the trees; down, far below, the white beach shone in the sun and the
waves curled in dancing rows across the blue.
Two rabbits fancied for a moment that they heard the tune that had
charmed them earlier in the day. They crept out to look, but there was
no one on the knoll.
CHAPTER X
IN WHICH EVERYONE FEELS THE AFTER EFFECT OF
THE PICNIC
Meanwhile the picnic remained, for others besides Maradick, an
interpretation. Lady Gale sat on the evening of the following day
watching the sun sink behind the silver birch. She had dressed for
dinner earlier than usual, and now it was a quarter to eight and she was
still alone in the gradually darkening room.
Mrs. Lester came in. She was dressed in pale blue, and she moved with
that sure confidence that a woman always has when she knows that she is
dressed with perfect correctness.
“My dear,” she said, bending down and kissing Lady Gale, “I’m perfectly
lovely to-night, and it isn’t the least use telling me that it’s only
vanity, because I know perfectly well I’m the real right thing, as Henry
James would say if he saw me.”
“I can’t see, dear,” said Lady Gale, “but from the glimpse I’ve got I
like the dress.”
“Oh, it’s perfection! The only thing is that it seems such a waste down
here! There’s no one who cares in the least whether you’re a fright or
no.”
“There’s at any rate, Fred,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, Fred!” said Mrs. Lester scornfully. “He would never see if you
stuck it right under his nose. He can dress his people in his novels,
but he never has the remotest notion what his wife’s got on.”
“He knows more than you think,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, I know Fred pretty well; besides,” Mrs. Lester added, smiling a
little, “he doesn’t deserve to have anything done for him just now. He’s
been very cross and nasty these few days.”
She was sitting on a stool at Lady Gale’s feet with her hands clasped
round her knees, her head was flung back and her eyes shining; she
looked rather like a cross, peevish child who had been refused something
that it wanted.
Lady Gale sighed for a moment and looked out into the twilight; in the
dark blue of the sky two stars sparkled. “Take care of it, dear,” she
said.
“Of what?” said Mrs. Lester, looking up.
“Love, when you’ve got it.” Lady Gale put her hand out and touched Mrs.
Lester’s arm. “You know perfectly well that you’ve got Fred’s. Don’t
play with it.”
“Fred cares about his books,” Mrs. Lester said slowly. “I don’t think
that he cares the very least about me.”
“Oh, you know that’s untrue. You’re cross just now and so is he, and
both of you imagine things. But down in your hearts you are absolutely
sure of it.”
Mrs. Lester shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m afraid that I may be tiresome,” said Lady Gale gently, “but, my
dear, I’ve lived such a long time and I know that it’s sufficiently rare
to get the right man. You’ve got him, and you’re so certain that he’s
right that you think that you can play with it, and it’s dangerous.”
“I’m not a bit certain,” said Mrs. Lester.
“Oh, you are, of course you are. You know that Fred’s devoted to you and
you’re devoted to Fred. Only it’s rather dull that everything should go
along so soberly and steadily, and you think that you’ll have some fun
by quarrelling and worrying him. You’re piqued sometimes because you
don’t think that he pays you enough attention and you imagine that other
men will pay you more, and he is very patient.”
“Oh, you don’t know how annoying he can be sometimes,” said Mrs. Lester,
shaking her head. “When he shuts himself up in his stupid books and
isn’t aware that I’m there at all.”
“Of course I know,” said Lady Gale. “All men are annoying and so are all
women. Anyone that we’ve got to live with is bound to be; that’s the
whole point of rubbing along. Marriage seems stupid enough and dull
enough and annoying enough, but as a matter of fact it would be ever so
much worse if the man wasn’t there at all; yes, however wrong the man
may be. We’ve got to learn to stick it; whether the _it_ is a pimple on
one’s nose or a husband.”
“Oh, it’s so easy to talk.” Mrs. Lester shook her shoulders impatiently.
“One has theories and it’s very nice to spread them out, but in practice
it’s quite different. Fred’s been perfectly beastly these last few
days.”
“Well,” said Lady Gale, “don’t run a risk of losing him. I mean that
quite seriously. One thinks that one’s got a man so safely that one can
play any game one likes, and then suddenly the man’s gone; and then, my
dear, you’re sorry.”
“You’re dreadfully serious to-night. I wanted to be amused, and instead
of that you speak as if I were on the verge of something dreadful. I’m
not a bit. It’s only Fred that’s cross.”
“Of course I don’t think you’re on the verge of anything dreadful.” Lady
Gale bent down and kissed her. “It’s only that Treliss is a funny place.
It has its effect—well, it’s rather hard to say—but on our nerves, I
suppose. We are all of us excited and would do things, perhaps, here
that we shouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. Things look differently
here.” She paused a moment, then she added, “It’s all rather worrying.”
“Dear, I’m a pig,” said Mrs. Lester, leaning over and kissing her.
“Don’t bother about me and my little things. But why are you worrying?
Is it Tony?”
“Well, I suppose it is,” said Lady Gale slowly; “it’s quite silly of me,
but we’re all of us rather moving in the dark. Nobody knows what anyone
else is doing. And then there’s Alice.”
“What exactly has she got to do with it?” asked Mrs. Lester.
“My dear, she has everything.” Lady Gale sighed. You must have heard
when you were in town that she was, more or less, ‘allotted’ to Tony. Of
course it hadn’t actually come to any exact words, but it was very
generally understood. I myself hadn’t any doubt about the matter. They
were to come down here to fix it all up. As a matter of fact, coming
down here has undone the whole thing.”
“Yes, of course I’d heard something,” said Mrs. Lester. “As a matter of
fact I had been wondering rather. Of course I could see that it wasn’t,
so to speak, coming off.”
“No. Something’s happened to Tony since he came down, and to Alice too,
for that matter. But at first I didn’t worry; in fact, quite between
ourselves, I was rather glad. In town they were neither of them very
keen about it; it was considered a suitable thing and they were going to
fall in with it, and they were quite nice enough, both of them, to have
carried it on all right afterwards. But that wasn’t the kind of marriage
that I wanted for Tony. He’s too splendid a fellow to be lost and
submerged in that kind of thing; it’s too ordinary, too drab. And so,
when he came down here, I saw at once that something had happened, and I
was glad.”
“I understand,” said Mrs. Lester, her eyes shining.
“But I asked him nothing. That has always been our plan, that he shall
tell me if he wants to, but otherwise I leave it alone. And it has
worked splendidly. He has always told me. But this time it is rather
different. As soon as he told me anything I should have to act. If he
told me who the girl was I should have to see her, and then you see, I
must tell my husband. As soon as I know about it I become the family,
and I _hate_ the family.”
Mrs. Lester could feel Lady Gale’s hand quiver on her arm. “Oh, my dear,
you don’t know what it has always been. Before Tony came life was a lie,
a lie from the very beginning. I was forced to eat, to sleep, to marry,
to bear children, as the family required. Everything was to be done with
one eye on the world and another on propriety. I was hot, impetuous in
those days, now I am getting old and calm enough, God knows; I have
learnt my lesson, but oh! it took some learning. Rupert was like the
rest; I soon saw that there was no outlet there. But then Tony came, and
there was something to live for. I swore that he should live his life as
he was meant to live it, no square pegs in round holes for him, and so I
have watched and waited and hoped. And now, at last, romance has come to
him. I don’t know who she is; but you’ve seen, we’ve all seen, the
change in him, and he shall seize it and hold it with both hands, only,
you see, I must not know. As soon as I know, the thing becomes official,
and then there’s trouble. Besides, I trust him. I know that he won’t do
anything rotten because he’s Tony. I was just a little bit afraid that
he might do something foolish, but I’ve put Mr. Maradick there as guard,
and the thing’s safe.”
“Mr. Maradick?” asked Mrs. Lester.
“Yes. Tony’s devoted to him, and he has just that stolid matter-of-fact
mind that will prevent the boy from doing anything foolish. Besides, I
like him. He’s not nearly so stupid as he seems.”
“I don’t think he seems at all stupid,” said Mrs. Lester, “I think he’s
delightful. But tell me, if they were neither of them very keen and the
thing’s off, why are you worried? Surely it is the very best thing that
could possibly happen.”
“Ah! that was before they came down.” Lady Gale shook her head.
“Something’s happened to Alice. Since she’s been down here she’s fallen
in love with Tony. Yes, wildly. I had been a little afraid of it last
week, and then last night she came to me and spoke incoherently about
going away and hating Treliss and all sorts of things jumbled up
together and then, of course, I saw at once. It is really very strange
in a girl like Alice. I used to think that I never knew anyone more
self-contained and sensible, but now I’m afraid that she’s in for a bad
time.”
“If one only knew,” said Mrs. Lester, “what exactly it is that Tony _is_
doing; we’re all in the dark. Of course, Mr. Maradick could tell us.”
She paused for a moment, and then she said suddenly: “Have you thought
at all of the effect it may be having on Mr. Maradick? All this
business.”
“Being with Tony, you mean?” said Lady Gale.
“Yes, the whole affair. He’s middle-aged and solid, of course, but he
seems to me to have—how can one put it?—well, considerable
inclinations to be young again. You know one can’t be with Tony without
being influenced, and he _is_ influenced, I think.”
Lady Gale put her hand on the other’s sleeve. “Millie,” she said very
earnestly, “look here. Leave him alone. I mean that seriously, dear.
He’s not a man to be played with, and it isn’t really worth the candle.
You love Fred and Fred loves you; just stick to that and don’t worry
about anything else.”
Mrs. Lester laughed. “How perfectly absurd! As if I cared for Mr.
Maradick in that kind of way! Why, I’ve only known him a few days, and,
anyway, it’s ridiculous!”
“I don’t know,” said Lady Gale, “this place seems to have been playing
tricks with all of us. I’m almost afraid of it; I wish we were going
away.”
They said no more then, but the conversation had given Lady Gale
something more to think about.
Rupert, his father and Alice came in together. It was half-past eight
and quite time to go down. Sir Richard was, as usual, impatient of all
delay, and so they went down without waiting for Tony and Mr. Lester.
The room was not very full when they came in; most people had dined, but
the Maradicks were there at their usual table by the window. The two
little girls were sitting straight in their chairs with their eyes fixed
on their plates.
Mrs. Lester thought that Alice Du Cane looked very calm and
self-possessed, and wondered whether Lady Gale hadn’t made a mistake.
However, Tony would come in soon and then she would see.
“You can imagine what it’s like at home,” she said as she settled
herself in her chair and looked round the room. “Thick, please” (this to
the waiter). “Fred never knows when a meal ought to begin, never. He
must always finish a page or a sentence or something, and the rest of
the world goes hang. Alice, my dear” (she smiled at her across the
table), “never marry an author.”
Her blue dress was quite as beautiful as she thought it was, and it
suited her extraordinarily well. Mrs. Lester’s dresses always seemed
perfectly natural and indeed inevitable, as though there could never, by
any possible chance, have been anything at that particular moment that
would have suited her better. She did not spend very much money on dress
and often made the same thing do for a great many different occasions,
but she was one of the best-dressed women in London.
Little Mr. Bannister, the landlord, rolled round the room and spoke to
his guests. This was a function that he performed quite beautifully,
with an air and a grace that was masterly in its combination of landlord
and host.
He flattered Sir Richard, listened to complaints, speculated about the
weather, and passed on.
“Oh, dear! it’s so hot!” said Lady Gale, “let’s hurry through and get
outside. I shall stifle in here.”
But Sir Richard was horrified at the idea of hurrying through. When your
meals are the principal events of the day you don’t intend to hurry
through them for anybody.
Then Tony came in. He stopped for a moment at the Maradicks’ table and
said something to Maradick. As he came towards his people everyone
noticed his expression. He always looked as though he found life a good
thing, but to-night he seemed to be alive with happiness. They had seen
Tony pleased before, but never anything like this.
“You look as if you’d found something,” said Rupert.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Tony. “No soup, thanks, much too hot for soup.
What, father? Yes, I know, but I hurried like anything, only a stud
burst and then I couldn’t find a sock, and then—Oh! yes, by the way,
Fred says he’s awfully sorry, but he’ll be down in a minute. He never
noticed how late it was.”
“He never does,” said Mrs. Lester, moving impatiently.
“You can forgive a man anything if he writes ‘To Paradise,’” said Tony.
“Hullo, Alice, where on earth have you been all day? I looked for you
this morning and you simply weren’t to be found; skulking in your tent,
I suppose. But why women should always miss the best part of the day by
sticking in their rooms till lunch——”
“I overslept,” she said, laughing. “It was after the picnic and the
thunder and everything.” She smiled across the table quite composedly at
him, and Mrs. Lester wondered at her self-possession. She had watched
her face when he came in, and she knew now beyond all possible doubt.
“Poor thing,” she said to herself, “she is in for a bad time!”
The Maradicks had left the room, the Gales were almost alone; the silver
moon played with the branches of the birch trees, the lights from the
room flung pools and rivers of gold across the paths, the flowers slept.
Sir Richard finished his “poire Melba” and grunted.
“Let’s have our coffee outside,” said Lady Gale. Outside in the old spot
by the wall Tony found Maradick.
“I say,” he whispered, “is it safe, do you suppose, to be so happy?”
“Take it while you can,” said Maradick. “But it won’t be all plain
sailing, you mustn’t expect that. And look here, Tony, things are going
on very fast. I am in a way responsible. I want to know exactly what you
intend to do.”
“To do?” said Tony.
“Yes. I want it put down practically in so many words. I’m here to look
after you. Lady Gale trusts me and is watching me. I _must_ know!”
“Why! I’m going to marry her of course. You dear old thing, what on
earth do you suppose? Of course I don’t exactly know that she cares—in
that sort of way, I mean. She didn’t say anything in the garden this
afternoon, in so many words. But I think that I understood, though of
course a fellow may be wrong; but anyhow, if she doesn’t care now she
will in a very little time. But I say, I haven’t told you the best of it
all. I believe old Morelli’s awfully keen about it. Anyhow, to-day when
we were talking to Miss Minns he spoke to me and said that he was
awfully glad that I came, that it was so good for Janet having a young
friend, and that he hoped that I would come and see her as often as I
could. And then he actually said that I might take her out one afternoon
for a row, that she would like it and it would be good for her.”
“I don’t understand him,” said Maradick, shaking his head. “I don’t know
what he wants.”
“Oh, it’s obvious enough,” said Tony, “he thinks that it will be a good
match. And I think he wants to get rid of her.”
“I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that,” said Maradick; “I wish I
did. But to come back to the main question, what do you mean to do?”
“Well,” said Tony, feeling in his pocket, “look here, I’ve written a
letter. I didn’t see why one should waste time. I’ll read it to you.” He
stepped out of the shadow into the light from one of the windows and
read it:—
Dear Miss Morelli,
Your father suggested this afternoon that you might come for a
row one day. There’s no time like the present, so could you
possibly come to-morrow afternoon (Thursday)? I should suggest
rather late, say four, because it’s so frightfully hot earlier.
I’ll bring tea. If Miss Minns and your father cared to come too
it would be awfully jolly.
Yours sincerely
Anthony Gale.
PS.—Will you be on the beach by Morna Pool about four?
“There,” he said as he put it back, “I think that will do. Of course
they won’t come. It would be perfectly dreadful if they did. But they
won’t. I could see that in his face.”
“Well, and then?”
“Oh, then! Well, I suppose, one day or other, I shall ask her.”
“And after that?”
“Oh, then I shall ask Morelli.”
“And if he says no.”
“But he won’t.”
“I don’t know. I should think it more than likely. You won’t be able to
say that your parents have consented.”
“No. I shouldn’t think he’d mind about that.”
“Well, it’s his only daughter.” Maradick laid his hand on Tony’s
shoulder. “Look here, Tony, we’ve got to go straight. Let’s look at the
thing fair and square. If your people and her people consented there’d
be no question about it. But they won’t. Your people never will and
Morelli’s not likely to. Then you must either give the whole thing up or
do it secretly. I say, give it up.”
“Give it up?” said Tony.
“Yes, there’ll be lots of trouble otherwise. Go away, leave for
somewhere or other to-morrow. You can think of plenty of explanations. I
believe it’s this place as much as anything else that’s responsible for
the whole business. Once you’re clear of this you’ll see the whole thing
quite plainly and thank God for your escape. But if, after knowing a
girl a week, you marry her in defiance of everyone wiser and better than
yourself, you’ll rue the day, and be tied to some one for life, some one
of whom you really know nothing.”
“Poor old Maradick!” Tony laughed. “You’ve got to talk like that, I
know; it’s your duty so to do. But I never knew anyone say it so
reluctantly; you’re really as keen about it as I am, and you’d be most
frightfully sick if I went off to-morrow. Besides, it’s simply not to be
thought of. I’d much rather marry her and find it was a ghastly mistake
than go through life feeling that I’d missed something, missed the best
thing there was to have. It’s missing things, not doing them wrong, that
matters in life.”
“Then you’ll go on anyhow?” said Maradick.
“Anyhow,” said Tony, “I’m of age. I’ve got means of my own, and if she
loves me then nothing shall stop me. If necessary, we’ll elope.”
“Dear me,” said Maradick, shaking his head, “I really oughtn’t to be in
it at all. I told you so from the beginning. But as you’ll go on whether
I’m there or no, I suppose I must stay.”
The night had influenced Mrs. Lester. She sat under the birches in the
shadow with her blue dress like a cloud about her. She felt very
romantic. The light in Tony’s eyes at dinner had been very beautiful.
Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to get some of that romance back again!
During most of the year she was an exceedingly sane and level-headed
person. The Lesters were spoken of in London as an ideal couple, as fond
of each other as ever, but with none of that silly sentiment. And so for
the larger part of the year it was; and then there came suddenly a
moment when she hated the jog-trot monotony of it all, when she would
give anything to regain that fire, that excitement, that fine beating of
the heart. To do her justice, she didn’t in the least mind about the
man, indeed she would have greatly preferred that it should have been
her husband; she was much more in love with Romance, Sentiment, Passion,
fine abstract things with big capital letters, than any one person;
only, whilst the mood was upon her, she must discover somebody. It was
no use being romantic to the wind or the stars or the trees.
It really amounted to playing a game, and if Fred would consent to play
it with her it would be the greatest fun; but then he wouldn’t. He had
the greatest horror of emotional scenes, and was always sternly
practical with advice about hot-water bottles and not sitting in a
draught. He did not, she told herself a hundred times a day, understand
her moods in the least. He had never let her help him the least little
bit in his work, he shut her out; she tossed her head at the stars,
gathered her blue dress about her, and went up to bed.
The bedroom seemed enormous, and the shaded electric light left caverns
and spaces of darkness; the enormous bed in the middle of the room
seemed without end or boundary. She heard her husband in the
dressing-room, and she sat down in front of her glass with a sigh.
“You can go, Ferris,” she said to her maid, “I’ll manage for myself
to-night.”
She began to brush her hair; she was angry with the things in the room,
everything was so civilised and respectable. The silver on the
dressing-table, a blue pincushion, the looking-glass; the blue dress,
hanging over the back of a chair, seemed in its reflexion to trail
endlessly along the floor. She brushed her hair furiously; it was very
beautiful hair, and she wondered whether Fred had ever noticed how
beautiful it was. Oh, yes! he’d noticed it in the early days; she
remembered how he had stroked it and what nice things he had said. Ah!
those early days had been worth having! How exciting they had been! Her
heart beat now at the remembrance of them.
She heard the door of the dressing-room close, and Fred came in. He
yawned; she glanced up. He was a little shrimp of a man certainly, but
he looked rather nice in his blue pyjamas. He was brown, and his grey
eyes were very attractive. Although she did not know it, she loved every
inch of him from the top of his head to the sole of his foot, but, just
now, she wanted something that he had decided, long ago, was bad for
her. He had made what he would have called a complete study of her
nervous system, treating her psychology as he would have treated the
heroine of one of his own novels. He was quite used to her fits of
sentiment and he knew that if he indulged her in the least the complaint
was aggravated and she was, at once, highly strung and aggressively
emotional. His own love for her was so profound and deep that this
“billing and cooing” seemed a very unimportant and trivial affair, and
he always put it down with a firm hand. They mustn’t be children any
longer; they’d got past that kind of thing. There were scenes, of
course, but it only lasted for a very short time, and then she was quite
all right again. He never imagined her flinging herself into anyone else
because he would not give her what she wanted. He was too sure of her
affection for him.
He had noticed that these attacks of “nerves,” as he called them, were
apt to come at Treliss, and he had therefore rather avoided the place,
but he found that it did, in some curious way, affect him also, and
especially his work. The chapters that he wrote at Treliss had a rich,
decorated colour that he could not capture in any other part of the
world. Perhaps it was the medieval “feeling” of the place, the gold and
brown of the roofs and rocks, the purple and blue of the sea and sky;
but it went, as he knew, deeper than that. That spirit that influenced
and disturbed his wife influenced also his work.
They had been quarrelling for two days, and he saw with relief her smile
as he came into the room. Their quarrels disturbed his work.
“Come here, Fred. Don’t yawn; it’s rude. I’ve forgiven you, although you
have been perfectly hateful these last few days. I think it’s ripping of
me to have anything to do with you. But, as a matter of fact, you’re not
a bad old thing and you look rather sweet in blue pyjamas.”
She laid her hand on his arm for a moment and then took his hand. He
looked at her rather apprehensively; it might mean simply that it was
the end of the quarrel, but it might mean that she had one of her moods
again.
“I say, old girl,” he said, smiling down at her, “I’m most awfully
sleepy. I don’t know what there is about this place, but I simply can’t
keep awake. It’s partly the weather, I suppose. But anyhow, if you don’t
awfully mind I think I’ll go off to sleep. I’m jolly glad you aren’t
angry any more. I know I was rather silly, but the book’s a bit of a
bother just now. . . .”
He yawned again.
“No, you _shan’t_ go to bed just yet, you sleepy old thing. I really
don’t feel as though I’d seen anything of you at all this week. And I
want to hear all about everything, all about the book. You haven’t told
me a thing.”
He moved his hand. “I say, my dear, you’ll be getting the most frightful
cold sitting in a draught like that. You’d much better come to bed and
we’ll talk to-morrow.”
But she smiled at him. “No, Fred, I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to
give you a sermon. You haven’t been a bit nice to me all this time here.
I know I’ve been horrid, but then that’s woman’s privilege; and you know
a woman’s only horrid because she wants a man to be nice, and I wanted
you to be nice. This summer weather and everything makes it seem like
those first days, the honeymoon at that sweet little place in
Switzerland, you remember. That night . . .” She sighed and pressed his
hand.
He patted her hand. “Yes, dear, of course I remember. Do you suppose I
shall ever forget it? We’ll go out to-morrow somewhere and have an
afternoon together alone. Without these people hanging round. I ought to
get the chapter finished to-morrow morning.”
He moved back from the chair.
“What chapter, dear?” She leaned back over the chair, looking up in his
face. “You know, I wish you’d let me share your work a little. I don’t
know how many years we haven’t been married now, and you’ve always kept
me outside it. A wife ought to know about it. Just at first you did tell
me things a little and I was so frightfully interested. And I’m sure I
could help you, dear. There are things a woman knows.”
He smiled at the thought of the way that she would help him. He would
never be able to show her the necessity of doing it all alone, both for
him and for her. That part of his life he must keep to himself. He
remembered that he had thought before their marriage that she would be
able to help. She had seemed so ready to sympathise and understand. But
he had speedily discovered the hopelessness of it. Not only was she of
no assistance, but she even hindered him.
She took the feeble, the bad parts of the book and praised; she handled
his beautiful delicacy, the so admirably balanced sentences, the little
perfect expressions that had flown to him from some rich Paradise where
they had waited during an eternity of years for some one to use
them—she had taken these rare treasures of his and trampled on them,
flung them to the winds, demanded their rejection.
She had never for a moment seen his work at all; the things that she had
seen had not been there, the things that she had not seen were the only
jewels that he possessed. The discovery had not pained him; he had not
loved her for _that_, the grasping and sharing of his writing, but for
the other things that were there for him, just as charmingly as before.
But he could not bear to have his work touched by the fingers of those
who did not understand. When people came and asked him about it and
praised it just because it was the thing to do, he felt as though some
one had flung some curtain aside and exposed his body, naked, to a
grinning world.
And it was this, in a lesser degree, that she did. She was only asking,
like the rest, because it was the thing to do, because she would be able
to say to the world that she helped him; she did not care for the thing,
its beauty and solemnity and grace, she did not even see that it _was_
beautiful, solemn, or graceful.
“Never mind my work, dear,” he said. “One wants to fling it off when
one’s out of it. You don’t want to know about the book. Why, I don’t
believe you’ve ever read ‘To Paradise’ right through; now, have you?”
“Why, of course, I _loved_ it, although there _were_, as a matter of
fact, things that I could have told you about women. Your heroine, for
instance——”
He interrupted hurriedly. “Well, dear, let’s go to bed now. We’ll talk
to-morrow about anything you like.” He moved across the room.
She looked angrily into the glass. She could feel that little choke in
her throat and her eyes were burning. She tapped the table impatiently.
“I think it’s a little hard,” she said, “that one’s husband should
behave as if one were a complete stranger, or, worse still, an ordinary
acquaintance. You might perhaps take more interest in a stranger. I
don’t think I want very much, a little sympathy and some sign of
affection.”
He was sitting on the bed. “That’s all right, dear, only you must admit
that you’re a little hard to understand. Here during the last two days
you’ve been as cross as it’s possible for anyone to be about nothing at
all, and then suddenly you want one to slobber. You go up and down so
fast that it’s simply impossible for an ordinary mortal to follow you.”
“Isn’t that charming?” she said, looking at the blue pincushion, “such a
delightful way to speak to one’s wife.” Then suddenly she crossed over
to him. “No, dear. I didn’t mean that really, it was silly of me. Only I
do need a little sympathy sometimes. Little things, you know, matter to
us women; we remember and notice.”
“That’s all right.” He put his arm round her neck and kissed her, then
he jumped into bed. “We’ll talk to-morrow.” He nestled into the clothes
with a little sigh of satisfaction; in a moment he was snoring.
She sat on the bed and stared in front of her. Her hair was down and she
looked very young. Most of the room was in shadow, but her
dressing-table glittered under the electric light; the silver things
sparkled like jewels, the gleam fell on the blue dress and travelled
past it to the wall.
She swung her feet angrily. How dare he go to sleep all in a moment in
that ridiculous manner? His kiss had seemed a step towards sentiment,
and now, in a moment, he was snoring. Oh! that showed how much he cared!
Why had she ever married him?
At the thought of the splendid times that she might have been having
with some one else, with some splendid strong man who could take her in
his arms until she could scarcely breathe, some one who would understand
her when she wanted to talk and not go fast off to sleep, some one,
well, like Mr. Maradick, for instance, her eyes glittered.
She looked at the room, moved across the floor and switched off the
lights. She crept into bed, moving as far away from her husband as
possible. He didn’t care—nobody cared—she belonged to nobody in the
world. She began to sob, and then she thought, of the picnic; well, he
had cared and understood. He would not have gone to sleep . . . soon she
was dreaming.
And the other person upon whom the weather had had some effect was Mrs.
Maradick. It could not be said that weather, as a rule, affected her at
all, and perhaps even now things might be put down to the picnic; but
the fact remains that for the first time in her selfish little life she
was unhappy. She had been wounded in her most sensitive spot, her
vanity. It did not need any very acute intelligence to see that she was
not popular with the people in the hotel. The picnic had shown it to her
quite conclusively, and she had returned in a furious passion. They had
been quite nice to her, of course, but it did not need a very subtle
woman to discover their real feelings. Fifteen years of Epsom’s
admiration had ill-prepared her for a harsh and unsympathetic world, and
she had never felt so lonely in her life before. She hated Lady Gale and
Mrs. Lester bitterly from the bottom of her heart, but she would have
given a very great deal, all her Epsom worshippers and more, for some
genuine advance on their part.
She was waiting now in her room for her husband to come in. She was
sitting up in bed looking very diminutive indeed, with her little sharp
nose and her bright shining eyes piercing the shadows; she had turned
out the lights, except the one by the bed. She did not know in the least
what she was going to say to him, but she was angry and sore and lonely;
she was savage with the world in general and with James in particular.
She bit her lips and waited. He came in softly, as though he expected to
find her asleep, and then when he saw her light he started. His bed was
by the window and he moved towards it. Then he stopped and saw her
sitting up in bed.
“Emmy! You still awake!”
He looked enormous in his pyjamas; he could see his muscles move beneath
the jacket.
“Yes,” she said, “I want to talk to you.”
“Oh! must we? Now?” he said. “It seems very late.”
“It’s the only opportunity that one gets nowadays,” she said, her eyes
flaring, “you are so much engaged.” It made her furious to see him
looking so clean and comfortably sleepy.
“Engaged?” he said.
“Oh! we needn’t go into that,” she answered. “One doesn’t really expect
to see anything of one’s husband in these modern times, it isn’t the
thing!”
He didn’t remind her that during the last fifteen years she hadn’t cared
very much whether he were lonely or not. He looked at her gravely.
“Don’t let’s start that all over again now,” he said. “I would have
spent the whole time with you if you hadn’t so obviously shown me that
you didn’t want me. You can hardly have forgotten already what you said
the other day.”
“Do you think that’s quite true?” she said, looking up at him; she was
gripping the bedclothes in her hands. “Don’t you think that it’s a
little bit because there’s some one else who did, or rather _does_, want
you?”
“What do you mean?” he said, coming towards her bed. She was suddenly
frightened. This was the man whom she had seen for the first time on
that first evening at dinner, some one she had never known before.
“I mean what I say,” she answered. “How long do you suppose that I
intend to stand this sort of thing? You leave me deliberately alone; _I_
don’t know what you do with your days, _or_ your evenings, neither does
anyone else. I’m not going to be made a laughing-stock of in the hotel;
all those beastly women . . .” She could scarcely speak for rage.
“There is nothing to talk about,” he answered sternly. “It’s only your
own imagination. At any rate, we are not going to have a scene now, nor
ever again, as far as that goes. I’m sick of them.”
“Well,” she answered furiously, “if you think I’m going to sit there and
let myself be made a fool of and say nothing you’re mightily mistaken;
I’ve had enough of it.”
“And so have I,” he answered quietly. “If you’re tired of this place
we’ll go away somewhere else, wherever you please; perhaps it would be a
good thing. This place seems to have upset you altogether. Perhaps after
all it would be the best thing. It would cut all the knots and end all
these worries.”
But she laughed scornfully. “Oh! no, thank you. I like the place well
enough. Only you must be a little more careful. And if you think——”
But he cut her short. “I don’t think anything about it,” he said. “I’m
tired of talking. This place _has_ made a difference, it’s true. It’s
shown me some of the things that I’ve missed all these years; I’ve been
going along like a cow . . . and now for the future it’s going to be
different.”
“Oh! it’s not only the place,” she sneered. “Mrs. Lester——”
But at the word he suddenly bent down and held her by the shoulders. His
face was white; he was shaking with anger. He was so strong that she
felt as though he was going to crush her into nothing.
“Look here,” he whispered, “leave that alone. I won’t have it, do you
hear? I won’t have it. You’ve been riding me too long, you and your
nasty dirty little thoughts; now I’m going to have my own way. You’ve
had yours long enough; leave me alone. Don’t drive me too far. . . .”
He let her drop back on the pillows. She lay there without a word. He
stole across the room on his naked feet and switched out the lights. She
heard him climb into bed.
CHAPTER XI
OF LOVE—AND THEREFORE TO BE SKIPPED BY ALL THOSE
WHO ARE TIRED OF THE SUBJECT
Above the knoll the afternoon sun hung in a golden mist. The heat veiled
it, and the blue of the surrounding sky faded into golden shadows near
its circle and swept in a vast arc to limitless distance. The knoll,
humped like a camel’s back, stood out a vivid green against the darker
wall of trees behind it. Far below, the white sand of the cove caught
the sun and shone like a pearl, and beyond it was the blue carpet of the
sea.
Morelli sat, cross-legged, on the knoll. In his hands was his flute, but
he was staring straight below him down on to the cove. He waited, the
air was heavy with heat; a crimson butterfly hovered for a moment in
front of him and then swept away, a golden bee buzzed about his head and
then lumbered into the air. There was silence; the trees stood rigid in
the heat.
Suddenly Morelli moved. Two black specks appeared against the white
shadows of the beach; he began to play.
* * * * *
Punch was lying on the cliff asleep. To his right, curving towards the
white sand, was a sea-pool slanting with green sea-weed down into dark
purple depths. The sun beat upon the still surface of it and changed it
into burning gold. Below this the sea-weed flung green shadows across
the rock. It reflected through the gold the straight white lines of the
road above it, and the brown stem, sharp like a sword, of a slender
poplar. It seemed to pass through the depths of the pool into endless
distance. Besides the green of the sea-weed and the gold of the sun
there was the blue of the sky reflected, and all these lights and
colours mingled and passed and then mingled again as in the curving
circle of a pearl shell. Everything was metallic, with a hard outline
like steel, under the blazing sun.
Tony turned the corner and came down the hill. He was in flannels and
carried in one hand a large tea-basket. His body, long and white, was
reflected in the green and blue of the pool. It spread in little ripples
driven by a tiny wind in white shadows to the bank.
He was whistling, and then suddenly he saw Toby and Punch asleep in the
grass. He stopped for a moment in the road and looked at them. Then he
passed on.
The white sand gleamed and sparkled in the sun; the little wind had
passed from the face of the pool, and there was no movement at all
except the very soft and gentle breaking of tiny waves on the sand’s
edge. A white bird hanging for the moment motionless in the air, a tiny
white cloud, the white edge of the breaking ripples, broke the blue.
Tony sat down. From where he was sitting he could see the town rising
tier upon tier into a peak. It lay panting in the sun like a beast tired
out.
The immediate problem was whether Morelli or Miss Minns would come. A
tiny note in a tiny envelope had arrived at the “Man at Arms” that
morning. It had said:
Dear Mr. Gale,
Thank you so very much. It is charming of you to ask us. We
shall be delighted to come.
Yours sincerely
Janet Morelli.
It wasn’t like her, and short though it was he felt sure that somebody
had watched her whilst she did it. And “we”? For whom did that stand? He
had felt so sure in his heart of hearts that no one except Janet would
come that he was, at first, bitterly disappointed. What a farce the
whole thing would be if anyone else were there! He laughed sarcastically
at the picture of Miss Minns perched horribly awry at the end of the
boat, forcing, by her mere presence, the conversation into a miserable
stern artificiality. And then suppose it were Morelli? But it wouldn’t
be, of that he was sure; Morelli had other things to do.
He glanced for a moment up to the cliff where Punch was. He didn’t want
the whole town to know what he was about. Punch could keep a secret, of
course, he had kept a good many in his time, but it might slip out; not
that there was anything to be ashamed of.
As a matter of fact, he had had some difficulty in getting away from the
hotel; they had been about him like bees, wanting him to do things. He
had noticed, too, that his mother was anxious. Since the day of the
picnic she had watched him, followed him with her eyes, had evidently
longed to ask him what he was going to do. That, he knew, was her code,
that she should ask him nothing and should wait; but he felt that she
was finding the waiting very difficult. He was quite sure in his own
mind that Alice had spoken to her, and, although he would give
everything in the world to be pleasant and easy, he found, in spite of
himself, that he was, when he talked to her, awkward and strained. There
was something new and strange in her attitude to him, so that the old
cameraderie was quite hopelessly gone, and the most ordinary
conventional remark about the weather became charged with intensest
meaning. This all contrived to make things at the hotel very awkward,
and everyone was in that state of tension which forced them to see
hidden mysteries in everything that happened or was said. The Lesters
had been barely on speaking terms at breakfast time and Maradick hadn’t
appeared at all.
Then, when the afternoon had come, his mother had asked him to come out
with them. He had had to refuse, and had only been able to give the
vaguest of reasons. They knew that he was not going with Mr. Maradick,
because he had promised to walk with Mr. Lester. What was he going to
do? He spoke of friends in the town and going for a row. It had all been
very unpleasant. Life was, in fact, becoming immensely complicated, and
if Miss Minns were to appear he would have all this worry and trouble
for nothing.
He gazed furiously at the hard white road. The pool shone like a mirror;
the road, the poplar, the sky were painted on its surface in hard vivid
outline. Suddenly a figure was reflected in it. Some one in a white
dress with a large white hat, her reflexion spread across the length of
the pool. The water caught a mass of golden hair and held it for a
moment, then it was gone.
Tony’s eyes, straining towards the hill, suddenly saw her; she was
alone. When he saw her his heart began to beat so furiously that for a
moment he could not move. Then he sprang to his feet. He must not be too
sure. Perhaps Miss Minns was late. He watched her turn down the path and
come towards him. She was looking very cool and collected and smiling at
him as she crossed the sand.
“Isn’t it a lovely day?” she said, shaking hands. “I’m not late, am I?”
“No, I was rather early;” and then, suddenly, “Is Miss Minns coming?”
“Oh, no,” Janet laughed, “it was far too hot. She is sleeping with all
the curtains drawn and the doors and windows shut. Only I’m not to be
late. Oh, dear! What fun! Where’s the boat?”
The excitement of hearing that she really was alone was very nearly too
much for Tony. He wanted to shout.
“Oh, I say, I’m so glad. No, I don’t mean to be rude really; I think
Miss Minns awfully decent, simply ripping” (this, I am afraid, due to
general pleasure rather than strict veracity), “but it would have put a
bit of a stopper on the talking, wouldn’t it? and you know there are
simply tons of things that I want to talk about. The boat’s round here,
round the corner over these rocks. I thought we’d row to Mullin’s Cave,
have tea, and come back.”
They moved across the sand.
Punch had woke at the sound of voices and now was staring in front of
him. He recognised both of them. “The couple of babies,” he said, and he
sighed.
And at that precise moment some one else came down the path. It was
Alice du Cane. She carried a pink parasol. Her figure lay for a moment
on the surface of the pool. She was looking very pretty, but she was
very unhappy. They had asked her to go out with them, but she had
refused and had pleaded a headache. And then she had hated the gloom and
silence of her room. She knew what it was that she wanted, although she
refused to admit it to herself. She pretended that she wanted the sea,
the view, the air; and so she went out. She told herself a hundred times
a day that she must go away, must leave the place and start afresh
somewhere else. That was what she wanted; another place and she would
soon forget. And then there would come fierce self-reproach and
miserable contempt. She, Alice du Cane, who had prided herself on her
self-control? The kind of girl who could quote Henley with satisfaction,
“Captain of her soul?” At the turn of the road she saw Punch and Toby;
then across the white sand of the cove two figures.
He said good-day, and she smiled at him. Then for a moment she stopped.
It was Tony, she could hear his laugh; he gave the girl his hand to
cross the rocks.
“A beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said to Punch, and passed down the
road.
* * * * *
They found the boat round the corner of the rocks lying with its clean
white boards and blue paint. It lay with a self-conscious air on the
sand, as though it knew at what ceremony it was to attend. It gurgled
and chuckled with pleasure as it slipped into the water. Whilst he
busied himself with the oars she stood silently, her hands folded in
front of her, looking out to sea. “I’ve always wanted to know,” she
said, “what there is right out there on the other side. One used to
fancy a country, like any child, with mountains and lakes, black
sometimes and horrible when one was in a bad mood, and then, on other
days, beautiful and full of sun. . . .”
They said very little as the boat moved out; the cove rapidly dwindled
into a shining circle of silver sand; the rocks behind it assumed
shapes, dragons and mandarins and laughing dogs, the town mounted like a
pyramid into the sky and some of it glittered in the light of the sun
like diamonds.
Janet tried to realise her sensations. In the first place she had never
been out in a boat before; secondly, she had never been really alone
with Tony before; thirdly, she had had no idea that she would have felt
so silent as she did. There were hundreds of things that she wanted to
say, and yet she sat there tongue-tied. She was almost afraid of
breaking the silence, as though it were some precious vase and she was
tempted to fling a stone.
Tony too felt as though he were in church. He rowed with his eyes fixed
on the shore, and Janet. Now that the great moment had actually arrived
he was frightened. Whatever happened, the afternoon would bring
tremendous consequences with it. If she laughed at him, or was amazed at
his loving her, then he felt that he could never face the long dreary
stretches of life in front of him; and if she loved him, well, a good
many things would have to happen. He realised, too, that a number of
people were bound up with this affair of his; his mother, Alice, the
Maradicks, even the Lesters.
“They didn’t mind your coming alone?” he said at last.
“Oh, no, why should they?” she said, laughing. “Besides, father approves
of you enormously, and I’m so glad! He’s never approved of anyone as a
companion before, and it makes such a difference.”
“Is he kind to you?”
“Father! Why, of course!”
“Are you fond of him?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I must know; I want to know all about it. We can’t be real friends
unless there’s complete confidence. That’s the best of being the ages we
are. As things are, we can’t have very much to hide, but later on people
get all sorts of things that they have done and said that they keep
locked up.”
“No,” said Janet, smiling, “I haven’t got anything to hide. I’ll try and
tell you all you want to know. But it’s very difficult, about father.”
“Why?” said Tony.
“Well, you see, I haven’t known other people’s fathers at all, and up to
quite lately I didn’t think there was anything peculiar about mine, but
just lately I’ve been wondering. You see there’s never been any
particular affection, there hasn’t been any question of affection, and
that’s,” she stopped for a moment, “that’s what I’ve been wanting. I
used to make advances when I was quite tiny, climb on his knee, and
sometimes he would play, oh! beautifully! and then suddenly he would
stop and push me aside, or behave, perhaps, as though I were not there
at all.”
“Brute!” said Tony between his teeth, driving the oar furiously through
the water.
“And then I began to see gradually that he didn’t care at all. It was
easy enough even for a girl as young as I was to understand, and yet he
would sometimes be so affectionate.” She broke off. “I think,” she said,
looking steadily out to sea, “that he would have liked to have killed me
sometimes. He is so furious at times that he doesn’t in the least know
what he’s doing.”
“What did you do when he was like that?” asked Tony in a very low voice.
“Oh, one waits,” she said very quietly, “they don’t last long.”
She spoke dispassionately, as though she were outside the case
altogether, but Tony felt that if he had Morelli there, in the boat with
him, he would know what to do and say.
“You must get away,” he said.
“There are other things about him,” she went on, “that I’ve noticed that
other people’s fathers don’t do. He’s wonderful with animals, and yet he
doesn’t seem really to care about them, or, at least, he only cares
whilst they are in certain moods. And although they come to him so
readily I often think that they are really afraid as I am.”
She began to think as she sat there. She had never spoken about it all
to anyone before, and so it had never, as it were, materialised. She had
never realised until now how badly she had wanted to talk to some one
about it.
“Oh, you have been so fortunate,” she said, a little wistfully, “to have
done so many things and seen so many people. Tell me about other girls,
are they all beautiful? Do they dress beautifully?”
“No,” he said, looking at her. “They are very tiresome. I can’t be
serious with girls as a rule. That’s why I like to be with you. You
don’t mind a fellow being serious. Girls seem to think a man isn’t ever
meant to drop his grin, and it gets jolly tiresome. Because, you know,
life is awfully serious when you come to think about it. I’ve only
realised,” he hesitated a moment, “during this last fortnight how
wonderful it is. That’s, you know,” he went on hurriedly, “why I really
like to be with men better. Now a fellow like Maradick understands what
one’s feeling, he’s been through it, he’s older, and he knows. But then
you understand too; it’s jolly funny how well you understand a chap.”
He dropped his oars for a moment and the boat drifted. They were
rounding the point, and the little sandy beach for which they were
making crept timidly into sight. There was perfect stillness; everything
was as though it were carved from stone, the trees on the distant hill,
the hanging curtain of sky, the blue mirror of the sea, the sharply
pointed town. A flock of white sheep, tiny like a drifting baby cloud,
passed for a moment against the horizon on the brow of the hill. There
was a very faint sound of bells.
They were both very silent. The oars cut through the water, the boat
gave a little sigh as it pushed along, there was no other sound.
They sat on the beach and made tea. Tony had thought of everything.
There was a spirit lamp, and the kettle bubbled and hissed and
spluttered. Tony busied himself about the tea because he didn’t dare to
speak. If he said the very simplest thing he knew that he would lose all
self-control. She was sitting against a rock with her dress spread
around her.
She looked up at him with big, wide-open eyes.
“Your name is Tony, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I suppose it is short for Anthony. I shall call you Tony. But see,
there is something that I want to say. You will never now, after we have
been such friends, let it go again, will you? Because it has been so
wonderful meeting you, and has made such a difference to me that I
couldn’t bear it. If you went away, and you had other friends
and—forgot.”
“No, I won’t forget.”
He dropped a plate on to the sand and came towards her.
“Janet.” He dropped on to his knees beside her. “I must tell you. I love
you, I love you, Janet. I don’t care whether you are angry or not, and
if you don’t feel like that then I will be an awfully decent friend and
won’t bother you about love. I’ll never talk about it. And anyhow, I
ought, I suppose, to give you time; a little because you haven’t seen
other fellows, and it’s not quite fair.”
He didn’t touch her, but knelt on the sand, looking up into her face.
She looked down at him and laughed. “Why, how silly, Tony dear, I’ve
loved you from the first moment that I saw you; why, of course, you must
have known.”
Their hands touched, and at that moment Tony realised the wonderful
silence and beauty of the world. The sea spread before them like a
carpet, but it was held with the rocks and sand and sky in breathless
tension by God for one immortal second. Nature waited for a moment to
hear the story that it had heard so often before, then when the divine
moment had passed the world went on its course once more. But in that
moment things had happened. A new star had been born in the sky, the
first evening star, and it sparkled and glittered above the town; in the
minstrels’ room at that moment the sun shone and danced on the faces of
the lions, beneath the tower the apple-woman paused in her knitting and
nodded her head solemnly at some secret pleasant thought, on the knoll
the birds clustered in chattering excitement, far on the horizon a ship
with gleaming sails rose against the sky.
“Janet, darling.” He bent down and kissed her hand. Then he raised his
face, hers bent down to his—they kissed.
* * * * *
Half an hour later they were in the boat again; she sat on the floor
with her head against his knee. He rowed very slowly, which was natural,
because it was difficult to move the oars.
The evening lights began to creep across the sky, and the sun sank
towards the horizon; other stars had stolen into the pale blue sky; near
the sea a pale orange glow, as of a distant fire, burned. The boat shone
like a curved and shining pearl.
Tony had now a difficult business in front of him. The situation had to
be made clear to her that his people must not be told. He was quite
resolved within himself in what way he was going to carry the situation
through, but he could not at all see that she would consider the matter
in the same light. It would take time and considerable trouble to convey
to her a true picture of the complicated politics of the Gale family.
“Janet, dear,” he said, “we have now to be sternly practical. There are
several things that have to be faced. In the first place, there is your
father.”
“Yes,” she said, a little doubtfully.
“Well, how will he take it?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at him and laid her hand very lightly upon
his knee. The yellow light had crept up from the horizon, and was
spreading in bands of colour over the sky; the sea caught the reflexion
very faintly, but the red glow had touched the dark band of country
behind them and the white road, the still black trees were beginning to
burn as though with fire.
“Well,” said Tony, “of course I shall tell him at once. What will he
say?”
“I don’t know. One never can tell with father. But, dear, must you?
Couldn’t we wait? It is not that I mind his knowing, but I am, in some
way, afraid.”
“But he likes me,” said Tony; “you told me yourself.”
“Yes, but his liking anybody never means very much. It’s hard to
explain; but it isn’t you that he likes so much as something that you’ve
got. It is always that with everybody. I’ve seen it heaps of times. He
goes about and picks people up, and if they haven’t got the thing he’s
looking for he drops them at once and forgets them as soon as he can. I
don’t know what it is that he looks for exactly, but, whatever it is, he
finds it in the animals, and in the place even; that’s why he lives at
Treliss.”
Janet was very young about the world in general, but about anything that
she had herself immediately met she was wise beyond her years.
She looked at him a moment, and then added: “But of course you must
speak to him; it is the only thing to do.”
“And suppose,” said Tony, “that he refuses to give his consent?”
“Oh, of course,” Janet answered quietly, “then we must go away. I belong
to you now. Father does not care for me in the least, and I don’t care
for anyone in the world except you.”
Her calm acceptance of the idea that he himself had intended to submit
to her very tentatively indeed frightened him. His responsibility seemed
suddenly to increase ten-fold. Her suggesting an elopement so quietly,
and even asserting it decisively as though there were no other possible
alternative, showed that she didn’t in the least realise what it would
all mean.
“And then, of course,” she went on quietly, “there are your people. What
will they say?”
“That’s it, dear. That’s the dreadful difficulty. They mustn’t be told
at all. The only person in the family who really matters in the least is
my mother, and she matters everything. The governor and my brother care
for me only as the family, and they have to see that that isn’t
damaged.”
“And they’d think that I’d damage it?” said Janet.
“Yes,” said Tony, quietly, “they would. You see, dear, in our set in
town the two things that matter in marriage are family and money. You’ve
got to have either ancestors or coin. Your ancestors, I expect, are
simply ripping, but they’ve got to be in Debrett, so that everyone can
look them up when the engagement’s announced. It isn’t you they’d object
to, but the idea.”
“I see; well?”
“Well, if mother knew about it; if it was public she’d have to support
the family, of course. But really in her heart of hearts what she wants
is that I should be happy. She’d much rather have that than anything
else; so that if we are married and it’s too late for anyone to say
anything, and she sees that we are happy, then it will be all right, but
she mustn’t know until afterwards.”
Tony stopped, but Janet said nothing. Then he went on: “You see there
was a sort of idea with people, before we came down here, that I should
get engaged to some one. It was more or less an understood thing.”
“Was there, is there anyone especially?” asked Janet.
“Yes; a Miss Du Cane. We’d been pals for a long time without thinking
about marriage at all; and then people began to say it was time for me
to settle down, and rot like that—and she seemed quite suitable, and so
she was asked down here.”
“Did you care about her?”
“Oh! like a friend, of course. She’s a jolly good sort, and used to be
lots of fun, but as soon as all this business came into it she altered
and it became different. And then I saw you, and there was never more
any question of anyone else in all the world.”
Tony dropped the oars and let the boat drift. He caught her golden hair
in his hands and twined it about his arm. He bent down and touched her
lips. She leaned up towards him and they clung together. About them the
sea was a golden flame, the sky was a fiery red, the country behind them
was iron black. The boat danced like a petal out to sea.
Then, with her arm about his neck, Janet spoke again. “Your father would
like you to marry this lady?” she asked.
“Yes. He thinks that I am going to.”
“Ah! now I understand it all. You cannot tell them, of course; I see
that. We must do it first and tell them afterwards. And father will
never consent. I am sure of it. Oh, dear! what fun! we must go away
secretly; it will be an elopement.”
“What a ripping rag!” said Tony eagerly. “Oh! darling, I was so afraid
that you would mind all those things, and I didn’t want to tell you. But
now that you take it like that! And then, you see, that’s where Maradick
comes in.”
“Mr. Maradick?”
“Yes. He’s really the foundation-stone of the whole affair. It’s because
mother trusts him so absolutely completely that she’s feeling so safe.
He knows all about it, and has known all about it all the time. Mother
depends on him altogether; we all depend on him, and he’ll help us.”
The sun lay, like a tired warrior, on the breast of the sea; the clouds,
pink and red and gold, gathered about him. The boat turned the creek and
stole softly into the white shelter of the cove. Above the heads of the
lovers the stars glittered, about them the land, purple and dark with
its shadows, crept in on every side. Some bell rang from the town, there
was the murmur of a train, the faint cry of some distant sheep.
Their voices came softly in the dusk:
“I love you.”
“Janet!”
“Tony!”
The night fell.
CHAPTER XII
OUR MIDDLE-AGED HERO IS BURDENED BY RESPONSIBILITY
BUT BOLDLY UNDERTAKES THE ADVENTURE
That same afternoon Maradick finished “To Paradise.” He read it in the
room of the minstrels with the sun beating through the panes in pools of
gold on to the floor, the windows flung wide open, and a thousand scents
and sounds flooding the air. The book had chimed in curiously with the
things that were happening to him; perhaps at any other time, and
certainly a year ago, he would have flung the book aside with irritation
at its slow movement and attenuated action. Now it gave him the
precisely correct sensation; it was the atmosphere that he had most
effectually realised during these last weeks suddenly put for him
clearly on to paper. Towards the end of the book there was this passage:
“And indeed Nature sets her scene as carefully as any manager on our own
tiny stage; we complain discordantly of fate, and curse our ill-luck
when, in reality, it is because we have disregarded our setting that we
have suffered. Passing lights, whether of sailing ships or huddled
towns, murmuring streams heard through the dark but not seen, the
bleating of countless sheep upon a dusky hill, are all, with a thousand
other formless incoherent things, but sign-posts to show us our road.
And let us, with pressing fingers, wilfully close our ears and blind our
eyes, then must we suffer. Changes may come suddenly upon a man, and he
will wonder; but let him look around him and he will see that he is
subject to countless other laws and orders, and that he plays but a tiny
rôle in a vast and moving scene.”
He rose and stretched his arms. He had not for twenty years felt the
blood race through his veins as it did to-day. Money? Office stools?
London? No; Romance, Adventure. He would have his time now that it had
come to him. He could not talk to his wife about it; she would not
understand; but Mrs. Lester——
The door opened suddenly. He turned round. No one had ever interrupted
him there before; he had not known that anyone else had discovered the
place, and then he saw that it was Lester himself. He came forward with
that curious look that he often had of seeing far beyond his immediate
surroundings. He stared now past the room into the blue and gold of the
Cornish dusk; the vague misty leaves of some tree hung, a green cloud,
against the sky, two tiny glittering stars shone in the sky above the
leaves, as though the branches had been playing with them and had tossed
them into the air.
Then he saw Maradick.
“Hullo! So you’ve discovered this place too?” He came towards him with
that charming, rather timid little smile that he had. “I found it quite
by chance yesterday, and have been absolutely in love with it——”
“Yes,” said Maradick, “I’ve known it a long time. Curiously enough, we
were here last year and I never found it.” Then he added: “I’ve just
finished your book. May I tell you how very much I’ve enjoyed it? It’s
been quite a revelation to me; its beauty——”
“Thank you,” said Lester, smiling, “it does one a lot of good when one
finds that some one has cared about one’s work. I think that I have a
special affection for this one, it had more of myself in it. But will
you forgive my saying it, I had scarcely expected you, Maradick, to care
about it.”
“Why?” asked Maradick. Lester’s voice was beautifully soft and musical,
and it seemed to be in tune with the room, the scene, the hour.
“Well, we are, you know, in a way at the opposite ends of the pole. You
are practical; a business man; it is your work, your place in life, to
be practical. I am a dreamer through and through. I would have been
practical if I could. I have made my ludicrous attempts, but I have long
ago given it up. I have been cast for another rôle. The visions, the
theories, the story of such a man as I am must seem stupidly, even
weakly vague and insufficient to such a man as you. I should not have
thought that ‘To Paradise’ could have seemed to you anything but a
moonstruck fantasy. Perhaps that is what it really is.”
He spoke a little sadly, looking out at the sky. “I am afraid that is
what it is,” he said.
“Is it not possible,” said Maradick slowly, “that a man should, at
different times in his life, have played both rôles? Can one not be
practical and yet have one’s dreams? Can one not have one’s dreams and
yet be practical?”
As he spoke he looked at the man and tried to see him from Mrs. Lester’s
point of view. He was little and brown and nervous; his eyes were soft
and beautiful, but they were the eyes of a seer.
Mr. Lester shook his head. “I think it is possible to be practical and
yet to have your dreams. I will not deny that you have yours; but the
other thing—no, I shall never see the world as it is. And yet, you
know,” he went on, smiling a little, “the world will never let me alone.
I think that at last I shall see that for which I have been searching,
that at last I shall hear that for which I have been listening so long;
and then suddenly the world breaks in upon it and shatters it, and it
vanishes away. One has one’s claims, one is not alone; but oh! if I had
only an hour when there might be no interruption. But I’m really
ashamed, Maradick; this must seem, to put it bluntly, so much rot to
you, and indeed to anyone except myself.”
“No,” said Maradick. “I think I understand more than you would expect. A
month ago it might have been different, but now——”
“Ah,” said Lester, laughing, “the place has caught you, as it does
everyone.”
“No, not only the place,” said Maradick slowly, “there is something
else. I was here last year, but I did not feel, I did not see as I do
now.”
“Yes, it’s Tony Gale as well.”
“Tony?”
“Yes. Believe me, there’s nothing that a boy like that cannot do with
his happiness and youth. It goes out from him and spreads like a magic
wand. If people only knew how much they owed to that kind of
influence——”
“Well, perhaps it is Tony,” said Maradick, laughing. “I am fonder of him
than I can say; but, whatever the cause, the dreams are there.”
Lester took out a book from under his arm. It was long and thin and
bound in grey parchment.
“Here,” he said, “is a book that perhaps you know. It is one of the most
beautiful comedies in our language. This man was a dreamer too, and his
dreams are amongst the most precious things that we have. I may write to
the end of time, but I shall never reach that exquisite beauty.”
Maradick took the book; it was Synge’s “Play-boy of the Western World.”
He had never heard of the man or of the play. He turned its pages
curiously.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that I’ve never heard of it. It is Irish, I
see. I think I do remember vaguely when the Dublin players were in
London last year hearing something. The man has died, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, and he didn’t leave very much behind him, but what there is is of
the purest gold. See, listen to this, one of the greatest love-scenes in
our language. It is a boy and a girl in a lonely inn on an Irish moor.”
He read:—
The Girl.—“What call have you to be that lonesome when there’s
poor girls walking Mayo in their thousands now?”
The Boy.—“It’s well you know what call I have. It’s well you
know it’s a lonesome thing to be passing small towns with the
lights shining sideways when the night is down, or going in
strange places with a dog noising before you and a dog noising
behind, or drawn to the cities where you’d hear a voice kissing
and talking deep love in every shadow of the ditch, and you
passing on with an empty stomach failing from your heart.”
Maradick listened to the beautiful words and his eyes glowed. The dusk
was falling in the room, and half-lights of gold and purple hovered over
the fireplace and the gallery. The leaves of the tree had changed from
green to dark grey, and, above them, where there had been two stars
there were now a million.
“And again,” said Lester, “listen to this.”
The Boy.—“When the airs is warming in four months or five, it’s
then yourself and me should be pacing Neifin in the dews of
night, the time sweet smells do be rising, and you’d see a
little shiny new moon, maybe, sinking on the hills.”
The Girl. (playfully).—“And it’s that kind of a poacher’s love
you’d make, Christy Mahon, on the sides of Neifin, when the
night is down?”
The Boy.—“It’s little you’ll think if my love’s a poacher’s or
an earl’s itself, when you’ll feel my two hands stretched around
you, and I squeezing kisses on your puckered lips, till I’d feel
a kind of pity for the Lord God in all ages sitting lonesome in
his golden chair.”
The Girl.—“That’ll be right fun, Christy Mahon, and any girl
would walk her heart out before she’d meet a young man was your
like for eloquence or talk at all.”
The Boy (encouraged).—“Let you wait, to hear me talking, till
we’re astray in Ennis, when Good Friday’s by, drinking a sup
from a well and making mighty kisses with our wetted mouths, or
gaming in a gap of sunshine, with yourself stretched back unto
your necklace, in the flowers of the earth.”
The Girl (in a low voice moved by his tone).—“I’d be nice so,
is it?”
The Boy (with rapture).—“If the mitred bishops seen you that
time, they’d be the like of the holy prophets, I’m thinking, do
be straining the bars of Paradise to lay eyes on the Lady Helen
of Troy, and she abroad, pacing back and forward, with a nosegay
in her golden shawl.”
He stopped, and sat, silently, with the book in front of him. The
half-light in the room spread into a circle of pale rose-colour
immediately round the window; the night sky was of the deepest blue.
To Maradick it was as though the place itself had spoken. The colour of
the day had taken voice and whispered to him.
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s very beautiful. Would you lend it to me
some time?”
“Delighted,” said Lester. “You can have it now if you like. Take it with
you. The whole play won’t keep you more than half an hour. I have his
other things, if you care to look at them.”
Maradick went off to dress with the book under his arm.
When he came down to the drawing-room he found Mrs. Lester there alone.
Only one lamp was lit and the curtains were not drawn, so that the dusky
sky glowed with all its colours, blue and gold and red, beyond the
windows.
When he saw Mrs. Lester he stopped for a moment at the door. The
lamplight fell on one cheek and some dark bands of her hair, the rest of
her face was in shadow. She smiled when she saw him.
“Ah! I’m so glad that you’ve come down before the rest. I’ve been
wanting to speak to you all day and there has been no opportunity.”
“Your husband has been showing me a wonderful play by that Irishman,
Synge,” he said. “I hadn’t heard of him. I had no idea——”
She laughed. “You’ve struck one of Fred’s pet hobbies,” she said; “start
him on Synge and he’ll never stop. It’s nice for a time—at first, you
know; but Synge for ever—well, it’s like living on wafers.”
She sighed and leaned back in her chair. She spoke in a low voice, and
it gave a note of intimacy to their conversation. As she looked at him
she thought again what a fine man he was. Evening dress suited him, and
the way that he sat, leaning a little towards her with his head raised
and the lamplight falling on his chin and throat, gave her a little
thrill of pleasure. He was very big and strong, and she contrasted him
with her husband. Maradick would probably be a bore to live with, whilst
Fred, as a matter of fact, did very well. But for playing a game this
was the very man, if, indeed, he knew that it was only a game; it would
be a dreadful nuisance if he took it seriously.
“How long are you staying here?” she said. “We shall stop for another
fortnight, I suppose, unless my husband suddenly takes it into his head
to run away. Even then I shall probably stay. I love the place; let me
see—to-day’s the fourteenth—yes, we shall probably be here until the
twenty-eighth.”
“I must get back when the month is up,” said Maradick.
“But I hate to think of going back. I’m enjoying every minute of it, but
I don’t think my wife will be sorry. The heat doesn’t suit her.”
“I hope,” she bent forward a little and laid her hand on his chair,
“that you didn’t think it very impertinent of me to speak as I did at
the picnic the other day. I thought afterwards that I had, perhaps, said
too much. But then I felt that you were different from most men, that
you would understand. I trust too much, I think, to intuition.”
“No, please don’t think that,” he said eagerly. “We have only got
another fortnight here. Why shouldn’t we be friends? I’m beginning to
think that I have wasted too much of my life by being afraid of going
too far, of saying the wrong thing. I have begun to understand life
differently since I have been here.”
Whether he implied that it was since he had known her that he had begun
to understand, she did not know; at any rate she would take it for that.
“There are so many things that I could tell you,” she said. “I think you
are to be trusted. It is not often that a woman can feel that about
anyone.”
“Thank you for saying that,” he said, looking her full in the face; “I
will try and deserve it.”
She touched his hand with hers and felt a delicious little thrill, then
she heard steps and moved to the fireplace.
Lady Gale and Alice Du Cane came into the room, and it was evident at
once that they were upset. Lady Gale talked to Maradick, but it was
obvious that her mind was elsewhere.
“Has Tony been with you this afternoon?” she said. “Alice says she saw
him about four o’clock, but no one has seen him since. He hasn’t come
back, apparently.”
“No,” Maradick said, “I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”
She looked at him for a moment, and he felt that her look had something
of reproach in it. He suddenly was conscious that he was, in their eyes
at any rate, responsible for anything that Tony might do. He ought to
have stood guard. And, after all, where had the boy been? He should have
been back by now.
“It is really too bad,” Lady Gale said. “He knows that his father
dislikes unpunctuality at meals above all things, and he has been late
again and again just lately. I must speak to him. He’s later than ever
to-night. Where did you see him, Alice?”
“Down on the sand. But he didn’t see _me_.” She spoke uneasily, and
Maradick saw at once that she was keeping something back.
“He’s been going about with a Punch and Judy man recently,” said Mrs.
Lester. “I have nothing to say against Punch and Judy men personally. I
always want to stop in the street and watch; but as a continual
companion——”
“This particular one,” said Maradick, “is especially nice, an awfully
decent little fellow. I’ve talked to him several times. No, Lady Gale,
I’m afraid my wife isn’t well enough to come down to-night. She’s had a
bad headache all day. It’s this heat, I think.” He looked at her rather
as a guilty schoolboy watches his master. He reproached himself for
having left the boy alone during the whole day, and he began to be
anxious on his own account. The situation was getting too much for his
nerves. For the first time he considered Alice Du Cane. He had not
thought of her as being very actively concerned in the business, but
there was something in her face now that spoke of trouble. She was
standing by the lamp nervously fingering some books at her side. The
thought that she was in trouble touched him, and he began to feel the
burden of the situation still more heavily upon him.
But he knew at once what it was that was troubling Lady Gale. It was Sir
Richard. He had seen enough of that Gentleman to know that so long as
superficial things were all right, so long as bells rang at the proper
moment and everyone immediately concerned with him were respectful and
decently dressed, he would ask no questions; but let him once begin to
have suspicions that something was lacking in respect to himself and the
family generally and nothing would hinder his irritable curiosity. He
had probably begun already to ask questions about Tony. Here was a new
element of danger.
The door opened and everyone turned eagerly towards it; it was Sir
Richard and Rupert.
Rupert didn’t appear to be more concerned than was usual with him, but
Sir Richard was evidently annoyed. He advanced into the room with his
customary before-dinner manner, that of one about to lead a cavalry
regiment to the charge.
“It’s late,” he said; “late. Where’s Tony?”
It was the question that everyone had been expecting, but no one
answered it for a moment. Then Lady Gale got up from her chair.
“He’ll be in in a minute, I expect,” she said. “He’s been kept. But it’s
no use waiting for dinner. I suppose Fred will be late, Millie? Never
mind, we’ll go down. You’ll dine with us, Mr. Maradick, won’t you?”
Sir Richard led the way with ominous silence.
The room was quite full, and for a breathless, agitated moment it seemed
that their own table had been taken; but the alarm was false, and
everyone could breathe again. Lady Gale’s life was spent in the
endeavour to prevent her husband from discovering a grievance. Let it
once be discovered and a horrible time was before her, for Sir Richard
petted it and nursed it until it grew, with a rapidity that was outside
nature, into a horrible monster whose every movement caused the house to
tremble.
She saw them, those grievances, come creeping round the corner and at
once her hand was out and she held them, strangled, in her grip, and the
danger was averted. Tony had often before been responsible for these
agitations, but she had always caught them in time; now, she realised it
as she crossed the dining-room, she was too late, and every moment of
Tony’s absence made matters worse. Sir Richard looked at the menu, and
then complained about it in monosyllables for several minutes. Maradick
watched the door with nervous eyes. This intrusion of Sir Richard into
the business complicated things horribly. Let him once suspect that Tony
was carrying on an affair with some girl in the town and the boy would
at once be sent away; that, of course, would mean the end of everything,
for him as well as for Tony. The Gales would go, the Lesters would
go—everyone, everything. Tony himself would not allow it to be left at
that, but, after all, what could he do?
Alice Du Cane was talking excitedly about nothing in particular, Mrs.
Lester was very quiet, Rupert, as usual, was intent upon his food. Alice
chattered at Mrs. Lester, “Lucy Romanes was there; you know, that
ridiculous girl with the scraped back hair and the pink complexion. Oh!
too absurd for anything! You know Muriel Halliday said that she simply
spends her days in following Captain Fawcett round. He rather likes it
. . . the sort of man who would. I can’t stand the girl.”
Mrs. Lester smiled across the table. “It’s old Mrs. Romanes’s fault. She
sends her round, she can’t get rid of any of her girls anywhere . . .
five of them, poor things; she’d sell any of them for twopence.”
Sir Richard had finished his soup, and he leaned across the table
towards his wife.
“What is the boy doing?” he said.
“Really, Richard, I don’t know. He’s been out sailing, I expect, and the
wind or something has kept him.”
“I won’t have it”; he glowered at everyone. “He knows when meals are, he
must be here. I must have obedience; and now I come to think of it”—he
paused and looked round the table—“it has happened often lately. It
hadn’t occurred to me before, but I remember now;
frequently—yes—late.”
Then, after a pause during which no one said a word, “What has he been
doing?”
This was so precisely the question that everyone else had been asking
carefully and surreptitiously during the last few days that everyone
looked guilty, as though they had been discovered in a crime. Then
everyone turned to Maradick.
He smiled. “I’ve been about with him a good deal lately, Sir Richard. I
really don’t know what we’ve done very much beyond walking. But I think
he was going to sail this afternoon.”
Lady Gale looked anxiously at the waiter. If the food were all right the
danger might be averted. But of course on this night of all nights
everything was wrong: the potatoes were hard, the peas harder, the meat
was overdone. Sir Richard glared at the waiter.
“Ask Mr. Bannister if he would spare me a minute,” he said. Bannister
appeared as spherical and red-cheeked as ever.
“Things are disgraceful to-night,” Sir Richard said. “I must beg you,
Mr. Bannister, to see to it.”
Bannister was gently apologetic. The cook should be spoken to, it was
abominable; meanwhile was there anything that he could get for Sir
Richard? No? He was sorry. He bowed to the ladies and withdrew.
“It’s abominable—this kind of thing. And Tony? Why, it’s quarter to
nine; what does he mean? It’s always happening. Are these people he
knows in the town?”
He looked at his wife.
“I really don’t know, dear. I expect that he’s met people down there;
it’s probable. But I shouldn’t worry, dear. I’ll speak to him.” She
looked across at Alice. “What were you saying about Mrs. Romanes, dear?
I used to know her a long while ago; I don’t suppose she would remember
me now.”
Maradick had a miserable feeling that she blamed him for all this. If he
had only looked after Tony and stayed with him this would never have
happened. But he couldn’t be expected to stay with Tony always. After
all, the boy was old enough to look after himself; it was absurd. Only,
just now perhaps it would have been wiser. He saw that Mrs. Lester was
smiling. She was probably amused at the whole affair.
Suddenly at the farther end of the room some one came in. It was Tony.
Maradick held his breath.
He looked so perfectly charming as he stood there, recognising, with a
kind of sure confidence, the “touch” that was necessary to carry the
situation through. He could see, of course, that it _was_ a situation,
but whether he recognised the finer shades of everyone’s feeling about
it—the separate, individual way that they were all taking it, so that
Alice’s point of view and his mother’s point of view and Maradick’s
point of view were all, really, at the opposite ends of the pole as far
as seeing the thing went—that was really the important question. They
all were needing the most delicate handling, and, in fact, from this
moment onwards the “fat” was most hopelessly in the fire and the whole
business was rolling “tub-wise” down ever so many sharp and precipitous
hills.
But he stood there, looking down at them, most radiantly happy. His hair
was still wet from his bath, and his tie was a little out of place
because he had dressed in a hurry, and he smiled at them all, taking
them, as it were, into his heart and scolding them for being so
foolishly inquisitive, and, after it all, letting them no further into
his confidence.
He knew, of course, exactly how to treat his father; his mother was more
difficult, but he could leave her until afterwards.
To Sir Richard’s indignant “Well?” he answered politely, but with a
smile and a certain hurried breathlessness to show that he had taken
trouble.
“Really, I’m awfully sorry.” He sat down and turned, with a smile, to
the company. “I’m afraid I’m dreadfully late, but it was ever so much
later than I’d thought. I was most awfully surprised when I saw the
clock upstairs. I’ve smashed my own watch. You remember, mother, my
dropping it when we were down in the town. Tuesday, wasn’t it? Yes, I’ll
have soup, please. I say, I hope you people won’t mind; I suppose you’ve
about finished, but I’m going right through everything. I’m just as
hungry as I can jolly well be. No, no sherry, thanks.”
But Sir Richard’s solemnity was imperturbable. “Where have you been?” he
said coldly. “You know how strongly I dislike unpunctuality at
meal-times, yes, unpunctuality. And this is not only unpunctuality, it
is positively missing it altogether; I demand an explanation.”
This public scolding before all the assembled company seemed to Maradick
in very bad taste, and he shifted uneasily in his chair, but Tony did
not seem to mind.
“I know,” he said, looking up from his soup and smiling at his father,
“I am most awfully careless. But it wasn’t all that, as a matter of
fact. I rowed round the Point to Boulter’s Cove, and the tides are most
awfully dicky and they played old Harry with us this evening, I simply
couldn’t get along at all. It was like rowing against a wall. I knew it
was most beastly late, but I couldn’t get any faster.”
“Us?” said Sir Richard. “Who were your companions?”
There was a slight movement round the table.
“Oh,” said Tony easily, “there are all sorts of old sailor Johnnies down
there that one gets to know, and they’re awfully good sorts. There’s one
fellow about eight foot and broad in proportion; the girls are simply
mad about him, they——”
But Lady Gale interrupted him. “You’d better be getting on with your
meal, dear. It’s late. I don’t think we need wait. Shall we have coffee
outside?”
“No, don’t you people wait,” said Tony, “I’ll come along in a minute.”
As Alice turned to go she stopped for a moment by his chair. “I saw you
this afternoon,” she said.
“Oh! _did_ you?” he answered, looking up at her. For a moment he seemed
disturbed, then he laughed.
“Where and when?” he asked.
“This afternoon, somewhere after four; you were on the beach.” She
looked at him for a moment, standing very straight and her head flung
back. “I am glad you enjoyed your row,” she said with a laugh.
“I must talk to Maradick about it,” he said to himself. He was quite
prepared for complications; of course, there were bound to be in such a
situation. But at present the memory of the wonderful afternoon
enwrapped him like a fire, so that he could not think of anything else,
he could not see anything but her eyes and smile and golden hair. The
empty room hung before his eyes, with the white cloths on innumerable
tables gleaming like white pools in rows across the floor, and dark
mysterious men, who might be perhaps, at more brightly lighted times,
waiters, moved silently from place to place. But beyond, outside the
room, there shone the white curve of the boat stealing like a ghost
across the water, and behind it the dark band of hill, the green clump
of trees, the dusky, trembling figures of the sheep. Oh! glorious hour!
A little waiter, with a waistcoat that was far too large for him and a
tie that had crept towards his right ear, hung in the background. Tony
pushed his plate away and looked round.
“I say,” he said, “are you in love with anyone?”
The waiter, who hailed from Walham Green, and, in spite of his tender
years, was burdened with five children and a sick wife, coughed
apologetically.
“Well, sir,” he said, “to be strictly truthful, I can’t say as I am, not
just at present. And perhaps it’s just as well, seeing as how I’ve been
a married man these fifteen years.” He folded a table-cloth carefully
and coughed again.
“Well, isn’t it possible to be in love with your wife?” asked Tony.
The waiter’s mind crept timidly back to a certain tea of shrimps and
buns on the Margate sands many, very many years ago. He saw a red sun
and a blue sky and some nigger minstrels, white and black; but that was
another lifetime altogether, before there were children and doctor’s
bills.
“Well, sir,” he said, “it gets kind o’ casual after a time; not that
it’s anyone’s fault exactly, only times ’is ’ard and there’s the
children and one thing and another, and there scarcely seems time for
sentiment exactly.”
He coughed his way apologetically back into the twilight at the farther
end of the room.
“There scarcely seems time for sentiment exactly!” Tony laughed to
himself at the absurdity of it and stepped out into the garden. He
didn’t want to see the family just at present. They would grate and jar.
He could be alone; later, he would talk to Maradick.
And Lady Gale, for the first time in her life, avoided him. She did not
feel that she could talk to him just yet; she must wait until she had
thought out the new developments and decided on a course of action. The
day had filled her with alarm, because suddenly two things had been
shown to her. The first, that there was no one in the world for whom she
really cared save Tony. There were other people whom she liked, friends,
acquaintances; for her own husband and Rupert she had a protecting
kindliness that was bound up intimately in her feeling for the family,
but love!—no—it was Tony’s alone.
She had never realised before how deeply, how horribly she cared. It was
something almost wild and savage in her, so that she, an old lady with
white hair and a benevolent manner, would have fought and killed and
torn his enemies were he in danger. The wildness, the ferocity of it
frightened her so that she sat there in the dark with trembling hands,
watching the lights of the ships at sea and, blindly, blindly praying.
She had known, of course, before, that he was everything to her, that
without him life would lose all its purpose and meaning and beauty, but
there had been other things that counted as well; now it seemed that
nothing else mattered in the least.
And the second thing that she saw, and it was this second revelation
that had shown her the first, was that she was in danger of losing him.
The relationship of perfect confidence that had, she fondly imagined,
existed until now between them, had never been endangered, because there
had been nothing to hide. He had not told her everything, of course;
there must have been things at Oxford, and even before, that he had not
told her, but she had felt no alarm because they had been, she was sure,
things that did not matter. And then he had, so often, come and told
her, told her with his charming smile and those open eyes of his, so
that there could be no question of his keeping anything back.
She had studied the relationship of mother and son so perfectly that she
had had precisely the right “touch” with him, never demanding what he
was not ready to give, always receiving the confidences that he handed
her. But now for the first time he was keeping things back, things that
mattered. When she had spoken so bravely to Maradick a fortnight ago, on
that day when she had first caught sight of the possible danger, she had
thought that she was strong enough and wise enough to wait, patiently,
with perfect trust. But it was not possible, it could not be done. She
could not sit there, with her hands folded, whilst some strange woman
down there in that dark, mysterious town caught her boy away from her.
Every day her alarm had grown; she had noticed, too, that their
relationship had changed. It had been so wonderful and beautiful, so
delicate and tender, that any alteration in its colour was at once
apparent to her. He had not been so frank, there had been even a little
artificiality in his conversations with her. It was more than she could
bear.
But, although the uncertainty of it might kill her, she must not know.
She saw that as clearly, as inevitably as ever. Let her once know, from
his own confession, that he loved some girl down there in the town, and
she would be forced to stop it. The horizon would widen, and bigger,
louder issues than their own personal feelings would be concerned. The
family would be called into the issue, and she could not be false to its
claims. She could not be untrue to her husband and all the traditions.
And yet it was only Tony’s happiness that she cared for; that must be
considered above everything else. Maradick would know whether this girl
were, so to speak, “all right.” If she were impossible, then he
assuredly would have stopped it by now. Maradick was, in fact, the only
clue to the business that she had got.
But it was partly because she was losing her trust in him that she was
unhappy now. His guard over Tony had, for to-day at any rate, been
miserably inadequate. He might feel, perhaps, that he had no right to
spend his time in hanging on to Tony’s coat-tails, it wasn’t fair on the
boy, but he ought to have been with him more.
She was sitting now with Alice on the seat at the farther end of the
garden overlooking the town. The place seemed hateful to her, as she
stared down it acquired a personality of its own, a horrible menacing
personality. It lay there with its dark curved back like some horrible
animal, and the lights in the harbours were its eyes twinkling
maliciously; she shuddered and leant back.
“Are you cold, dear?” It was the first time that Alice had spoken since
they had come out. She herself was sitting straight with her head back,
a slim white figure like a ghost.
“No, it’s stiflingly warm, as a matter of fact. I was thinking, and
that’s about the only thing that an old woman can do.”
“You are worried.” Alice spoke almost sharply. “And I hate you to be
worried. I’ve noticed during these last few days——”
“Yes, I suppose I am a little,” Lady Gale sighed. “But then you’ve been
worried too, dear, for the matter of that. It hasn’t been altogether a
success, this place, this time. I don’t know what’s been wrong exactly,
because the weather’s been beautiful.”
Alice put her hand on Lady Gale’s. “You won’t think me an utter pig,
will you, dear, if I go up to Scotland at the end of the week? I think I
had better, really. I’m not well down here, and it only makes it
uncomfortable for the rest of you if I’m cross and absurd.”
Lady Gale sighed. “If you really want to go, dear,” she said, “of course
you must. Do just what you like. Only, I shall miss you badly. You’re a
great help to me, you know. Of course there’s Milly, but she’s been
funny lately. She always gets excited down here.” Lady Gale put her arm
round the girl. “Stay for a little, dear. I want you. We all want you.”
Alice drew herself up for a moment as though she would repel the caress;
then she tried to say something, but the words would not come. With a
little cry she buried her face in the other’s dress. For a few moments
there was silence, then her shoulders heaved and she burst into
passionate sobbing. Lady Gale said nothing—only, with her hand, she
stroked her hair. The night was very still, so still that they could
hear coming up from the town the distant chorus of some song.
At last Alice raised her head. “Please,” she said, “don’t worry about
me.” But she clutched Lady Gale’s hand. “Oh! I’m ashamed of myself. I’m
a fool to give way like this.” She suddenly drew her hand fiercely away.
But Lady Gale took it in hers.
“Why,” she said, “I have been wanting you to speak to me all this time,
and you wouldn’t; of course I knew what the matter was, you can’t keep
that from his mother. We all seem to have been at cross-purposes, as it
is in a play, when one word would put everything right, but everybody is
afraid to say it. Why, I want to talk to you about it all. Do you
suppose that I am not having a bad time too?”
Alice leaned towards her and kissed her. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve
been so selfish lately. I haven’t thought about anyone else. I hadn’t
realised what you must feel about it. I ought to have known.”
She stopped for a moment, then she went on speaking in little gasps as
though she had been running. “But I hadn’t meant to speak at all
anything about it. I hate myself for having given way. I, who had always
prided myself on my restraint and self-possession, to cry like a child
for the moon.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed bitterly. “I won’t
give way again,” she said.
Lady Gale put her arm round her and drew her close. “Alice, dear, let me
talk to you for a moment. You are going through a bad time, and it may
be a crisis and alter your whole life. You are very young, my dear, and
I am so old that I seem to have been through everything and to know it
all from the beginning. So perhaps I can help you. I love you from the
bottom of my heart, and this thing has drawn us together as nothing else
in the world possibly could.”
Alice pressed close against her. “Oh! I’ve been so lonely these last
days, you can’t know how bad it has been.”
“Yes, dear, of course I know. I saw at once when we came down here that
something was wrong. I wanted to talk to you, but it’s no use forcing
people’s confidence. I knew that you’d speak to me if you wanted to. But
we’re together in this, we both love Tony.”
“Oh! I’m ashamed.” Alice spoke very low, it was almost a whisper. “And
yet, do you know, in a way I’m glad. It showed me that I’ve got
something that I was almost afraid wasn’t in me at all. In spite of my
pride I have been sometimes suddenly frightened, and wondered whether it
were really in me to care for anyone at all. And then all in a moment
this has come. I would die for Tony; I would let him trample on me, kill
me, beat me. Sometimes, when we are sitting, all of us, so quietly there
in the drawing-room or in the garden, and he talking, oh, I want to get
up and fling myself at him and hold him there before them all. I have
been afraid during these last few days that I shall suddenly lose
control. I have wondered once or twice whether I am not going mad. Now
you see why I must go.”
She buried her face in her hands.
Lady Gale bent over her. “Alice dear, I understand, of course I
understand. But let me try and show you, dear, why you must stay. Just
for this next week or two. You can be of so much help to me and to Tony.
I have been having rather a bad time too. It is like walking in the dark
with things on every side of you that you cannot see. And I want you,
dear.”
Alice did not speak. The bells in the distant town struck ten, first one
and then another and then five or six at once. Five lights of boats at
sea gleamed in a row like stars that had fallen into the water, through
the dark mist of the trees a curved moon sailed.
“You see, dear, things are so difficult now, and they seem to grow worse
every day. And really it comes to this. You and I and Mr. Maradick all
love Tony. The others don’t count. Of course I’m not sure about Mr.
Maradick, but I think he cares very much in his own way, and so we are,
you see, a bodyguard for him. I mean to do as he wants to. Tony has
always seen things perfectly clearly and has known what he wanted, but
now there are other things that make it harder for him. I hoped when we
came down here that he was going to marry you, dear, but perhaps after
all it is better that he shouldn’t. The only thing that matters in the
least in this world is love, getting it and keeping it; and if a man or
a woman have secured that, there is nothing else that is of any
importance. And so I always determined that Tony should have his own
choice, that he should go when he wished to.”
She paused and took Alice’s hand and stroked it. “This is the first time
that he has ever really been in love. Of course I know—I knew at once
by the light in his eyes—and I want him to have it and to keep it and,
whatever happens, not to miss it. But of course I must not know about
it, because then his father would have to be told. Sir Richard thinks a
great deal of the family. It is the only thing that matters to him very
much. And of course there would be terrible scenes and I should have to
go with the family. So, whatever happens, I must not know about it.”
“Yes,” said Alice, “I see that.”
“And so, you see, I put Mr. Maradick there as a guard. He is a worthy
creature, a little dull, but very trustworthy, and I knew that he would
do his best. But it is harder than I had thought it would be. Now Sir
Richard is beginning to wonder where Tony goes, and I am afraid that in
a day or two there will be some terrible scene and Tony will go, perhaps
for ever. So I want you to be with me here. You can talk to Mr.
Maradick, and if I see that you are satisfied then I shall know that it
is all right. It will make all the difference in the world if I have
you.”
“You are asking rather a lot,” Alice said. “I don’t think you quite
realise what it is to me. It is like some strange spell, and if I were
fanciful or absurd I should imagine that the place had something to do
with it. Of course it hasn’t, but I feel as if I should be my normal
self again if I could once get away.”
“No. You’ll never be quite the same person again. One never can get
back. But look at it in this way, dear. Do you care enough for Tony to
be of real help to him, to do something for him that no one else can
possibly do?”
“Do I care for him?” Alice laughed. “I care for him as no one has ever
cared for anyone before.”
“Ah! That’s what we all think, my dear. I thought that once about Sir
Richard. But you can do everything for him now, if you will.”
But Alice shrugged her shoulders. “As far as I understand it,” she said,
“you want me to spy on Mr. Maradick.”
“No, not to spy, of course not. Only to behave to Tony as if nothing had
happened, and to help me about Sir Richard. And then you can talk to Mr.
Maradick, if you like; ask him right out about her.”
“Oh, then he’ll say, and quite rightly too, that it’s none of my
business.”