cricket ground. She did not know why he should want her to come with him
at such an unusual time, but she could see that he was unhappy, that
he needed sympathy, and so, after a second's hesitation, she passed,
for the first time in her life, her arm through his. He looked at her
quickly, a look of surprise and gratitude, and pressed her arm with his.
He said nothing, now that she was with him. He did not feel any need of
words; it was her presence he wanted, and all that her presence meant to
him. But she, being ignorant of what was in his mind, was embarrassed by
his silence.
"That was a jolly knock of yours," she said at last.
"Oh! not bad, but in a second innings!"
"Rather like that one of yours five years ago."
"What! Do you remember that?"
"Of course; it was a great occasion."
"For me."
"And for us."
The past and the emotions of the past returned to him with a startling
vividness. He could recall every moment of that day.
"I was so anxious to come off," he said. "You know I was to have gone
into a bank and Gerald brought me down in the hope that your pater would
take to me. I was frightfully nervous."
"So was I."
"But you'd never seen me."
"No, but Gerald had talked to me about you, and I thought it such rotten
luck that a fellow like you should have to go into a bank. There'd been
a row, hadn't there?"
They had reached the hedge that marked the boundary for the Marston
estate; there was a gate in it, and they walked towards it. They stood
for a moment, her arm still in his, looking at the quiet village that
lay before them. Then Roland dropped her arm and leant against the gate.
"Yes, there'd been a row," he said, "and everything was going wrong,
and I saw myself for the rest of my life a clerk adding up figures in a
bank."
He paused, realising the analogy between that day and this. Then, as
now, destiny had seemed to be closing in on him, robbing him of freedom
and the chance to make of his life anything but a grey subservience.
He had evaded destiny then, but it had caught him now. And he leant on
the gate, hardly seeing the labourers trudging up the village street,
talking in the porch of the public-house; their women returning home
with their purchases for Sunday's dinner.
Again Muriel was oppressed by his silence.
"I remember Gerald telling us about it," she said, "and I was excited to
see what you'd be like."
"And what did you think of me when you saw me?"
"Oh, I was a little girl then"; she laughed nervously, for his eyes were
fixed on her face and she felt that she was blushing.
"Yes, but what did you think?" he repeated; "tell me."
Her fingers plucked nervously at her skirt; she felt frightened, and it
was absurd to be frightened with Roland, one of her oldest friends.
"Oh, it's silly! I was only a little girl then. What does it matter
what I thought? As a matter of fact," and she flung out the end of her
confession carelessly, as though it meant nothing, "as a matter of fact,
I thought you were the most wonderful boy I'd ever seen." And she tried
to laugh a natural, offhand laugh that would make an end of this absurd
situation, but the laugh caught in her throat, and she went suddenly
still, her eyes fixed on Roland's. They looked at each other and read
fear in the other's eyes, but in Roland's eyes fear was mingled with a
desperate entreaty, a need, an overmastering need, of her. His tongue
seemed too big for his mouth, and when at last he spoke, his voice was
dry.
"And what do you think of me now?"
She could say nothing. She stood still, held by the grey eyes that never
wavered.
"What do you think of me now?" he repeated.
She made a movement to break the tension, a swift gesture with her hand
that was intended for a dismissal, but he was standing so close that her
hand brushed against him; she gave a little gasp as his hand closed over
it and held it.
"You won't tell me," he said. "But shall I tell you what I thought of
you then? Shall I tell you? I thought you were the prettiest girl I had
ever seen, and I thought how beautiful you would be when you grew up."
"Oh, don't be so silly, Roland," and she laughed a short, nervous
laugh, and tried to draw her hand from his, but he held it firmly, and
drew her a little nearer to him, so that he could take her other hand
in his. They stood close together, then she raised her face slowly to
his and the puzzled, wistful, trusting expression released the flood
of sentiment that had been surging within him all the afternoon. His
misery was no longer master of itself, and her beauty drew to it the
mingled tenderness, hesitation, disappointment of his vexed spirit. She
was for him in that moment the composite vision of all he prized most
highly in life, of romance, mystery, adventure.
His hands closed upon hers tightly, desperately, as though he would
rivet himself to the one thing of which he could be certain, and his
confused intense emotion poured forth in a stream of eager avowal:
"But I never thought, Muriel, that you would be anything like what you
are; you are wonderful, Muriel; I've been realising it slowly every
day. I've said to myself that we were only friends, just friends, but
I've known it was more than friendship. I've told myself not to be
silly, that you could never care for me--well, I've never realised, not
properly, not till this afternoon, Muriel."
She was no longer frightened; his words had soothed her, caressed her,
wooed her; and when he paused, the expression of her eyes was fearless.
"Yes, Roland," she said.
"Muriel, Muriel, I love you; I want you to marry me. Will you?"
She blushed prettily. "But, Roland, you know; if father and mother say
yes, of course."
In the sudden release of feeling he was uncertain what exactly was
expected of a person whose proposal had been accepted. They were on the
brink of another embarrassed silence, but Muriel saved them.
"Roland," she said, "you're hurting my fingers awfully!"
With a laugh he dropped her hands, and that laugh restored them to their
former intimacy.
"Oh, Roland," she said, "what fun we shall have when we are married."
He asked whether she thought her parents would be pleased, and she was
certain that they would.
"They like you so much." Then she insisted on his telling when and how
he had first discovered that he was in love with her. "Come along;
let's sit on the gate and you shall tell me all about it. Now, when was
the first time, the very first time, that you thought you were in love
with me?"
"Oh, but I don't know."
"Yes, you do; you must, of course you must, or you'd be nothing of a
lover. Come on, or I shall take back my promise."
"Well, then, that evening on the stairs."
Muriel pouted.
"Oh, then!"
"Do you remember it?" he said.
"Of course I do. You frightened me."
"I know, and that's why I thought that one day you might marry me."
"Oh, but how silly!" she protested. "I wasn't a bit in love with you
then. In fact, I was very annoyed with you."
"And, besides, I think I've always been in love with you."
"Oh, no, you haven't."
"Don't be too sure. And you?"
She smiled prettily.
"I've often thought what a nice husband you would make."
And then she had taken his hand in her lap and played with it.
"And where shall we live when we are married?" he had asked her, and she
had said she did not care.
"Anywhere, as long as there are lots of people to amuse me."
She sat there on the gate, her light hair blowing under the wide brim of
her hat, laughing down at him, her face bright with happiness. She was
so small, so graceful. Light as heatherdown, she would run a gay motif
through the solemn movement of his career.
"You are like a fairy," he said, "like a mischievous little elf. I think
I shall call you that--Elfkin."
"Oh, what a pretty name, Roland--Elfkin! How sweet of you!"
They talked so eagerly together of the brilliant future that awaited
them that they quite forgot the lateness of the hour, till they heard
across the evening the dull boom of the dinner gong. They both gasped
and looked at each other as confederates in guilt.
"Heavens!" she said, "what a start. We've got to run!"
It was the nearest approach to a dramatic entrance that Roland ever
achieved. Muriel kept level with him during the race across the cricket
ground, but she began to fall behind as they reached the long terrace
between the rhododendrons.
"Take hold of my hand," said Roland, and he dragged her over the
remaining thirty yards. They rushed through the big French windows of
the drawing-room at the very moment that the party had assembled there
before going down to dinner. They had quite forgotten that there would
be an audience. They stopped, and Muriel gave out a horrified gasp of
"Oh!"
They certainly were a ridiculous couple as they stood there hand in
hand, hot, dishevelled, out of breath, beside that well-groomed company
of men and women in evening dress. Mrs Marston hurried forward with
the slightly deprecating manner of the hostess whose plans have been
disturbed,
"My dear children----" But Muriel had by this time recovered her breath
and courage. She raised a peremptory hand.
"One minute. We've got something to tell you all."
"But surely, dear, after dinner," Mrs Marston began.
"No, mother, dear, now," and, with a twinkle in her eye and a sly glance
at her embarrassed lover, Muriel made her alarming announcement:
"Roland and I, mother, we're going to be married."
Roland had seen in a French novel a startling incident of domestic
revelation recorded by two words: _consternation générale_, and those
two words suited the terrible hush that followed Muriel's confession.
It was not a hush of anger, or disapproval, but of utter and complete
astonishment. For a few minutes no one said anything. The young men
of the party either adjusted their collar studs and gazed towards the
ceiling, or flicked a speck of dust from their trousers and gazed upon
the floor. The young women gazed upon each other. Mrs Marston thought
nervously of the condition of the retarded dinner, and Mr Marston tried,
without success, to prove adequate to the situation. Only Muriel enjoyed
it; she loved a rag, and her eyes passed from one figure to another; not
one of them dared look at her.
"Well," she said at last, "we did think you'd want to congratulate us."
To Mr Marston some criticism of himself appeared to be implied in this
remark. He pulled down his waistcoat, coughed, and went through the
preliminaries usual to him when preparing to address the board. And, in
a sense, this was a board meeting, a family board meeting.
"My dear Muriel," he began, but he had advanced no further than these
three words when the dinner gong sounded for the second time. It was a
signal for Mrs Marston to bustle forward.
"Yes, yes, but the dinner'll be getting quite cold if we don't go in at
once. Don't trouble to change, Mr Whately, please don't; but, Muriel,
you must go up and do your hair, and if you have time change your
frock."
"Weren't they lovely?" said Muriel, as she and Roland ran upstairs to
wash. "I could have died with laughter."
"You made me feel a pretty complete fool," said Roland.
"Well, you made me feel very silly about three-quarters of an hour ago.
I deserved a revenge." And she scampered upstairs ahead of him.
Roland washed quickly and waited for her at the foot of the stairs. He
was much too shy to go in alone.
"And they say that women are cowards," said Muriel, when he confessed it
to her. "Come along."
The quarter of an hour that had elapsed since the sensational disclosure
had given the company time to recover its balance, and when Muriel and
Roland entered the room, they found that two empty seats were waiting
for them side by side.
"Here they are," said Mr Marston, "and I hope that they're thoroughly
ashamed of themselves." He felt himself again after a glass of sherry,
and it was an occasion of which a father should make the most. It could
only come once and he was prepared to enjoy it to the full. "To think
of it, my dear, the difference between this generation and ours. Why,
before I got engaged to your mother, Muriel, why, even before I began
to court her, I went and asked her father's permission. I can remember
now how frightened I felt. We respected our parents in those days. We
always asked their opinions first. But to-day--why, in you burst, late
for dinner, and announce with calm effrontery that you're going to be
married. Why, at this rate, there won't be any engagements at all in a
short time; young people will just walk in at the front door and say:
'We're married.'"
"Then we are engaged, father, aren't we?" said Muriel.
"I didn't say so."
"Oh, but you did; didn't he, Roland?"
Roland was, however, too confused to hold any opinion on the subject.
"Well, if you didn't actually say so you implied it. At any rate we
shall take it that you did."
"And that, I suppose, settles it?"
"Of course."
Mr Marston made a theatrical gesture of despair.
"These children!" he said.
It was a jolly evening. Roland and Muriel were the centre of
congratulations; their healths were drunk; he was called on for a
speech, and he fulfilled his duty amid loud applause. Everyone was so
pleased, so eager to share their happiness. Beatrice turned to him
a smile of surprised congratulation. Only Gerald held back from the
general enthusiasm. Once across the table his eyes met Roland's, and
there was implied in their glance a question. He was the only one of
the party who had heard of April, and never, in all their confidences,
had there passed between them one word that might have hinted at a
growing love between his sister and his friend; it was this that
surprised him. Surely Roland would have told him something about it.
Roland was not the sort of fellow who kept things to himself. He always
wanted to share his pleasures. Gerald would have indeed expected him to
come to him for advice, to say: "Old son, what chance do you think I
stand in that direction?"--to entrust him with the delicate mission of
sounding Muriel's inclinations. He was surprised and a little hurt.
As they were going towards the drawing-room after dinner he laid his
hand on Roland's arm, holding him back for a minute. And as he stood
in the doorway waiting for his friend, Roland felt for the first time
a twinge of apprehension as to the outcome of this undertaking. But
he could see that Gerald was nervous, and this nervousness lent him
confidence.
"It's no business of mine, old son," Gerald began, "I'm awfully glad
about you and Muriel and all that, but," he paused irresolute; he
disliked these theatrical situations and did not know how to meet them.
"I mean," he began slowly, then added quietly, anxiously: "It's all
right, isn't it, old son?"
"Of course," said Roland. "It's the most wonderful----"
"I know, I know," Gerald interrupted, "but wasn't there, didn't you tell
me about----"
"Oh, that's finished a long time ago. Don't worry about that."
"You see," Gerald went on, "I should hate to think----Oh, well, I'm
awfully glad about it, and I think you're both fearfully lucky."
Two hours later Roland and Muriel stood on the landing saying good-night
to one another. She was leaning towards him, across the banisters, as
she had leant that evening three years earlier, but this time he held
her hand in his.
"I can't tell you how happy I am," he was saying; "I shall dream of you
all night long."
"And so shall I of you."
"We're going to be wonderfully happy, aren't we?"
"Wonderfully."
And in each other's eyes they saw the eager, boundless confidence of
youth. They were going to make a great thing of their life together.
Roland cast a swift glance over the banisters to see if anyone was in
the hall, then stood on tiptoe, raising himself till his face was on the
level with Muriel's.
"Muriel," he said.
"Yes."
"I want to whisper something in your ear."
"What is it?"
"Lean over, close to me, and I will tell you."
She bent her head, her cheek brushing against his hair. "Well?" she
said.
He placed his mouth close to her ear.
"Muriel, you haven't kissed me yet."
She drew back and smiled.
"Was that all?" she said.
"Isn't it enough?"
She made no answer.
"Aren't you going to?" he said.
"I don't know."
"Please, please do."
"Some day I will."
"But why not now?"
"Someone would see us."
"Oh, no, they wouldn't. And even if they did what would it matter?
Muriel! please, please, Muriel!"
He raised himself again on tiptoe; and leaning forward, she rested her
hands upon his shoulders. Then she slowly bent her head to his, and
their lips met in such a kiss as children exchange for forfeits in the
nursery. As she drew back Roland slipped back again on to his heels, but
he still held her hand and her fingers closed round his, pressing them,
if not with passion, at least with fondness.
"You're rather an old dear, Roland," she said. And there was a note in
her voice that made him say quickly and half audibly:
"And you're a darling."
She drew her hand from his gently. "And what was that pretty name you
called me?"
"Elfkin."
"Let me be always Elfkin."
Both of them that night were wooed to sleep by the delight of their
new-found happiness.
CHAPTER XIX
THE LONELY UNICORN
The lovers went for a walk together on Sunday morning through the woods
that lay beyond the village, and they sat on a pile of broken sticks
that a charcoal burner had collected for a fire, and they held hands
and talked of the future. Her pleasure in this new relationship was
a continual fascination to Roland. She regarded love, courtship and
marriage as a delightful game.
"What fun it's going to be," she said; "we shall announce our engagement
and then everyone will write and congratulate us, and we shall have to
answer them, and I shall have to pretend to be so serious and say: 'I am
much looking forward to introducing you to my fiancé. I hope you will
like each other.'"
"And what sort of a ring am I to get you?"
"The ring! Oh, I had forgotten that. One has to have one, doesn't one?
Let's see now. What should I like?" And she paused, her finger raised
to her lower lip. She remained for a moment in perplexed consideration,
then suddenly shook her head.
"Oh, I don't care, just what you like. Let it be a surprise. But there's
one thing, Roland, dear--promise me."
"Yes."
"You will promise, won't you?"
"Of course."
"Well, then, promise me you won't put any writing inside it, because I
shall want to show it to my friends and I should feel so silly if they
saw it."
After lunch Mr Marston asked him to come into the study for a talk.
"I'm not going to play the heavy father," he said; "in fact, you know
yourself how thoroughly pleased we are, both of us, about it all. We
couldn't have wished a better husband for Muriel. But there is such a
thing as finance, and you've got, I gather, no money apart from what you
earn from us."
"No, sir."
"And your salary now is----?"
"Four hundred a year, sir."
"And how far do you think that will go? You could start a home with it,
of course, but do you think you could make Muriel happy with it? She's
a dainty little lady, and when she's free from home authority she will
want to be going out to dances and theatres. How far do you think four
hundred will take her?"
"Not very far, sir."
"Then what do you propose to do? Long engagements are a bad thing."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, what do you think of doing?"
Roland, who had expected Mr Marston to make his daughter a generous
dress allowance, was uncertain how to answer this question. Indeed, he
made no attempt.
"I suppose," said Mr Marston, "that what you were really thinking was
that I should make you some allowance."
Roland blushed, and began to stammer that, as a matter of fact, that
was exactly what--but he never finished the sentence, for Mr Marston
interrupted him.
"Because, if that's what you were thinking, young man, I can disillusion
you at once. I don't believe in allowances; they put a young couple
under an obligation to their parents. And that's bad. A young couple
should be independent. No!" he said, "I'm not going to make Muriel any
allowance, but," and here he paused theatrically, so as to make the
most of his point, "I am going to give you a good opportunity of making
yourself independent. I am going to offer to both you and Gerald junior
partnerships in the business."
Roland gave a start; he could scarcely believe what he had heard.
"But, sir----" he began.
"Yes, a partnership in our business, and I can't say how pleased I shall
be to have you there, and how proud I am to have a son-in-law who will
want to work and not be content to attend an occasional board meeting
and draw large fees for doing so. I know a business man when I meet one.
We are jolly lucky to have got you, and as for you and Muriel, well,
honestly, I don't know which of you is luckier!"
They were the same words that Gerald had used, and he was convinced
of their truth five minutes later when he sat in the drawing-room
pouring out this exciting news to Muriel, when he saw her eyes light
with enthusiasm, and heard her say on a note of genuine comradeship and
admiration: "Roland, I always knew it. You're a wonderful boy!"
This state of rapture lasted till he said good-night to Gerald on
Monday evening in the doorway of the office. Then, and then only, did
he realise to what a series of complications he had delivered himself.
He had fallen into the habit of regarding his life at Hogstead and his
life at Hammerton as two separate entities; what happened to him in
one life did not affect him in the other. Hogstead had been his dream
country. During the week-end he had retreated within his dream, flung up
bulwarks, garrisoned himself securely. He had not realised that, when he
returned to Hammerton, he would have to deliver an account of himself.
So far, what had happened in that dream country had only mattered to
himself. His engagement to Muriel, however, involved the fortunes of
persons other than himself, and this fact was presented to him acutely
as he sat on the top of a bus and drew nearer, minute by minute, to No.
105 Hammerton Villas.
In the course of seventy-two hours he had completely altered the
direction of his life. He had left home on Saturday morning with every
intention of proposing definitely to April at the first opportunity and
of marrying her as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made.
Yet here he was on Monday evening returning home the fiancé of Muriel
Marston and a junior partner in her father's firm. He could not imagine
in what spirit the news would be received. His parents knew little
enough of Gerald and his father; they were hardly aware of Muriel's
existence. Years earlier he may have said, perhaps, in reply to some
casual query: "Oh, yes, he's got a sister, much younger than himself, a
jolly kid!" But of late, nothing. He did not see either how he was to
introduce the subject. He would be asked hardly any questions about his
holiday; he had always been uncommunicative.
"Have you had a nice time, my dear?"
That's what his mother would say, in the same indifferent tone that she
would say "Good morning, how do you do?" to a casual acquaintance. She
would then proceed to tell him about the visitors they had received on
Sunday.
His father would arrive, lay down his evening paper on the table and
begin to change his boots.
"So you're back all right, Roland?" That would be his only reference to
his son's holidays before he plunged into a commentary on the state of
the bus service, the country and the restaurant where he had lunched.
"Coming for a walk, Roland?" That would be his next indication that
he was conscious of his son's presence, and on the receipt of an
affirmation he would trudge upstairs, to reappear ten minutes later in a
light grey suit.
"Ready, my son?" And they would walk along the High Street till they
reached the corner of Upper College Road. There Mr Whately would
pause. "Well, Roland, shall we go in and see April?" And in reality
the question would be an assertion. They would have to go into the
Curtises'; it would be terrible. He would feel like Judas Iscariot
at the Last Supper. He would be received by Mrs Curtis as a future
son-in-law. April would smile on him as her betrothed. Whatever he did
or said he could not, in her eyes, be anything but perfidious, disloyal,
treacherous. He would be unable to make clear to her the inevitable
nature of what had happened.
The red roofs and stucco fronts of Donnington had by now receded into
the distance; the bus was already clattering down the main street of
Lower Hammerton. The lights in the shop windows had just been kindled
and lent a touch of wistful poetry to the spectacle of the crowded
pavements, black with the dark coats of men returning from their
offices, with here and there a splash of gaiety from the dress of some
harassed woman hurrying to complete her shopping before her husband's
return.
"In three more minutes we shall be at the Town Hall," Roland told
himself. "In two minutes from then I shall have reached the corner of
Hammerton Villas; 105 is the third house down on the left-hand side. In
six minutes, at the outside, I shall be there!"
And it turned out exactly as he had predicted. He found his mother in
the drawing-room, turning the handle of the sewing-machine. She smiled
as he opened the door and, as he bent his head to kiss her, expressed
the hope that he had enjoyed himself. Three minutes later his father
arrived.
"A most interesting murder case to-day, my dear; there's a full account
of it in _The Globe_. It appears that the fellow was engaged to one
girl, but was really in love with the mother of the girl he murdered,
and he murdered the girl because she seemed to suspect--no, that's not
it. It was the girl he was engaged to who suspected; but at any rate
you'll find it all in _The Globe_--a most interesting case." And he
opened the paper at the centre page and handed it to his wife. As he
did so his arm brushed against Roland, and the forcible reminder of his
son's existence inspired him to express the hope that the cricket at
Hogstead had reached the high expectations that had been entertained
regarding it. This duty accomplished, he proceeded to describe in
detail the lunch he had selected at the Spanish café.
"There was a choice of three things: you could either have _hors
d'œuvre_ or a soup, and then there was either omelette or fish or
spaghetti, with veal or chicken or mutton to follow, and, of course,
cheese to finish up with. Well, I didn't think the spaghetti at that
place was very good, so I was left with a choice of either an omelette
or fish."
While he was stating and explaining his choice Mr Whately had found time
to divest his feet of his boots.
"Well, and what about a walk, Roland?"
"I suppose so, father."
"Right you are. I'll just run up and change."
Ten minutes later, before Roland had had time to unravel the complicated
psychology of the Norfolk murder case, Mr Whately was standing in the
doorway in his grey tweed suit and straw hat. "A bit late for a straw,
perhaps, but it's lovely weather, almost like spring. One can't believe
that summer's over." The repetition of the phrase jarred Roland's
conscience. Would it not be better to get it off his chest now, once
and for all, before he was taken to see April, before that final act of
hypocrisy was forced on him?
"Father," he said, "there's something----"
But Mr Whately did not like to be kept waiting.
"Come along, Roland, time enough for that when we are out of doors.
It'll be dark soon."
And by the time they had reached the foot of the long flight of steps
the moment of desperate courage had been followed by a desperate fear.
Time enough when he got back to tell them. He made no effort even to
discourage his father when, at the corner of Upper College Road, they
paused and the old assertive question was asked. Roland nodded his head
in meek submission. What was to be gained at this point by discussion?
There would be enough turmoil later on.
But he regretted his weakness five minutes later when he sat in the
wicker chair by the window-seat. He looked round the room at the
unaltered furniture, the unaltered pictures, the unaltered bookshelves,
and Mrs Curtis eternal in that setting, her voice droning on as it had
droned for him through so many years. There was no change anywhere.
Mrs Curtis was sitting beside the fireplace, her knitting on her lap,
the bones of her body projecting as awkwardly as ever. His father sat
opposite her, his hat held forward before his knees, his head nodding in
satisfied agreement, his voice interrupting occasionally the movement of
his head with a "Yes, Mrs Curtis," "Certainly, Mrs Curtis." And he and
April sat as of old, near and silent, in the window-seat.
As he looked at April, the profile of her face silhouetted against the
window, an acute wave of sentiment passed over him, reminding him of
the many things they had shared together. The first twenty years of his
life belonged to her. It was to her that he had turned in his moment of
success; her faith in him had inspired his achievements. She had been
proud of him. He remembered how she had flushed with pleasure when he
had told her what the school captain had said to him at the end of the
season, and when he had been invited to the cricket match at Hogstead
it was of her that he had asked soft encouragement, and it was at her
feet that he had laid, a few days later, his triumph. How strange that
was, that she should have been the first to hear of Hogstead. The wave
of tenderness swept away every little difference of environment and
personality that had accumulated round their love during the past three
years. What a fine thing, after all, they had meant to make of their
life together. What a confession of failure was this parting. And when
Mr Whately rose to go, and Mrs Curtis followed him to the door, no doubt
with the intention of leaving the lovers alone together, Roland put out
his arms to April and folded her into them, and for the last time laid
his lips on hers in a kiss that expressed for him an infinite kindness
for her, and pity, pity for her, for himself, and for the tangle life
had made of their ambitions. As he drew back his head from hers she
whispered the word "Darling!" on a note of authentic passion, but he
could not say anything. His hands closed on her shoulders for a moment,
then slackened. He could not bear to look at her. He turned quickly and
ran to his father. Was it, he asked himself, the kiss of Iscariot? He
did not know. He had buried a part of himself; he had said good-bye to
the first twenty years of his life.
He walked home in silence beside his father. He was in no mood for the
strain of the exacting situation, the astonishment, the implied reproach
that lay in front of him. But he was resigned to it. It had to come;
there was no loophole.
He made his announcement quite quietly during a pause in the talk just
after dinner. And it was received, as he had anticipated, in a stupefied
silence.
"What!" said Mr Whately at last. "Engaged to Muriel Marston!"
"Yes, Muriel Marston, the daughter of my employer, and I'm to become a
junior partner in the firm."
"But----" Mr Whately paused. He was not equal to the pressure of the
situation. He was not perplexed by the ethics of Roland's action; his
critical faculties had only appreciated the first fact, that a plan had
been altered, and he was always thrown off his balance by the alteration
of any plan. He was accustomed to thinking along grooves; he distrusted
sidings. He got no further than the initial "But." His wife, however,
had recovered from the shock and was by now able to face the matter
squarely. When she spoke her voice was even.
"Now, please, Roland, we want to know all about this. When did you
propose to Miss Marston?"
"During the week-end--on Saturday evening."
"And her parents agree to it?"
"Yes, yes," said Roland, a little impatiently. "Didn't I tell you that
I've been offered a junior partnership in his business."
"Of course; I forgot. I'm sorry. This is rather difficult for us. Now,
you say----"
But at this point her husband, whose thoughts had by now travelled a
certain distance along the new groove, interrupted her.
"But how can you talk about being engaged to this Muriel Marston when
you've been engaged for nearly three years to April?"
Roland's retort came quickly.
"I've never been engaged to April."
"You know you have! Why!..."
But Mrs Whately had held up her hand.
"Hush, dear," she said. "Roland's quite right. He's never been
officially engaged to April."
Roland shivered at the venom that was revealed by the stressing of the
word "officially."
"And how long," she went on, "have you been in love with Miss Marston?"
"Oh, I don't know, mother; I can't tell. Please let me alone." And there
was genuine misery behind the words. "One doesn't know about a thing
like this."
But Mrs Whately would not spare him. She shook her head impatiently.
"Don't be absurd, Roland; you're behaving like a child. Of course one
knows these things. You've known Miss Marston for four or five years
now. You couldn't suddenly find yourself in love with her."
"I suppose not, mother, but----"
"There's no 'but.' You must have been thinking of her for a long time.
On Friday night--Saturday morning, I mean--you must have gone down there
with the full intention of proposing to her; didn't you?"
Roland did not answer her. He rose from his seat and walked across to
the window.
"It's no good," he said, and his back was turned to them. "It's no good.
I can't make you understand. You won't believe what I say. I seem an
awful beast to you, I know, but--oh, well, things went that way."
And he stood there, looking out of the window through the chink of the
blind towards the long, grey stretch of roofs, the bend of the road, the
pools of lamplight, till suddenly, like a caress, he felt his mother's
hand upon his shoulder.
"Roland," she said, and for the first time there was sympathy in her
voice, "Roland, please tell me this. You're not, are you, marrying this
girl for her money?"
He turned and looked her full in the eyes.
"No, mother," he said, "I love Muriel Marston. I love her and I want
to marry her." As he spoke he saw the kind light vanish from her eyes,
her hand fell from his shoulder and the voice that answered him was
metallic.
"Very well, then, if that's so, there's no more to be said. As you've
arranged all this yourself, you'll let us know when the marriage will
take place."
She turned away. He took a step towards her.
"Mother, please----"
But she only shrugged her shoulders, and when her husband asked what
was going to be done about April, she said that she supposed that it
was no affair of theirs, and that no doubt Roland would make his own
arrangements. She picked up the paper and began to read it. Roland
wondered what was going to happen next; the silence oppressed him. He
listened to the slow ticking of the clock till he could bear it no
longer.
"Oh, please, one of you, won't you say something?"
They both turned their heads in surprise as though they would survey a
curiosity, a tortoise that had been granted miraculously the gift of
speech.
"But, my dear Roland, what is there to be said?"
"I don't know, I----"
"Your mother's quite right," said Mr Whately. "You're your own master;
you've arranged to marry the girl you want. What is there to be said?"
And their heads were again turned from him. He stood looking at them,
pondering the wisdom of an appeal to their emotions. He half opened his
mouth, took a step forward, but paused; what purpose would it serve? One
could not appeal to stone; they were hard, unreceptive, hostile; they
would turn cold eyes upon his outburst. He would look ridiculous. It
would do no good.
"Oh, very well," he said, and walked out of the room.
As he sat on his bed that night he remembered how, five years ago,
he had returned to his study after that tempestuous interview with
the Chief and had reflected on the impossibility of one mortal making
clear his meaning to another. Life went in a circle: here was the same
situation in a different setting. Everything was repetition. Had not the
Eastern critic laid it down that in the whole range of literature there
could be discovered only seven different stories? He remembered the
Chief telling him that; it had stuck in his mind: music had evolved from
seven notes, painting from three colours, literature from twenty-four
letters, the chronicle of mankind from seven stories. Variety, new
clothes, new accents, but at heart the same story, the same song.
One problem, however, that he had not previously considered, had
become clear for him during that discussion. How was April to be told?
He had imagined that he had only to tell his parents for the matter
to be settled. They would do the rest. He had never thought that the
responsibility of breaking the news to April would rest with him. And
he could not do it; it was no good pretending that he could. He could
no more tell April himself than he could murder a man in cold blood. He
knew also that if he once saw her he would be unable to carry through
the part. She would open the door for him and as soon as they were
alone in the hall she would throw her arms about his neck and kiss him,
and how should he then find words to tell her? His old love for her
would return to him; there would be further complications. Perhaps he
might write a letter to her, but he had only to take up pen and paper
to realise that this was impossible. He could not express himself in
writing; the sentences that stared at him from the paper were cold and
stilted; they would wound her cruelly. He was accustomed in times of
perplexity to turn for advice to Gerald. But this was hardly an occasion
when that was possible. Gerald was, after all, Muriel's brother. There
were limits.
The next day brought Roland no nearer to a solution of his immediate
problem. Indeed he had not thought of one till, on his way home, he
boarded the wrong bus, and on handing threepence and saying "Hammerton
Town Hall" was informed that the bus he was on would take him only as
far as Donnington before turning off to Richmond. The word "Richmond"
gave him his idea. Richmond, that was it, of course that was it! Why
had he not thought of it before? He would go round to Ralph at once and
send him on an embassy to April. So pleased was he with this inspiration
that he was actually shaking hands with Ralph before he realised that
the battle was not won yet, and that he had before him a very awkward
interview.
"Ralph," he said, "I want a word with you alone. I don't want to be
disturbed."
"Shall we go out for a walk then?"
"Right."
Ralph went into the hall, fidgeting his fingers in the umbrella stand
in search of his walking stick, did not find it, and paused there
indeterminate.
"Now, where did I put that stick?"
"Oh, don't bother, please don't bother; we're only going for a stroll."
"Yes, I know, but if I don't find it now--let me see, perhaps it's in
the kitchen." And for the next three minutes everyone seemed to be
shouting all over the house: "Mother, have you seen my walking stick?"
"Emma, have you seen Mr Ralph's walking stick?" And by the time that the
stick was eventually discovered, in the cupboard in Ralph's bedroom,
Roland's patience and composure had been shattered.
"Such a fuss about a thing like that," he protested.
"All right, all right; I didn't keep you long. Now, what's it all
about?" And there was firmness in his voice which caused Roland a twinge
of uneasiness. Ralph had developed since he had gone to Oxford. He was
no longer the humble servant of Roland's caprice.
"It's not very easy," said Roland; "I want you to do something for me.
I'm going to ask you to do me a great favour. It's about April."
"Why, of course," said Ralph, "I know what it is; you're going to be
married at once, and you want me to be your best man--but I shall be
delighted."
"Oh, no, no, no," said Roland, "it's not that at all."
Ralph was surprised. "No?"
"No, it's--oh, well, look here. You know how things are; there's been
a sort of understanding between us for a long time--three or four
years--hasn't there? Well, one alters; one doesn't feel at twenty-three
as one does when one's seventeen; we're altering all the time, and
perhaps I have altered quicker than most people. I've been abroad a
lot." He paused. "You understand, don't you?" he asked.
Ralph nodded, understanding perfectly. Though he did not quite see where
he himself came in, he understood that Roland was tired of April. But he
was not going to spare him. There should be no short-cuts, no shorthand
conversation. Roland would have to tell him the whole story.
"Well?" he said.
Their eyes met, and for the first time in their relationship Roland knew
that he was in the weaker position and that Ralph was determined to
enjoy his triumph.
"All right," said Roland, "I'll go on, though you know what I've got to
tell you. I don't know whose fault it is. I suppose it's mine really,
but things have happened this way. I'm not in love with April any more."
Again he paused and again Ralph repeated that one word, "Well?"
"I don't love her any more, and I've fallen in love with someone else
and we want to get married."
"Who is it?"
"Muriel Marston."
"The sister of that fellow you play cricket with?"
"Yes, that's it." He paused, hoping that now Ralph would help him out,
but Ralph gave him no assistance, and Roland was forced to plunge again
into his confession. "Well, you see, April knows nothing about it.
I've been a bit of a beast, I suppose. As far as she is concerned the
understanding still holds good. She's still in love with me, at least
she thinks she is. It's--well, you see how it is."
"Yes, I quite see that. You've been playing that old game of yours, of
running two girls in two different places, only this time it's gone less
fortunately and you find you've got to marry one of them, and April's
the one that's got to go?"
"If you put it that way----"
"Well, how else can I put it?"
"Oh, have it as you like."
"And what part exactly do you expect me to play in this comedy?"
"I want you to break the news to April."
There was a long silence. They walked on, Ralph gazing straight in front
of him, and Roland glancing sideways at him from time to time to see
how the idea had struck him. But he could learn nothing from the set
expression of his companion's face. It was his turn now to employ an
interrogatory "Well?" But Ralph did not appear to have heard him. They
walked on in silence, till Roland felt some further explanation was
demanded of him.
"It's like this, you see----"
But Ralph cut him short. "I understand quite well; you're afraid to
tell her. You're ashamed of yourself and you expect me to do your dirty
work!"
"It's not that----"
"Oh, yes, it is. I know you'll find excuses for yourself, but that's
what it amounts to. And I don't see why I should do it."
"I am asking it of you as a favour."
"That's like you. Since you've met these new friends of yours you've
dropped your old friends one by one. I've watched you, and now April,
she's the last to go. You haven't been to see me for three or four
months and now you've only come because you want me to do something for
you."
The justice of the remark made Roland wince. He had seen hardly
anything of Ralph during the last three years.
"But, Ralph," he pleaded, "how can I go and tell her myself?"
"If one's done a rotten thing one owns up to it. It's the least one can
do."
"But, it isn't----"
"What isn't it? Not a rotten thing to make a girl believe for four years
that you're going to marry her and then chuck her! If that isn't a
rotten thing I don't know what is!"
Roland was wise enough not to attempt to justify himself. He would only
enrage Ralph still further and that was not his game.
"All right," he said. "Granted all that, granted I've done a rotten
thing, it's happened; it can't be altered now; something's got to be
done. Put yourself in my place. What would you do if you were me?"
"I shouldn't have got myself in such a place"; his voice was stern and
official and condemnatory. In spite of the stress of the situation
Roland was hard put to it not to kick him for a prig.
"But I have, you see, and----"
"Even so," Ralph interrupted, "I can't see why you shouldn't go and tell
April yourself."
"Because April herself would rather be told by anyone than me."
It was his last appeal and he saw that it had succeeded. Ralph repeated
the words over to himself.
"April would rather be told----Oh, but rot! She'd much rather have it
out straight."
"Oh, no, she wouldn't; you don't know April as well as I do. She hates
scenes; she could discuss it impersonally with you. With me--can't you
see how it would hurt her; she wouldn't know how to take it, whether to
plead, or just accept it--can't you see?"
He had won, and he knew it, through the appeal to April's feelings.
Ralph would do what he wanted, because he would think that he was
performing a service for April.
"I expect you're right," he said; "you know her better than I do, but
I'm doing it for her, not for you, mind."
"Yes, yes, I understand."
"If it wasn't for her I wouldn't do it. A man should do his own dirty
work. And you know what I think of it."
"Oh, yes, I know." He would make no defence. Ralph might be allowed in
payment the poor privilege of revenge.
"And you'll tell me what she says?"
"You shall have a full account of the execution."
They walked a little farther in silence. They had nothing more to say to
each other, and at the corner of a road they parted. It was finished.
Roland walked home, well satisfied at the successful outcome of a
delicate situation--the same Roland who had congratulated himself five
years earlier on the diplomacy of the Brewster episode.
CHAPTER XX
THERE'S ROSEMARY ...
Ralph went round to see April on the next morning, shortly after eleven
o'clock. She had just been out for a long walk by herself and, on her
return, had taken up a novel with which to while away the two hours
remaining to lunch-time. She had left school eighteen months earlier,
and time often hung heavily on her. She did little things about the
house: she tidied her own room, mended her own clothes, did some
occasional cooking, but she had many hours of idleness. She wished
sometimes that she had trained for some definite work. Women were no
longer regarded as household ornaments. Many careers were open to her.
But it had not seemed worth while during the last year at school to
specialise in any one subject. What was the good of taking up a career
that she would have to abandon so soon? The first year in any profession
was uninteresting, and by the time she had reached a position where
she would be entrusted with responsibilities her marriage day would
be approaching. And so, instead of looking for any settled work, she
had decided to stay at home and help her mother as much as possible.
It was lonely at times, especially when Roland was away; she was, in
consequence, much given to daydreams. Her book, on this September
morning, had slipped on to her lap, and her thoughts had refused to
concentrate on the printed page, and fixed themselves on the time when
she and Roland would be married. He had not been to see her at all the
day before. But the memory of his last kiss was very actual to her. He
had loved her then. She had had her bad moments, when she had wondered
whether, after all, he really cared for her, but she was reassured by
such a memory. And soon they would be married. She would make him happy.
She would be a good wife.
A knock on the front door roused her from her reverie, and, turning her
head, she saw Ralph Richmond standing in the doorway. She rose quickly,
her hand stretched out in friendly welcome.
"How nice of you to come, Ralph; you're quite a stranger. Come and
sit down." And as soon as he was seated she began to talk with fresh
enthusiasm about their friends and acquaintances. "I saw Mrs Evans
yesterday and she told me that Edward had failed again for his exam. She
was awfully disappointed, though she oughtn't really to have expected
anything else. Arthur's form master told him once that he couldn't
imagine any examination being invented that Edward would be able to
pass."
Ralph sat in silence, watching her, wondering what expression those
bright features would assume when she had heard what he had to tell her.
He dreaded the moment, not for his sake, but for hers. He hardly thought
of himself. He loved her and he would have to give her pain. In the end
he stumbled awkwardly across her conversation.
"April, I have got some bad news for you."
"Oh, Ralph, what is it? Nothing about your people, is it?"
"No, it's nothing to do with me. It's about Roland."
Although she made no movement, and though the expression of her face did
not appear to alter, it seemed to him that, at the mention of Roland's
name, her vitality was stilled suddenly.
"Yes?" she said, and waited for his reply.
"He's not hurt, or anything. You needn't be frightened. But he wanted
you to know that he has become engaged to Muriel Marston."
She said nothing for a moment, then in a dazed voice:
"Oh, no, you must be mistaken, it can't be true, it can't possibly!"
"But it is, April, really. I'm awfully sorry, but it is."
She rose from her chair, swayed, steadied herself with her left hand,
took a half pace to the window and stood still.
"But what am I to do?" she said. She could not bear to contemplate her
life without Roland in it. What would her life become? What else had
it been, indeed, for the last four years but Roland the whole time?
Whenever she had bought a new frock or a new hat she had wondered how
Roland would like her in it. When she had heard an amusing story her
first thought had been, "Roland will be amused by that." When she had
opened the paper in the morning she had turned always to the sports'
page first. "Roland will be reading these very words at this very
moment." Roland was the measure of her happiness. It was a good day or
a bad day in accordance with Roland's humour. She would mark in the
calendar the days in red and green and yellow--yellow for the unhappy
days, when Roland had not seen her, or when he had been unsympathetic;
the green days were ordinary days, when she had seen him, but had not
been alone with him; her red days were the happy days, when there had
been a letter from him in the morning, or when they had been alone
together and he had been nice and kissed her and made love prettily to
her. Her whole life was Roland. Whenever she was depressed she would
comfort herself with the knowledge that, in a year or so she would be
married and with Roland for always. She could not picture to herself
what her life would become now without him. She raised her hand to her
head, in dazed perplexity.
"What am I to do?" she repeated. "What am I to do?" Then she pulled
herself together. There were several questions that she would wish to
have answered. She returned to her seat. "Now tell me, when did this
happen, Ralph?"
"He told me last night."
"I don't mean that; when did he propose to Miss Marston?"
"During the week-end--on Saturday evening, I think."
"Saturday evening!" she repeated it--"Saturday evening!" Then he had
been engaged to this other girl on Monday night when he had kissed her.
He had loved her then, he had meant that kiss; she was certain of it.
And to April, as earlier to Mrs Whately, this treachery seemed capable
of explanation only by a marriage for money. It was unworthy of Roland.
She could hardly imagine him doing it. But he might be in debt. People
did funny things when they were in debt.
"Is she pretty, this Miss Marston?"
That was her next question, and Ralph replied that he thought she was.
"But you've never seen her?"
"No."
"Roland told you she was pretty. Did he say anything else about her?"
"No, hardly anything."
There was another pause. Then:
"I can't think," she said, "why he didn't come and tell me this
himself."
She said nothing more. Ralph saw no reason why he should remain any
longer. He rose awkwardly to his feet. As he looked down at her, beaten
and dejected, his love for her flamed up in him fiercely, and, with a
sudden tenderness, he began to speak to her.
"April," he said, "it's been awful for me having to tell you this. I've
hated hurting you--really I have. I know you don't care for me, but if
you would look on me as a friend, a real friend; if there's anything
I can do for you just now.... I can't explain myself, but if you want
anything I'll do it. You'll come to me, won't you?"
She smiled at him, a tired, pathetic smile.
"All right, Ralph, I'll remember."
But the moment he had left the room all thought of him passed from
her, and she was confronted with the grey, interminable prospect of a
future without Roland. She could not believe that he was lost to her
irretrievably. He would return to her. He must love her still. It was
only two days since he had kissed her. He was marrying this girl for her
money; that was why he had been ashamed to tell her of it himself. He
would not have been ashamed if he had really loved this Muriel. Well, if
it was money she would win him back. She was not afraid of poverty if
Roland was with her; she would fight against it. She would earn money
in little ways; she would do without a servant. His debts would be soon
paid off. She would tell him this and he would return to her.
That evening she walked towards the Town Hall at the hour when he would
be returning from the office. She had often gone to meet him without her
mother's knowledge, and they had walked together down the High Street
in the winter darkness, his arm through hers. Bus after bus came up,
emptied, and he was not there. She watched the people climbing down
the stairs. She had decided that as soon as she saw Roland she would
walk quietly down the street, as though she had not come purposely to
meet him. She would thus take him off his guard. But, somehow, she
missed the bus that he was on; perhaps a passing van had obscured her
sight of it. And she did not realise that he was there till she saw
him suddenly on the other side of the pavement. Their eyes met, Roland
smiled, raised his hat and seemed about to come across to her; then he
seemed to remember something, for he hurried quickly on and was lost
almost at once in the dense, black-coated crowd of men returning from
their office. The smile, the raising of the hat, had been an involuntary
action. He had not remembered till he had taken that step forward, that
he had now no part in her life. He felt she would not want to speak to
him now. And this action naturally confirmed April in her belief that
Roland was marrying Muriel for her money.
"It is me that he loves really," she told herself, and she felt that if
she were a clever woman she would be able to win him back to her.
"But I am not a clever woman," she said. "I was not made for intrigues
and diplomacy." She remembered how, four years earlier, she had learnt
from a similar experience that she was not destined for a life of
action. "All my life," she had told herself, "I shall have to wait, and
Romance may come to me, or it may pass me by. But I shall be unable to
go in search of it." And it seemed to her that this fate had already
been accomplished. Roland still loved her; that she could not doubt. But
she had no means by which she might recall him to her. "If I had," she
said, "I should be a different woman, and, as likely as not, he would
not love me."
On her return home she went straight upstairs to her bedroom and,
without waiting to take off her hat, opened the little drawer in her
desk in which were stored the letters and the gifts that she had at
various times received from Roland. There was the copper ring there
that he had slipped on to her finger at the party, the tawdry copper
ring that she had kept so bright; there was the score card of a cricket
match, the blue and yellow rosette he had worn at the school sports
when he had been a steward, a photograph of him in Eton collars. She
held them in her hand and her first instinct was to throw them into the
fireplace. But she thought better of it. After all he loved her still.
Why should she not keep them? Instead, she sat down in the chair and
laid the little collection in her lap and, opening the letters, she
began to read them through, one by one; by the time she had finished
the room had darkened. She would have to put on another dress for the
evening and do her hair. Already she could hear her father's voice in
the hall, but she felt lazy, incapable of action; her hands dropped
into her lap, and her fingers closed round the letters and cards and
snapshots. Her thoughts travelled into the past and were lost in vague,
wistful recollection. Her mother's voice sounding in the passage woke
her from a reverie. It was quite dark; she must light the gas, and she
would have to hurry with her dressing. It was getting late. She rose to
her feet, walked over to the bureau and put the letters back into the
little drawer. Her fingers remained on the handle after she had closed
it. And again she asked herself the question to which she could find no
answer: "What is going to happen to me now?"
CHAPTER XXI
THE SHEDDING OF THE CHRYSALIS
The official position of fiancé was a new and fascinating experience,
in the excitement of which Roland speedily forgot the unpleasantness
that its announcement had caused in Hammerton. It was really great fun.
Important relatives were asked to meet him, and he was introduced to
them by Mr Marston as "my future son-in-law." Muriel insisted on taking
him for walks through the village for the pleasure of being able to say
to her friends: "This is my fiancé." And when he complained that he was
being treated like a prize dog, she asked him what else he thought he
was. Muriel had always been a delightful companion and the engagement
added to their relationship a charming intimacy. It was jolly to sit
with her and hold her hand; and she was not exacting. She did not expect
him to be making love to her the whole time. Indeed, he did not make
love to her very often. They kissed each other when they were alone, but
then kisses were part of the game that they were playing. April had at
first been too shy to pronounce the actual word "kiss." She had evaded
it, and later, when she had come to use it, it had been for a long while
accompanied by a blush. There was no such reserve between Muriel and
Roland. Kisses were favours that she would accord to him if he were
good. "No," she would say to him sometimes, "I don't think I'm going to
let you kiss me this afternoon. You haven't been at all the faithful
and dutiful lover. You didn't pay me any attention at lunch; you were
talking to father about some silly cricket match and I had to ask you
twice to pass me the salt. I oughtn't to have to ask you once. You
ought to know what I want. No! I shan't let you kiss me."
And then he would entreat her clemency: he would hold her hand and kneel
on the wet grass, an act of devotion to which he would call her notice,
and beseech her to be generous, and after a while she would weaken and
say--yes, if he was very good he might be allowed one kiss. No more! But
when his arms were round her he was not satisfied with one, he would
take two, three, four, and she would wriggle in his arms and kick his
shins and tell him that he had taken a mean advantage of her; and when
he had released her she would vow that as a punishment she would not
kiss him again--no, never, not once again, and then would add: "No, not
for a whole week!" And he would catch her again in his arms and say:
"Make it a minute and I'll agree," and with a laugh she had accepted his
amendment.
There were no solemn protestations, no passion, no moments of languid
tenderness. They were branches in neighbouring boughs that played
merrily in the wind, caring more, perhaps, for the wind than for each
other.
They talked exhaustively of the future--of the house they were going
to build, the garden they would lay out. "We'll have fowls," he said,
"because you'll look so pretty feeding them."
"And we'll have a lawn," she repeated, "because you'll look so hot when
you've finished mowing it."
They would discuss endlessly the problem of house decoration. She was
very anxious to have bright designs, "with lots of red and blue in
it." And he had told her that she could do what she liked with the
drawing-room as long as she allowed him a free hand with his own study.
"Which means that you'll have a nasty, plain brown paper, and you'll
cover it with ugly photographs of cricket elevens, and it'll be full of
horrid arm-chairs and stale tobacco."
One day he took her up to Hammerton to see his parents and his friends.
They intrigued her by the difference from the type to which she was
accustomed.
"It's awfully interesting," she said. "They are so different from the
sort of people that we see--all jammed together in these funny little
houses--all furnished just the same."
"Yes, and all doing the same things," said Roland--"going to the office
at the same time, coming back at the same time, and if it hadn't been
for Gerald that would have been my life. That's what I should have been.
I should have done exactly the same things every day of my life except
for one fortnight in the year. And it would have been worse for me than
for most of them, because I've been at a decent school, because I'd seen
that life needn't be like that. These people don't believe it can be
different." He spoke with a savage sincerity that surprised Muriel. She
had never known him so violent.
"Roland! Roland!" she expostulated. "I've never heard you so fierce
about anything before. Your proposal to me was the tamest thing in the
world compared with that."
"I'm sorry."
"I should hope so. I believe you hate Hammerton more than you love me."
So the autumn passed, quickly and happily. And by Christmas time they
had begun to speak of an April wedding. There was no reason for delay.
Roland was now making over seven hundred pounds a year, and the Marstons
were too certain of their son-in-law to demand a long engagement. Yet
it was on the very evening when the date was fixed that Roland and
Muriel had their first brief quarrel. Roland had been tired by the
long discussion, and Muriel's keen vitality had exasperated him. She
was talking so eagerly of her trousseau, her bridesmaids, the locality
of her honeymoon. She seemed to him to be sharing their love, his and
hers, with all those other people who had no part in it. He was envious,
feeling that their love was no longer theirs. He was still angry when
they stood together on the landing to say good-night to each other.
"I don't believe you care for me at all," he said, "that you regard our
marriage as anything more than a pantomime, a glorified garden-party!"
A look of hurt amazement crossed her face.
"But, Roland!"
"Oh, you know what I mean, Muriel, you--well, all these others!" He
paused, unable to express himself, then caught her quickly, roughly into
his arms, and kissed her hungrily. "I don't care," he said, "you'll be
mine soon, mine!"
She pushed away from him, her face flushed and frightened.
"Oh, don't, Roland, don't!"
He was instantly apologetic.
"I'm sorry, Elfkin. I'm a beast. Forgive me, but oh, Elfkin, you really
are anxious about the marriage for my sake?"
"Of course, silly!"
"I mean you're glad that we're going to be married soon?"
She was surprised and at the same time amused by the look of entreaty in
his eyes.
"Don't look so tragic about it, of course I'm glad."
"But...." He got no further, for she had taken his hands and was playing
with them, slapping them against his sides.
"Don't be such a silly, Roland, darling; you ought to know how pleased I
am. I'm looking forward to it frightfully; and I know you'll be an awful
dear to me."
She brought his hands together in one last triumphant smack, and leaning
forward imprinted a light kiss upon his forehead. He tried to draw her
again into his arms, but she broke from him.
"Oh, no, no, no," she said, and ran lightly up the stairs. She turned at
the corner of the landing to blow a kiss to him. "Good-night, darling,"
and she was gone.
It was not repeated. Doubt, remorse, hesitation were alike forgotten in
the excitement of preparation. He had arranged to take over the lease of
a small house on the edge of the Marston estate, and the furnishing of
it was a new and delightful game. The present tenants did not relinquish
possession till the end of February, and during the intervening weeks
Muriel and Roland would prowl round the house like animals waiting for
their prey. They were finely contemptuous of the existing arrangements.
Fancy using that big room as a drawing-room; it faced south-east, and
though it would be warm enough during the morning, it would be freezily
cold in the afternoon. Of course they would make that the dining-room;
it would be glorious for breakfast. And that big room above it should be
their bedroom; they would wake with the sunlight streaming through the
window.
"You'll see the apple-tree while you brush your hair," he told her. And
they both agreed that they would cut down the large walnut-tree in the
garden. It was pretty, but it shut out the view of Hogstead. "It'll be
much better to be able to look out from the drawing-room window and see
the funny old people going up and down the village street." And Roland
reminded her how they had looked down on them that day when they had
leant against the gate: "Do you remember?" And she had laughed and told
him that he was a stupid old sentimentalist, but she had kissed him all
the same. And then the great day had come when the tenants began to
move; they stood all the afternoon watching the workmen stagger into the
garden, bowed with the weight of heavy furniture.
"I can't think how all that stuff ever got in there," Muriel said, and
began to wonder whether they themselves would ever have enough. "We've
nothing like as much as that."
And Roland had to assure her that they could always buy more, and that
anyway the house had been over-furnished.
"You couldn't move for chairs and chesterfields and bureaux."
It was two days before the last van rolled away and Muriel and Roland
were able to walk up the garden path "into our own house." But it was a
bitter disappointment. The rooms looked mean and small and shabby now
that they were unfurnished. The bare boards of the floors and staircases
were dirty and covered with the straw of packing cases, the plaster of
the wall showing white where the book-shelves had been unfixed. And
the paper that had been shielded by pictures from the sunshine struck
a vivid contrast to its faded environment. Muriel was on the verge of
tears.
"Oh, Roland, what's happened to our pretty house?" she cried. And it
took all his skill to persuade her that rooms always did look small till
they were furnished, and that carpets and pictures covered many things.
"But our pictures won't fit exactly in those places," Muriel wailed,
"and all our small pictures will have haloes."
"Then we'll get new papers," Roland said.
There were moments when it seemed that things could not be possibly
finished in time. On the last week of March there was not a carpet on
the floor, not a curtain over a window, not a picture on the walls.
"I know what it'll be," said Muriel in despair, "we shall have to go
and leave it half-finished, and while we're away mother'll arrange it
according to her own ideas, and her ideas are not mine. It'll take us
all the rest of our lives getting things out of the places where she has
put them. It's going to be awful, Roland, I know it is. We oughtn't to
have arranged our marriage till we'd arranged our house."
Muriel was a little difficult during those days, but Roland was very
patient and very affectionate.
"You only wait," he said; "it looks pretty awful now, but one good day's
shopping'll make a jolly big difference."
And it did. In one week they bought all the carpets, the curtains,
the chairs and tables, and Gerald was dispatched with a list that
Mrs Marston had drawn up of the uninteresting things--saucepans,
frying-pans, crockery--and with a blank cheque. "We can't be bothered
with those things," said Roland.
It was a hectic week. They had decided to spend three hundred pounds on
furnishing, and every evening, for Roland was staying with the Marstons,
the two of them sat down to adjust their accounts, and to Muriel, who
had never experienced a moment's anxiety about money, this checking of
a balance-sheet was a delightful game. It was such fun pretending to be
poor, adding up figures, comparing price-lists, as though each penny
mattered. She would sit, her pencil on her lips, her account-book on one
side, her price-list on the other, and would look up at Roland with an
imploring, helpless glance, and: "Roland, dear, there's such a beautiful
wardrobe here; it's fifty pounds, but it'll hold all my things; do you
think we can afford it?"
And Roland would assume dire deliberation: "Well," he would say, after
an impressive pause, "I think we can, only we'll have to be very careful
over the servant's bedroom if we get it." And Muriel would throw her
arms round his neck and assure him that he was a darling, and turn again
to the price-list.
And all the while the wedding presents were arriving by every post.
That, too, was great fun, or rather it had been at the start.
The first parcels were opened with unbounded enthusiasm.
"Oh, Roland, Mrs Boffin has sent us a silver inkstand; isn't it sweet of
her?"
"Muriel, come and look at these candlesticks; they are beauties."
And letters of eager thanks were written. After a week or so the game
began to lose its fascination. The gifts resembled each other; they
began to forget who had given what, and as they wrote the letters of
acknowledgment they would shout to each other in despair:
"Oh, Roland, do tell me what Mr Fitzherbert sent us!"
"I can't remember. I'm trying to think who I've got to thank for that
butter-dish."
"The butter-dish!--that was Mr Robinson--but Mr Fitzherbert?"
"But the butter-dish wasn't Mr Robinson; he was the clock!"
"Then it was Mrs Evans; and, Roland, do, do think what Mr Fitzherbert
gave us."
And so it went on, till at last they began to show a decided preference
for cheques.
And there was the honeymoon: that had to be arranged. Muriel would
rather like to have gone abroad.
"I've been only twice. We'll see all the foreigners, and sit in cafés,
and go to theatres and see if we can understand them."
But Roland was not very anxious to go abroad. He went there too often
in the way of business. He might meet people who at other times were
charming, but were not on a honeymoon the most comfortable company.
There would be the fatigue of long journeys, and besides, he wanted
Muriel to himself.
"I don't want to go and see foreigners, I want to see you."
"Well, you'll have seen a good deal of me before you've finished."
"But, Muriel," and the firm note in his voice forced her to capitulate.
"All right, all right, have it as you like."
And so, after much discussion, it was decided that they should get a
cyclist map of England, find a Sussex village that was at least three
miles from any railway station, and then write to the postmaster and ask
whether anyone there would be ready to let them rooms for a month.
"Three miles from anywhere! Heavens! but I shall be bored; still it's as
you wish. Go and get your map, Gerald."
And with the map spread on the table they selected, after an hour's
argument, to see if anything was doing at Bamfield.
"It should be a good place," said Roland. "It's just under the Downs."
In all this fret and fluster Mr Marston took the most intense interest.
It reminded him of his own marriage and, finding his youth again in
theirs, he spoke often of his honeymoon.
"Do you remember, dear, when we went out for a picnic in the woods and
it came on to rain and we went to that little cottage under the hill?"
And again: "Do you remember that view we got of the sea from the top of
Eversleigh?" Little incidents of his courtship that he had forgotten
a long time were recalled to him, so that he came to feel a genuine
tenderness for the wife whom he had neglected for business, for cricket,
and his children; from a distance of thirty years the perfume of those
scented months had returned to him.
Gerald was alone unmoved. He was annoyed one morning when he found the
floor of the billiard-room covered with packing cases, but he retained
his hardly won composure. He accepted the duties of best man without
enthusiasm. "At any rate it will soon be over," he had said, and had
proceeded to give Roland two new white wood bats.
"They won't last long, but you can't help making a few runs with them."
And his friend was left to draw from that present what inference he
might think fit.
They were hectic days, but at last everything was finished. The house
was papered and furnished, rooms had been booked at Bamfield, and in the
last week in April Roland returned to Hammerton. He had had scarcely
a moment's rest during the last two months. Life had moved at an
incredible pace, and only with an enormous struggle had he managed to
keep pace with it. He had had no time to think what he was doing. Each
morning had presented him with some fresh difficulty, each night had
left some piece of work unfinished. And, now that it was over, he felt
exhausted. The store of energy that had sustained his vitality at so
high a pressure was spent.
The sudden marriage was naturally a disappointment to his parents. Their
opinion had not been asked; the arrangements had been made at Hogstead.
Roland had just told them that such and such a thing had been decided,
and they were hurt. They had known, of course, all along that as soon
as their son was married they would lose him, but they had expected to
retain his confidence up till then; and, being sentimental, they had
often spoken together of the wife that he would choose. They had looked
forward to his days of courtship, hoping to have a share in that fresh
happiness. But the pleasure had been given to others; they had had no
part in it.
In consequence Roland did not find them very responsive. They listened
attentively to all he told them, but they asked no questions, and the
conversation was not made easy. Roland was piqued by their behaviour; he
had intended to arrange a picnic for the three of them on the last day,
but now decided that he would not. After all, why should he: it would
be no pleasure for any of them, not if they were going to sit glum and
silent. Two days before his marriage he went for a walk in the evening
with his father, and as Gerald would be coming on the next day to stay
the night with them this was the last walk they would have together. But
in nothing that they said to each other was implied any appreciation of
the fact. When Mr Whately returned from the office he handed the evening
paper to his wife, commented on the political situation in Russia and
on the economical situation of France, and was, on the whole, of the
opinion that Spanish cooking was superior to Italian, "Not quite so much
variety," he said, "but there's a flavour about it that one gets nowhere
else." He then proceeded to remove his boots: "And what about a walk,
Roland?"
Ronald nodded, and Mr Whately went upstairs to change his suit. They
walked as usual down the High Street, they turned up the corner of
College Road, they crossed by the Public Library into Green Crescent,
and completed their circuit by walking down into the High Street through
Woolston Avenue. They talked of Fernhurst, of the coming cricket season,
of the marriage ceremony, of the arrangements that had been made for
meeting the guests at the church, of the train that Roland and Muriel
would catch afterwards. But there passed between them not one sentence,
question, intonation of the voice that could be called intimate, that
could be said to express not remorse, but any attitude at all towards
the severing of a long relationship. As they walked up the steps of 105
Hammerton Villas they were discussing the effectiveness of the new pull
stroke that in face of prejudice so many great batsmen were practising.
"I think I shall go down to the nets at the Oval to-morrow, father, and
see what I can make of it."
It was a bleak morning and the Oval presented a dismal appearance;
a few men were pottering about with ladders and paint brushes; a
cutting machine was clanking on the grass; the long stone terraces
were cold and forbidding; the clock in the pavilion had stopped; far
over at the Vauxhall end a couple of bored professionals were bowling
to an enthusiastic amateur who had no idea of the game, but demanded
instruction after every stroke. Roland stood behind the net and watched
for a while an exhibition of cross-bat play that was calculated to make
him for ever an advocate of the left shoulder, the left elbow and the
left foot. He had a few minutes' chat with one of the groundsmen.
"Yes, sir, it do look pretty dismal, but you wait. April's a funny
month; why, to-morrow we shall probably have brilliant sunshine, and
there'll be twenty or thirty people down here, and when you go away
you'll be thinking about getting out that bat of yours and putting a
drop of oil on it." Roland expressed a hope that this prophecy would
prove correct.
April was a funny month: it was cold to-day, but within a week the sun
would be shining on green grass and new white flannels. Only another
week! The fixing of this date, however, reminded Roland that in a
week's time he would be in a small village under the Downs, three miles
from the nearest station, and this reminder was somewhat of a shock to
him. He would miss the first four weeks of the season. By the time he
came back everyone else would have found their form; it was rather a
nuisance. Still, a honeymoon! Ah, well, one could not have it both ways.
Gerald was not arriving till the afternoon, and the morning passed
slowly for Roland. He walked from Kennington over Westminster Bridge
and along the Embankment to Charing Cross; he strolled down the Strand,
looking into the shop windows and wondering whether he was hungry enough
to have his lunch. He decided he was not and continued his walk, but
boredom made him reconsider the decision, and he found himself unable to
pass a small Italian restaurant at the beginning of Fleet Street; and as
he had a long time, with nothing to do in it, he ordered a heavy lunch.
When the waiter presented him with his bill he had become fretfully
irritable--the usual penalty of overeating.
What on earth should he do with himself for two hours? How slowly the
time was passing. It was impossible to realise that in twenty-four
hours' time he would be standing beside Muriel before the altar, that
in two days' time they would be man and wife. What would it be like?
Pondering the question, he walked along to Trafalgar Square, and still
pondering it he mounted a bus and travelled on it as far as a sevenpenny
ticket would take him. Then he got on to a bus that was going in the
opposite direction, and by the time he was back again at Trafalgar
Square, Gerald's train from Hogstead was nearly due.
It was not a particularly exciting evening and the atmosphere was
distinctly edgy. Mr Whately was bothered about his clothes, and whether
he should wear a white or a dark tie; and Mrs Whately was fussing over
little things. "Did old Mrs Whately know that she had to change at
Waterloo? Had anyone written to tell her? And who was going to meet her
at the other end?" It was a relief to Roland when they had gone to bed
and he and Gerald were left alone.
"It's a funny thing," Gerald said; "five years ago we didn't know
each other; you were nothing to me, nor I to you, and then we meet in
Brewster's study, and again at the Oval and, before we know where we are
you're a junior partner in the business and engaged to my sister. To
think what a difference you've made to all of us!"
"And the funniest thing of all," said Roland, "is to think that
if I hadn't caught the three-thirty from Waterloo instead of the
four-eighteen, none of this would have happened. I shouldn't have met
that blighter Howard, nor gone out with those girls; and, even so,
none of it would have happened if I had taken my footer boots down to
be mended, as I ought to have done, on a Sunday afternoon instead of
loafing in my study. One can't tell what's going to be a blessing till
one's done with it. If I hadn't had that row I should never have met you
and I should never have met Muriel." And he paused, wondering what would
have happened to him if he had caught the four-eighteen and taken his
boots down to be mended. He would have stayed on another year at school;
he would have been captain of the house; he would have gone up to the
'Varsity. He would have had a good time, no doubt, but where would he
be now? Probably an assistant master at a second-rate public school, an
ill-paid post that had been given to him because he was good at games.
Probably also he would be engaged to April, and he would be making
desperate calculations with account-books to discover whether it was
possible to marry on one hundred and fifty pounds a year.
"That now," he said, "was the luckiest thing for me that ever happened."
And they sat for a while in silence pondering the strange contradictions
of life, pondering also the instability of human schemes. One might
plan out the future, pigeon-hole it, have everything arranged as by a
machine, and then what happened? Someone caught a train at three-thirty
instead of at four-eighteen, or was too lazy to take his football boots
down to be mended on a wet afternoon, and the plans that had been built
up so elaborately through so many years were capsized, and one had to
begin again.
"And it's so funny," Roland said, "to think of the fuss they made at
Fernhurst about a thing like that--just taking a girl out for a walk,
and you'd think I'd broken the whole ten commandments, and all the talk
about my corrupting the pure soul of Brewster."
Gerald broke into a great laugh.
"The pure soul of Brewster!" he said. "My lord! if you'd known what he
was like after he'd been in the house a term. He'd have taken a blooming
lot of corrupting then. Gawd, but he was a lad!" And Gerald supplied
some intriguing anecdotes of Brewster's early life. "He was a lad!" And
Brewster's name started a train of associations, and Roland asked Gerald
whether he had heard of Baker.
"Baker? Baker?" Gerald repeated. "No. I can't say I ever remember
hearing anything about him. He must have been after my time."
Roland got up, walked across to his bureau, and taking a bunch of keys
from his hip pocket unlocked a small top drawer. He took the drawer
out and, bringing it across, laid it on the table. It was full of
photographs, letters, ribbons, dance programmes, and he began to fumble
among them: "I think we shall find something about Master Baker here,"
he said. "Ah, yes, here we are!" And he handed across to Gerald a large
house photograph. "There he is, bottom row, fourth from the right."
Gerald scrutinised the photograph, holding it to the light.
"Lord, yes," he said, "that tells its own story; what's happened to him
now?"
"He was head of the house two years ago; he's gone up to Selwyn. I
believe he's going into the Church."
Gerald smiled. "When we all meet at an old boys' dinner in twenty
years' time we shall get one or two shocks. Think of Brewster bald, and
Maconochie stout, and Evans the father of a family!"
"My lord!"
And they began to rummage in the drawer, till the table was littered
with letters and photographs.
The photographs led them from one reminiscence to another; and in that
little series of isolated recollections they lived again through all
that had remained vivid to them of their school-days.
"Heavens!" said Gerald, "who's that? You don't mean to say that's
Harrison! Why, I remember him when he first came, a ridiculous kid; we
used to call him 'Little Belly.' About the first week he was there he
showed his gym. belt to someone and said: 'Isn't it small? Haven't I a
little belly?'"
"And here's Hardy," said Roland. "Do you remember that innings of his in
the final house match, and how we lined up on each side of the pavilion
and cheered him when he came out?"
"And do you remember that try of his in the three cock?--two men and the
back to beat and only a couple of yards to spare between them and the
touch-line. I don't know how he kept his foot inside."
And as the store of Fernhurst photographs became exhausted they found
among the notes and hotel bills delightful memories of much that they
had in common.
"The Café du Nord, Ghent! My son," said Gerald, "do you remember that
top-hole Burgundy? Yes, here it is--two bottles of Volnay, fifty-three
francs."
"Wasn't that the night when that ripping little German girl smiled at us
across the room?"
"And when I said that another bottle of Volnay was better than any woman
in the world."
A torn hotel bill at Cologne recalled a disappointing evening in the
company of two German girls whom they had met at a dance and taken out
to supper--an evening that had ended, to the surprise of both of them,
in a platonic pressure of the hands.
"Do you remember how we stood under the cathedral and watched them pass
out of sight behind the turning of the Hohe Strasse, and then you turned
to me and said: 'There's no understanding women'?"
And then there was the evening when they had gone to the opera in Bonn
and had had supper afterwards in a little restaurant, from the window of
which they could see the Rhine flowing beneath them in the moonlight,
and its beauty and the tender sentimental melodies of Verdi had produced
in both of them a mood of rare appreciation; they had sat in silence and
made no attempt to express in talk the sense of wonderment. Much was
recalled to them by these pieces of crumpled paper, and when Roland put
away the drawer it seemed to Gerald that he was locking away a whole
period of his life. And when they said good-night to each other on the
stairs Gerald could not help wondering whether, in the evening that had
just passed, their friendship had not reached the limit of its tether.
Roland was beginning a new life in which he would have no part. As he
heard his friend's door shut behind him he could not help feeling that
never again would they reach that same point of intimacy.
CHAPTER XXII
AN END AND A BEGINNING
No doubt the groundsman at the Oval rubbed his hands together with
satisfaction when he looked out of his bedroom window on the following
morning. It was not particularly warm; indeed he must have shivered as
he stood with his shaving brush in his hand, looking at the sky instead
of at his mirror. But the sky was blue and the sun was shining, and he
would, no doubt, be warm enough after he had sent down a couple of overs
at the nets. The thoughts of Roland as he surveyed the bright spring
morning were not dissimilar. He saw in it a happy augury. Summer was
beginning.
They were a silent party at breakfast; each was preoccupied with his own
affairs. They had decided to leave Charing Cross at twelve-thirty-five
by a train that reached Hogstead at half-past one; the service was fixed
for two o'clock. They would not need to leave the house till a quarter
to twelve. They had therefore three hours to put in.
"Now, I suggest," said Gerald, "that you should come down with me to the
barber's and have a shave."
"But I've shaved already."
"I daresay you have, but on a day like this one can't shave too often."
And Roland, in spite of his protests, was led down to the shop. Once
there, Gerald refused to be satisfied with a mere shave.
"This is a big occasion," he said. And he insisted that Roland should be
shampooed, that he should have his hair singed, that his face should be
oiled and massaged and his finger-nails polished.
"Now you look something like a bridegroom." And in defiance of Roland's
blushes he explained to the girl at the counter that his friend had
intended to be married unshaven.
"What would you think," he said, "if your fiancé turned up at the altar
with his hair unbrushed and chin all over bristles?"
The girl was incapable of any repartee other than a giggle and the
suggestion that he should get along with himself. Gerald then announced
his intention of buying a pair of gloves, and when he reached the shop
he pretended that he was the bridegroom and Roland the best man. He took
the shopmen into his confidence and told them that the bride was very
particular--"a very finicking young person indeed"--and he must have
exactly the shade of yellow that would match her orange blossom. He
produced from his waistcoat pocket a piece of flame-coloured silk. "It's
got to go with this," he said.
In the same manner he proceeded to acquire a tie, a pair of spats, a
silk handkerchief. As he told his father afterwards, he did splendidly,
and kept Roland from worrying till it was time for them to dress.
But the journey to the station was, even Gerald confessed, pretty
terrible. It was only five minutes' walk and it had never occurred to
them to hire a cab. They wished they had, however, as they stepped down
the long white steps into the street that divided the even from the odd
numbered houses of Hammerton Villas. Everyone they passed turned to
stare at them. They were so obviously a wedding party. "Which is it?"
they overheard a navvy ask his mate. "Should be the one with the biggest
flower in his button-hole."
"Garn, he's much too young!"
Roland hated it, and the half-hour in the train was even worse. As soon
as they reached Charing Cross he made a dash for the platform, leaving
Gerald to collect the tickets. But his embarrassment was yet to be made
complete, for as he stood on the footboard of the carriage he heard a
deep booming voice behind him.
"Hullo, bridegroom!" And he turned to face the bulky figure of a maiden
aunt and the snigger of a porter. He did not feel safe till he had heard
the scream of the driver's whistle, felt the carriage vibrate beneath
him and after two jolts pull slowly out of the station.
He talked little on the journey, but sat in a corner of the carriage
watching through the window the houses slip past him, till the train
reached meadowland and open country. He knew every acre of that hour's
journey. He had made it so often with such eager haste. How much, he
wondered, would not have happened to him before the time came for him
to make it again? He tried to marshal the reflections that should be
appropriate to such an occasion, but he could not. Life moved too fast
for thought. A fierce rhythm was completing its circle. He sat watching
the landmarks fall one by one behind him, appreciating confusedly the
nature of the experience to which he was being hurried.
It was the same at the church. He did not feel in the least nervous. He
told a couple of good stories to Gerald in the chancel; he settled the
account with the verger; he walked down the aisle and began to speak to
his friends as they took their places.
"So good of you to come; hope you had a pleasant journey. See you
afterwards."
Gerald was amazed: "You're wonderful! Why, you're as calm as if you were
at a tea-party!"
Roland smiled, but said nothing. He attributed no credit to himself. How
else should he behave? A swiftly spinning top would, at a first glance,
appear to be poised unconsciously upon its point. It did not begin to
wobble till its pace was lost. And was not he himself a swiftly spinning
top.
He did not even feel nervous when a commotion in the porch warned him
of the arrival of his bride; he stood firmly, did not fidget, fixed his
eyes upon the door till he saw, framed there picture-wise, Muriel, in
white and orange, upon her father's arm. He then turned and faced the
altar. The organ boomed out its heavy, ponderous notes, but he hardly
heard them. His ears were strained for the silken sound that drew nearer
to him every moment. He kept his eyes fixed upon the altar, and it was
the faint perfume of her hair that told him first that she was beside
him.
During the early part of the service he comported himself with a
mechanical efficiency. His performance was dignified and correct. When
he found a difficulty in putting the ring on to her finger he did not
become flustered, but left her to put it on herself. The ceremony had
for him a certain emotional significance. Once, as they stood close
together, the back of his hand brushed against hers and the cool contact
of her fingers reminded him of the serious oath that he was taking and
of how he was bringing to it a definite, if vaguely formulated, ideal
of tenderness and loyalty. He meant to make of their marriage a reality
other than the miserable, dissatisfied compromise that, for the vast
majority of men and women, succeeded the first brief enchantment. His
lips framed no prayer; it had been for a long while his belief that the
moulding of a man's fortunes lay within his own powers. But that desire
for happiness was none the less a prayer. It went as quickly as it had
come, and he was once again the lay figure whose contortions all these
good people had been called together to observe. He remained a lay
figure during the rest of the afternoon.
He walked down the aisle proudly with Muriel on his arm; in the carriage
he took her hand in his, and when they were out of sight of the church
he lifted her veil and imprinted a gentle kiss upon her cheek. He
stood beside her in the drawing-room and received each guest with a
swift, fluttering smile and a shake of the hand. The majority of them
he did not know, or had seen only occasionally. They were the friends
and relatives of Muriel. There were only a few in whom Roland was able
to take any personal interest. Ralph was there, and April. He had
not spoken to April since the evening when he had kissed her, and he
momentarily lost his composure when he saw, over the shoulder of an old
lady whose hand he was politely shaking, the brown hair and delicate
features to which he had been unfaithful. In what manner should he
receive her? But he need not have worried. She settled that for him. She
walked forward and took his hand in simple comradeship and smiled at
him. She looked very pretty in a grey coat and skirt and wide-brimmed
claret-coloured hat. He recalled the day when she had worn that hat for
the first time and her anxiety that she should be pretty with it. "You
do like it, don't you, darling?" But someone else was already waiting
with outstretched hand. "You looked so sweet, Muriel, darling," an aged
female was saying. "Your husband's a lucky man!" And by the time that
was over, the cake was waiting to be cut and champagne bottles had to
be opened, and Roland was passing from one group of persons to another,
saying the same things, making the same gestures: "Yes, we're spending
our honeymoon in England ... Bamfield, a little village under the Downs
... Sussex's so quiet ... such a mistake to try and do too much on a
honeymoon."
He had barely time to exchange a couple of remarks with Beatrice. She
came towards him, her hand stretched out in simple comradeship.
"Good luck, Roland," she said. "You are going to be awfully happy. I
know you are."
"And when we come back you must come and see us; won't you, Beatrice?"
"Of course I shall."
"Often," he urged.
"As often as you ask me."
Before he had time to reply an obscure relative had begun to assure him
of his wonderful fortune and of his eternal felicity.
He caught glimpses of Muriel's white dress passing through the ranks
of admiration, and then he found himself being led by the arm to the
table where the champagne was being opened and a cricket friend of his,
a married man, was adjuring him to take as much as possible. "You don't
know what you're in for, old man." And then Gerald was telling him that
it was time he went upstairs to change, that Muriel had gone already.
"You're really wonderful, old man," Gerald said, when they were alone.
"I can't think how you did it. It's cured me of ever wanting to get
married."
There were several telegrams lying on his dressing-table; he opened
them and tossed them half read upon the floor. "Thank God I haven't
got to answer those," he said. And while he changed into a grey tweed
suit Gerald continued to perform what he considered to be the functions
of a best man. He chattered about the service, the champagne, the
wedding-cake, the behaviour of the guests. "And, I say, old son, who was
that mighty topping girl in grey, with the large wine-coloured hat?"
"That? Oh, that was April--April Curtis."
"What! the girl that----"
"Yes, that's the one."
Gerald was momentarily overwhelmed. "Well, I must say I'm surprised," he
began. Then paused, realising that as Roland had just married his sister
it was hardly possible for him to draw any comparison between her and
April. He contented himself with a highly coloured compliment:
"A jolly pretty girl," he said, "and she'll be a beautiful woman."
At that moment there was a tap at the door and Mrs Marston's voice was
heard inquiring whether Roland had nearly finished.
"Hurry up, old man," said Gerald, "Muriel's ready." And two minutes
later he was running, with Muriel on his arm, through a shower of rose
leaves and confetti. They both sank back into the cushions, panting,
laughing, exhausted. And as the gates of the drive swung behind them
they said, almost simultaneously: "Thank heaven, that's over!"
But a moment later Muriel was qualifying her relief with the assertion
that it had been "great fun."
"All those serious-faced people came up and wished me good luck. If I'd
encouraged them they'd have started taking me into corners and preaching
sermons at me."
But Roland did not find it easy to respond to her gaiety. Now that
it was all over he felt tired, physically and emotionally. When
they reached the station he bought a large collection of papers and
magazines, so that their two hours' journey might be passed quietly. But
this was not at all in accordance with Muriel's ideas.
"Don't be so dull, Roland!" she complained. "I want to be amused."
He did his best; they talked of all their guests and of how each one of
them had behaved.
"Wasn't old Miss Peter ridiculous, dressing up so young?" said Muriel;
and Roland asked whether she didn't think that Guy Armstrong had been
paying rather marked attention to Miss Latimer.
"Why, he's been doing that for months," said Muriel. "We've all been
wondering when he's going to propose. I don't mind betting that at this
very moment she's doing her best to make him. She's probably suggested
that he should take her home, and she's insisted on going the longest
way."
But Roland's conversational energy was soon exhausted, and after a long
and slightly embarrassed silence Muriel tossed back her head impatiently
and picked up a magazine.
"You are not very interesting, are you?" she said.
Roland considered it wiser to make no response. He settled himself
back into his seat, rested his head against his hand, and allowed his
thoughts to travel back over the incidents of the afternoon.
It had been a great success; there could be no doubt of that. Everything
had gone off splendidly. But he was unaccountably oppressed by a vague
sense of apprehension, of impending trouble. He endeavoured to fix his
thoughts on reassuring subjects. He recalled his momentary talk with
Beatrice, and remembered that that afternoon he had addressed her for
the first time by her Christian name. She had shown no displeasure at
his use of it, and as she smiled at him he fancied he had read in the
soft wavering lustre of her eyes the promise of a surer friendship,
of deeper intimacy. He had seen so little of her during the last few
months. It would be exciting to meet her on his return, at full liberty,
on an assured status, in his own house.
His reverie travelled thence to Gerald's easy good humour, his
unflagging energy, his bubbling commentary on the idiosyncrasies of his
father's friends, his surprised admiration of April; and the thought
of April brought back in a sudden wave the former mood of doubt and
apprehension. How little, after all, he and Muriel knew of one another;
they were strangers beneath the mask of their light-hearted friendship.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Her magazine had fallen
forward on to her lap. Her eyes were fixed dreamily on the opposite wall
of the carriage. Her thoughts were, no doubt, loitering pleasantly in a
coloured dream among the agreeable episodes of the afternoon--her dress,
her bridesmaids, her bouquets, the nice things everyone had said to her.
As he looked at her, so calm, so self-possessed, Roland was momentarily
appalled by the difficulty of establishing on a new basis their old
relationship.
They had been comrades before they had been lovers. In their courtship
passion had been so occasional a visitant.
They were both in a subdued state of mind when they stepped up into the
dogcart that had been sent to meet them at the station.
"Tired, Elfkin?" he whispered.
"A little," she said.
The air was cold and she snuggled close to him for warmth; he took her
hand in his and held it, pressing it tenderly.
They had a three-mile drive through the quiet English countryside.
And it was quite dark when the dogcart eventually drew up before a small
cottage and a kindly, plump woman came out to meet them.
"Ah, there you be!" she said. "I was just expecting you. The supper's
all laid out, and I've only got to put the eggs on to boil, and there's
some hot water in the bedroom."
Roland thanked her, took down the two suitcases, and followed her up the
narrow creaking stairs.
"There," she said, opening a door. "There you are. And if you want
anything you ring that bell on the table. I'll just run down and get on
with the supper."
Roland and Muriel were left alone in a small room, the greater part of
which was occupied by a large double bed, over which had been hung, with
a singular lack of humour, a Scriptural admonition: "Love one another."
The ceiling was low, the window was overhung with ivy. In midsummer it
would be a stuffy room. They looked at each other; they were alone for
the first time, and they did not know what to do. There was an awkward
silence.
"I suppose you'll want to tidy up," said Roland.
"Well, of course," she answered a little petulantly.
"All right, then; I'll go downstairs. Come and tell me when you're
ready."
She was standing between him and the door, and as he passed her he
made an ill-judged attempt to take her in his arms. She was tired and
she was dusty, and she did not want to be kissed just then. She shook
herself away from him. And this mistake increased Roland's despondency,
accentuated his nervousness, his vague distaste for this summoning of
emotion to order, at a fixed date and at a fixed hour.
Supper was not a cheerful meal; at first they attempted to be jovial,
but their enthusiasm was forced, and long silences began to drift into
their conversation. They grew increasingly embarrassed and tried to
prolong the meal as long as possible. Muriel was not fond of coffee and
rarely took it, but when Roland asked her if she would like some she
welcomed the suggestion: "Oh, yes, do."
Mrs Humphries, however, had no coffee, but when she read the
disappointment of the young bride's face she said she would see if she
could not borrow some from her neighbour. And while she ran over the
village street Muriel and Roland sat opposite each other in silence; her
hands were folded in her lap, and she stared straight in front of her;
he played with the spoon of the salt cellar, making little pyramids of
salt round the edge.
At last the coffee arrived; its warmth momentarily cheered them and
they tried to talk, to make fun of their friends, to scheme things for
their future. But the brooding sense of embarrassment returned. Roland,
in the intervals of occasional remarks, continued to erect his pyramids
of salt.
"Oh, don't, don't, don't," said Muriel impatiently; "you get on my
nerves with your fidgeting."
Roland apologised, dropped the spoon, and without occupation for his
hands felt more uncomfortable than before. They continued a spasmodic
conversation till Mrs Humphries came in to tell them that she would be
going to bed directly.
"We get up early here," she said. And would they please to remember to
blow out the lamp and not to turn down the wick, as her last lodger had
done. She wished them a good-night, and said she would bring them a cup
of tea when she called them in the morning. They heard her bolt the
front door and fasten the shutter across the kitchen window, then tread
heavily up the creaking stairs. For a little while they listened to her
movements in the room. Then came the heavy creak of a bedstead.
They were alone in the silent house.
"Well, I suppose we must be going up," he said.
"I suppose so."
"Will you go up first and I'll come when you're ready?"
"All right."
He made no attempt to touch her as she passed him. She paused in the
doorway. A mocking smile, a last desperate rally fluttered over her
lips.
"Don't forget to turn the lamp out, Roland. My last lodger...."
But she never completed the sentence; and their eyes met in such a look
as two shipwrecked mariners must exchange when they realise that they
can hold out no longer, and that the next wave will dash their numb
fingers from the friendly spar.
Transcriber's note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully
as possible. Both book-shelves and bookshelves, country-side and
countryside, fire-place and fireplace, off-hand and offhand where used
in this book. This was retained.
The following is a list of changes made to the original. The first line
is the original line, the second the corrected one.
Page 20
we go for a stroll along the Slopes.
we go for a stroll along the Slopes."
Page 33:
friends of ours, the Sandersons. Mr Sanderson thinks
friends of ours, the Saundersons. Mr Saunderson thinks
Page 34
that nothing he said or did
That nothing he said or did
Page 79
Here it is.
"Here it is.
Page 122
that it must never happen again"?
that it must never happen again?"
Page 134
Why should you worry about that?
"Why should you worry about that?
Page 145
exchanged for the slim evening newsheet.
exchanged for the slim evening newssheet.
Page 169
what was it all about?
what was it all about?"
Page 182
his thoughts wondered from the ledger
his thoughts wandered from the ledger
Page 206:
his sentimentality held a minor to his guilt.
his sentimentality held a mirror to his guilt.
Page 293
had intended to be married unshaven."
had intended to be married unshaven.
Page 301
you get on my nerves with your fidgeting.
"you get on my nerves with your fidgeting."