WOULD SHE GIVE IN?
TWO nights passed, and the early post brought no letter from Robert.
Patricia might have heard, possibly, the evening before. She had
felt secure of a reply, at latest, this morning, giving in to her
demand. When Rob knew all that hung on his decision—and she had put it
plainly—he could not hesitate.
Since no word arrived, she began to realise that it meant his coming
down to speak. So much the better! She believed in personal power. To
travel from London, and to return in the same day, meant a rush; but it
could be done.
She knew at what hour to expect him, if he followed this plan; and as
it drew near she was rather surprised at various heart-flutterings and
nervous dreads. What if he should walk in, merely to announce that he
had no intention of yielding.
But the idea was absurd. Rob had more sense!
She put on one of her prettiest frocks, arranged her hair with
extra attention, and then busied herself with preparations for the
charade—still keeping watch on the clock.
The time when she expected him went by, and he did not come. She was
alone in her boudoir, waiting; and the minutes lagged. Even allowing
for a tardy train, he ought to have appeared before now. With a sinking
of heart she gave him up and determined to go back to her arrangements.
A letter would doubtless arrive later.
As she moved towards the door it opened, and he stood before her—calm,
stern, collected. Not the Rob whom she had known hitherto. She moved
forward in welcome, but his manner checked her, and he offered no kiss.
"I have come to see you," he said. "That is better than writing. I must
know what you mean."
"I meant of course what I said." Pride again had the upper hand as she
stood facing him.
He had closed the door as he entered, and he too kept on his feet,
looking pale but resolute.
"You said—or implied—that the continuance of our engagement must depend
on my coming to that particular party."
"Yes. I meant that. I have told you how much I want you here—and it
ought to be enough! If I ask it, you ought to come."
"For my own pleasure I should not hesitate, of course. There are other
things to be considered. It is a question of duty, not pleasure; and
I have told you already that I cannot be away from my post on that
particular evening."
"Some stupid parish tea, I suppose."
"Yes, it is our parish tea; and I told the Vicar weeks ago that nothing
should induce me to fail him."
"I think my wishes ought to rank first with you. If you love me—as you
have said you do!"
She sat down, but Rob remained standing.
"Even for you, Patricia, I cannot put amusement before duty."
"But if your duty is to please me?" She lifted her eyes to his with
their sweetest look.
"I cannot be away—even to please you—that evening."
"If you asked your Vicar, he would understand."
"It could make no difference. I have no doubt whatever as to what I
ought to do."
She held up her head. "You can put slum-work before me! It shows how
little you really care!"
"Is it not rather that you and I look upon life with different eyes?
My first duty is to my Master—to the life-work to which I am vowed.
Nothing may hinder that. Cannot you see things, or try to see them,
from my standpoint?"
"Really, I don't see why I should try to do anything of the kind," she
retorted, losing temper. "It ought to be your business to see things
from my standpoint."
"Hardly—when yours is a question of pleasure, and mine is a question of
duty. If I were a soldier in the king's army, could I let our enjoyment
come before duty? It would be impossible. Neither can I here."
"Evidently you are much too good for me!" She spoke in a mocking tone.
"It is necessary that we should face the question." He said this with
extreme quietness. "Better that you should see how things are now than
later—too late! If you and I are to be one, we must be one in very
truth. We cannot pull opposite ways."
"If you mean that I am always to be put second to every slum-child or
dirty old woman who happens to want you—then—I agree! We had better
part. That of course is what you mean."
"I mean only that you must see clearly what lies before you. At one
time I had no fears. I believed that you thought as I thought—felt as
I felt. I believed that my Master was your Master—that my aim in life
was your aim in life. But lately I have doubted. You must remember that
when I have a living, it will be the same. Year after year the same.
Work before pleasure—work, for which you do not care—in which you have
no interest. If that is indeed so—"
"If that is so, we had better have done with one another," she said
impatiently. "Anyhow, I don't choose to be second. I suppose you made
up your mind to this some time ago, and only waited for a good chance."
"I think you know that you are wronging me. Do you imagine that I find
it easy now to make this stand? But there are some things that a man
cannot do—and this is one. I cannot put aside a plain duty merely to
come here on a particular evening, because you have set your mind upon
it."
"I see! Oh yes, I see! My setting my mind on a thing isn't worth a
moment's consideration. All that signifies is your work. We are happier
apart!"
She stood up, flushed and excited. "Remember—it is your doing!" she
added.
"Had it not better be yours?"
"Well—we both agree. Is that it? We feel that we don't suit, and can't
get on together."
"If you make my coming that evening a sine quâ non!"
"I do make it!" she responded passionately. "I told my aunt it should
be a test-case. And you fail to meet the test."
Rob's eyes met hers; quiet eyes, full of patience, full also of pain.
She found it difficult to meet them, but anger helped her through.
"I don't believe you love me. If you did, you could not say 'no' to
such a little, little request! It is absurd. You could come if you
chose; and you do not choose. Once more I give you the chance! Once
more, Rob!" She held out her pretty hands, and lifted her lovely eyes
to his. "If you love me—if you care—give in this once. Just this once!
I won't ask it again. I'll be good in the future. Only this once!"
The tone was almost entreating, but he said gently—"I am very sorry. It
is impossible. I am pledged to the other."
"Very well! You've taken your choice. It's all over!"
She dropped her hands and stood facing him, a scornful smile on her
lips—lovely still, in spite of the scorn. Rob remained motionless,
drinking in her beauty. And well he might; for, though neither he nor
she could guess what lay ahead, he would never again set eyes upon that
rare and perfect colouring.
"Well—good-bye!" she said coldly.
She brushed past him, moving with unusual haste, and left him alone.
Going upstairs she set to work, precisely as if nothing had happened,
upon the dress arrangements for her acting.
Rob made his way out of the house. He knew that this had to be. He had
feared for months that it might end thus. Patricia, if she were indeed
what she had seemed of late, would act in his life as a deadweight,
hindering the work to which he was vowed, dragging him constantly
earthward. He had feared; yet he had waited and hoped. Now matters had
come to a climax, and Patricia herself had settled the question.
Whether he was more grieved, or in a certain sense more relieved,
he could not yet have told. Her beauty had an extraordinary power
over him; so that, when with her, he found it desperately hard to
offer opposition, not to let her have her own way. Yet the last few
months had brought to him deep disappointment. Not even a lover's
devotion could permanently blind him to the truth that, within that
exquisite casket, little was to be found beyond mental emptiness.
Or, if Mind were there—and at times he felt sure it was—it had never
been exercised, had never been called forth. He found in her no
companionship, no understanding, no sympathy, no true intercourse.
Rob had long fought against the knowledge, had viewed her with
indulgence, had made all possible excuses. He loved her still, and the
thought that she was no longer his made the whole world look blank, and
robbed life of its joy. Still, far below the chill desolation which
had him in its grip, there was also a dim sense of regained freedom.
In years to come, he might well be thankful to have had things thus
decided for him.
He did not go home, but caught the next train, and from London wrote a
line to his mother, simply stating that "all was over" between himself
and Patricia.
A cheerful note from Patricia to Pen endorsed this. "We don't feel
that we are suited, so it is by mutual consent," she said. Then she
expressed an urgent hope that it might make no difference as to her
"little charade." She would still want the help of Magda and Merryl.
"How like Patricia!" somebody remarked, as Pen handed over the note
indifferently.
Pen had that day become engaged, and she had small interest to spare
for other people's concerns.
Somebody else suggested—"So now Magda will be able, after all, to keep
house for Rob by-and-by!"
That set Magda thinking. She wondered that she had not at once
remembered the possibility; and she wondered still more that the idea
did not wear its old radiant colouring. It certainly did not.
Patricia, with undaunted courage, set to work to re-organise her plans.
Ivor, after a good deal of persuading, at length consented to take that
part in the charade which Rob had refused. Bee Major, thenceforward,
looked as if her world lay under a June sky. And Ned Fairfax undertook
the comic character; with a proviso that he could not come down till a
day or two before the evening. He would learn his part in readiness;
learning by heart was no trouble to him; and no doubt a single
rehearsal would be sufficient. Patricia was piqued at what she called
"his cool assurance;" but since she could find nobody else, she agreed.
One letter Magda sent to Ned on the subject, doing it avowedly to save
Patricia trouble. She put much of herself into the sheet, writing and
rewriting more times than she would have cared to avow. No direct
answer was called for, though she felt sure that one would come. But
Ned wrote instead to Patricia, and merely sent "thanks" to Magda. Her
spirits went down to zero, and she became a burden in her home.