice was calm and level. She kept her back turned to him, distant
and unapproachable. He did not know what to do nor what to say. He had
been a beast to her. He knew it. And because he had wronged her, because
she had made him feel ashamed of himself, he was angry with her.
"Oh, very well then," he said. "If you won't talk to me, I'm going
home."
He turned and walked out of the room. In the porch he waited for a
moment, thinking that she would call after him. But no sound came from
the drawing-room, not even the rustle of clothes, that might have
indicated the change of her position. "Oh, well," he said, "if she's
going to sulk, let her sulk," and he walked out of the house.
For the rest of the day he endured the humiliating discomfort of
contrition. He was honest with himself. He made no attempt to excuse his
behaviour. There was no excuse for it. He had behaved like a cad. There
was only one thing to do and that was to grovel as soon as possible. It
would be an undignified proceeding, but he was quite ready to do it, if
he could be certain that the performance would be accepted in the right
spirit. It was not easy to grovel before a person who turned her back on
you, looked out of the window and refused to listen to what you had to
say.
When evening came he decided that he might do worse than make a
reconnaissance of the enemy's country under the guidance of an armed
escort--in other words, that if he paid a visit to the Curtises'
with his father he would be able to see April without having the
embarrassment of a private talk forced on him.
And so when Mr Whately returned from the office he found his son waiting
to take him for a walk.
"What a pleasant surprise," he said. "I never expected to find you here.
I thought you would be spending all your time with April now."
Roland laughed.
"Well, as a matter of fact," he said, "I thought we might go round and
see the Curtises together."
"And you thought you wanted a chaperon?"
"Hardly that."
"But you felt shy of facing the old woman?"
"That's more like it."
"All right, then, we'll tackle her together."
Roland was certain, when they arrived, that the idea of employing his
father as a shield was in the nature of an inspiration. April received
him without a smile; she did not even shake hands with him. Fortunately,
in the effusion of Mrs Curtis's welcome, this omission was not noticed.
"I'm so glad you have come, both of you. April told me, Roland, that you
had been round to see her this morning, and I must say I began to feel
afraid that I should never see you again. I thought you would only want
to come round when you could have April all to yourself. It would have
been such a disappointment to me if you had; I should have so missed our
little evening talks. As I was saying to my husband only yesterday, 'I
don't know what we should do without the Whatelys,' and he agreed with
me. You know, Mr Whately, there are some people whom we quite like, but
whom we shouldn't miss in the least if they went away and we never saw
them again, and there are others who would leave a real gap. It's funny,
isn't it? And it's so nice, now, to think that Roland and April--though
we mustn't talk like that, must we, or they'll begin to think they're
engaged. And we couldn't allow that, could we, Mr Whately?"
His body rattled with a deep chuckle. Out of the corner of his eye
Roland flung a glance at April, to see what effect this wind of words
was having on her, but her face was turned from him.
Mrs Curtis then proceeded to speak of Arthur and of the letter she had
received from him by the evening post. "He says--now what is it that
he says? Ah, yes, here it is; he says, 'As I am too old for the Junior
games, I have been moved into the Senior League.' Now that's very
satisfactory, isn't it, Mr Whately, that he should be in the Senior
League? I always said he would be good at games, and April too, Mr
Whately; she would have been very good at games if she had played them.
When they used to play cricket in the nursery she used to hit at the
ball so well, with her arms, you know. She would have been very good,
but she hasn't had the time and they don't go in for games very much at
St Stephen's. Now what do you think of that new frock of hers? I got
it so cheap--you can't think how cheaply I got it. And then I got Miss
Smithers to make it up for her, and April looks so pretty in it; don't
you think so, Mr Whately?"
"Charming, of course, Mrs Curtis, absolutely charming!"
"I thought you'd like it. And I'm sure Roland does too, though he would
be too shy to own to it. You know, Mr Whately, I felt like telling her
when she put it on that Roland would have to be very careful or he would
find a lot of rivals when he came back from Brussels."
It was more than April could bear. She had endured a great deal that day
and this was the final ignominy.
"How can you, mother?" she said. "How can you?" and jumping to her
feet, she ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
The sudden crash reverberated through the awkward silence; then came the
soft caressing voice of Mrs Curtis: "I'm so sorry, Mr Whately; I don't
know what April can be thinking of. But she's like that sometimes. These
young people are so difficult; one doesn't know where to find them. Yes,
that's right, Roland, run and see if you can't console her."
For Roland had risen, moved deeply by the sight of April's misery, her
pathetic weakness. It was not fair. First of all he had been beastly
to her, then her mother had made a fool of her. He found her in the
dining-room, huddled on a chair beside the fire. She turned at once to
him for sympathy. She stretched out her arms, and he ran towards them,
knelt before her and buried his face in her lap.
"We have been such beasts to you, April, all of us. I have felt so
miserable about it all day. I didn't know what to do. I thought you
would never forgive me. I don't deserve to be forgiven; but I love you;
I do, really awfully!"
"That's all right," she said; "don't worry," and placing her hand
beneath his chin she raised gently his face to hers.
It was a long kiss, one of those long passionless kisses of sympathy,
pity and contrition that smooth out all difficulties, as a wave that
passes over a stretch of sand leaving behind it a shining surface. For
a long while they sat in each other's arms, saying nothing, his fingers
playing with her hair, her lips from moment to moment meeting his. When
at last they reverted to the subject of their morning's quarrel there
was little possibility of dissension.
It was with a gay smile that she asked him why he had been so angry with
her. "Why shouldn't our parents know, Roland? They would have had to
some day."
"Oh, yes, of course, but----"
"And surely, Roland dear," she continued, "it's better for us that they
should know. I should have hated having to do things in secret. It would
have been exciting, of course; I know that; but it wouldn't have been
fair to them, would it? They are so fond of us; they ought to have a
share in our happiness."
"That's just what I felt," Roland objected. "I had felt that our love
had ceased to be our own, that they had taken too big a share of it. It
didn't seem to be our love affair any longer."
"Oh, you silly darling!" and she laughed happily, relieved of her fear
that there might be some deeper cause for Roland's behaviour to her.
"Why should you worry about that? What does it matter if other people do
know about it? Why, what's an engagement but a letting of a lot of other
people into our secret; and when we're married, why, that's a telling of
everyone in the whole world that we're in love with one another. What
does it matter if others know?"
"I suppose it doesn't," Roland dubiously admitted.
"Of course it doesn't. The only thing that does matter," she said,
twisting a lock of his hair round her little finger and smiling at him
through half-closed eyes, "is that we've made up our silly quarrel and
are friends again," and bending forward she kissed him quietly and
happily.
He was naturally relieved that the sympathy between them had been
re-established; but he realised how little he had made her appreciate
his misgivings. Indeed, he would have found it hard to explain them to
himself. Their love was no longer fresh and spontaneous. Its growth,
as that of a wild flower that is taken from a hedge and planted in
a conservatory, would be no longer natural. Other hands would tend
it. In April's mind the course of love was marked by certain fixed
boundaries--the avowal, the engagement, the marriage service. She did
not conceive of love as existing outside these limits. She had never
been in love before; and naturally she regarded love as a state of mind
into which one was suddenly and miraculously surprised, and in which
one continued until the end of one's life. There was no reason why she
should think differently. Her training had taught her that love could
not exist outside marriage--marriage that ordained one woman for one
man.
But it was different for Roland, who had learnt from the vivid and
fleeting romances of his boyhood that love comes and goes, irresponsible
as the wind that at one moment is shaking among the branches, scattering
the leaves, tossing them in the air, only to subside a moment later into
calm.
These misgivings passed quickly enough, however, in the delightful
novelty of the situation. It was great fun being in love; to wake in
the early morning with the knowledge that as soon as breakfast was over
you would run down the road and be welcomed by a charming girl, whom
you would counsel to shut the door behind you quickly so that you could
kiss her before anyone knew you were in the house, who would then tilt
up her face prettily to yours. It was charming to sit with her in the
drawing-room and hold her hand and rest your cheek against hers, to
answer such questions as, "When did you first begin to love me?"
Often they would go for walks together in the autumn sunshine;
occasionally they would take a bus and ride out to Kew or Hampstead,
and sit on the green grass and hold hands and talk of the future. These
talks were a delicious excitant to Roland's vanity. His ambitions were
strengthened by her faith in him. He saw himself rich and famous. "We'll
have a wonderful house, with stables and an orchard, and we'll have a
private cricket ground and we'll get a pro. down from Lord's to look
after it. And we'll have fine parties in the summer--cricket and tennis
during the day, and dances in the evening!"
"And a funny little cottage," she would murmur, "somewhere down the
river, for when we want to be all by ourselves."
It was exciting, too, when other people, grown-up people, made
significant remarks.
One afternoon he was at a tea-party and a lady asked him if he would
come round to lunch with them the next day. "We've got a nephew of ours
stopping with us. An awfully jolly boy. I'm sure you and he would get on
well together." Roland, however, had to excuse himself on the grounds of
a previous engagement.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but I've promised to go on the river."
"With April Curtis? Ah, I thought so."
And the smile that accompanied the question made Roland feel very grown
up and important.
These weeks of preparation for the foreign tour Roland considered
however, in spite of their charm, as an interlude, a pause in the
serious affairs of life. It was thus that he had always regarded his
holidays. He had divided with a hard line his life at school and his
life at home. The two were unrelated. April and Ralph, his parents
and the Curtises belonged to a world that must remain for him always
episodic. It was a pleasant world in which from time to time he might
care to sojourn. But what happened to him there was of no great
importance.
As he leant over the taffrail of the steamer and felt the deck throb
under him he knew that his real life had begun again. What significance
had these encumbrances of his home life if he could cast them off so
easily? Already they were slipping from him. The waves beat against the
side of the ship, splashing the spray across the deck, and the sting of
the water on his face filled him with a buoyant confidence. The thud of
the engines beat through his body to a tune of triumph.
The grey line that was England faded and was lost.