CONCERNING A STOLEN KISS.
A stolen kiss may mean very different things--almost nothing (not quite
nothing, or why steal it?), something yet not too much, or well-nigh
everything. The two parties need not give it the same value; a witness
of it is not, of necessity, bound by the valuation of either of them. It
may be merely a jest, of such taste as charity can allow in the
circumstances; it may be the crown and end of a slight and passing
flirtation; it may be the first visible mark of a passion destined to
grow to fierce intensity. Or it may seem utterly evasive in its
significance at the moment, as it were indecipherable and imponderable,
waiting to receive from the future its meaning and its weight.
The last man to find his way through a maze of emotional analysis was
Andy Hayes; his mind held no thread of experience whereby to track the
path, his temperament no instinct to divine it. He could not assign a
value--or values--to the incident of which chance had made him a
witness; what Harry's impulse, Isobel's obvious acceptance of it, the
intensity and absorption that marked the bearing of the two in the brief
moment in which he saw them as he lifted Vivien's shawl, stood looking
for a flash of time, and quickly turned away--what these things meant or
amounted to he could not tell. But there was no uncertainty about his
feelings; he was filled with deep distaste. He was not a man of
impracticable ideals--his mind walked always in the mean--but he was
naturally averse from intrigue, from underhand doings, from the playing
of double parts. They were traitors in this thing; let it mean the least
it could, even to mere levity or unbecoming jocularity (their faces rose
in his mind to contradict this view even as he put it), still they were
so far traitors. The first brunt of his censure fell on Isobel, but his
allegiance to Harry was also so sorely shaken that it seemed as though
it could never be the same again. The engagement had been to Andy a
sacrosanct thing; it was now sacrilegiously defaced by the hands of the
two most bound to guard it. "Very low-down!" was Andy's humble phrase of
condemnation--at least very low-down; how much more he knew not but that
in the best view of the case. At the moment his heart had gone out to
Vivien in a great pang of compassion; it seemed such a shame to tamper
with, even if not actually to betray, a trust like hers. His face, like
Isobel's, had been red--but red with anger--under the cover of the
night. He was echoing the Nun's "Poor girl!" which in loyalty to his
friend he had before resented.
His first impulse had been to shield Vivien from any suspicion; it
taught him a new cunning, an hypocrisy not his own. If Isobel delayed
their return to the brightly lighted room, he did not hurry it--let all
the faces have time to recover! But his voice was calm and unmoved; for
him he was even talkative and exuberant. When they went in, he met Harry
with an unembarrassed air. Relief rose in Isobel; yet Harry doubted. So
far as Harry could reason, he must have all but seen, probably had
actually seen. And in one thing there was significance. He went on
devoting himself to Vivien; he did not efface himself in Harry's favour,
as his wont was. He seemed to make his presence a fence round her,
forbidding her lover's approach. Harry, now talking trifles to Isobel,
watched him keenly, hardly doubting, hardly venturing to hope.
"Till lunch to-morrow, Harry," said Vivien gaily, when the time for
good-night came. "You'll come too, won't you, Mr. Hayes?"
"Thanks awfully, but I'm off for a big tramp."
"To dinner then?" asked Isobel very graciously.
"Thanks awfully, but I--I really must sup with old Jack."
The quickest glance ran from Harry to Isobel.
What was to be done? Take the chance--the bare chance--that he had not
seen anything, or not seen all? Or confess the indiscretion and plead
its triviality--with a vow of penitence, serious if Andy must be serious
over such a trifle, light if he proved man of the world enough to join
in laughing it off? No, Harry would take the chance, poor as it was.
Even if Andy had seen, how could he interfere? To confess, however
lightly, would be to give him a standing in the case, a right to put his
oar in. It would be silly to do that; as matters stood now, his title
could be denied if he sought to meddle. He knew Andy well enough to be
sure that he would do nothing against him without fair warning. If he
meant to tell tales to Vivien or to Wellgood, he would warn Harry first.
Time enough to wrestle with him then! Meanwhile they--he was coupling
Isobel with himself--would stand on the defensive; nothing should be
admitted, everything should be ignored.
So much for Andy! He was assessed--a possible danger, a certain cause
for vigilance, also, it must be confessed, rather an uncomfortable
presence, an embarrassing witness of his friend's orthodox love-making,
as he had been an unwilling one of his heterodox. Meanwhile Harry's tact
was equal to the walk back to Meriton, Andy proving inclined to silence
but not unfriendly or morose, still less actively aggressive or
reproachful. And he would not be at Meriton to-morrow. The word could be
passed to Isobel--be careful but say nothing! Very careful in Andy's
presence--but no admissions to be made!
Aye, so much for Andy! But besides the witness there are the parties.
Besides the person who catches you kissing, there is the person you
kiss. There is also you, who kiss. All questions of value are not
decided by the impression you chance to make on the witness. The
bystander may see most of the game; the players settle the stakes.
"Perverse!" was Harry's verdict on the whole affair, given from his own
point of view; not only perverse that he should have been caught--if he
had been--but no less perverse that he should have done the thing, that
he should have wanted to do it, and that he should feel as he now did
about it. Perhaps the last element was really the most perverse of all,
because it set up in his mind an opposition to what was plainly the only
course open to him from Isobel's point of view. (Here the question of
the third value came in.) That was surely open and avowed penitence--a
sincere apology, as serious or as light as was demanded or would be
accepted. She could not pretend that she felt outraged. In truth they
had shared in the indiscretion and been partners in the peccadillo. An
apology not too abject, a hint at the temptation, gracefully put, to
serve for excuse, a return to the safe ground of friendship--and a total
oblivion of the incident! Or, if they must think of it at all, it would
be without words--with a smile, maybe, in a few days' time; that is how
we feel about some not serious, by no means unpleasant, little scrape
that is well over. Harry had been in a good many such--perverse but not
fatal, annoying at the time, not necessarily things on which the memory
dwelt with pain in after days; far from it sometimes, in fact.
That was the right thing to do, and the right way to regard the episode.
But Harry was conscious of a complication--in the circumstances and in
his own feelings. Owing to his engagement with Vivien he must go on
frequenting Isobel's society; owing to the memory of his kiss the
necessity was not distasteful. Well, these little complications must be
unravelled; the first difficulty faced, the second ignored or overcome.
He arrived at so clear, sound, and prudent a resolution thus to minimise
the effects of his indiscretion that he felt almost more virtuous than
if he had been discreet.
So the parties, as well as the witness, were assessed. But who had put
into his hand the standard whereby to assess Isobel? She might measure
by another rule.
The confession--and absolution--thus virtuously and comfortably planned
did not take place the next day, for the simple reason that Miss Vintry
afforded no opportunity for them; she was ill and invisible. On the
following day she was on a sofa. Immediately on his appearance, Harry
was sent home again, Vivien declaring that she must be in unremitting
attendance on her friend. The third day matters seemed back on their
usual footing; but still he got no private word with Isobel. Once or
twice he caught her looking at him in what seemed a thoughtful way; when
observed, she averted her glance, but without embarrassment. Perhaps
this avoidance of all chance of private talk--of all possibility of
referring to the incident--was her way of treating it; perhaps she meant
to dispense with apology and go straight to oblivion. If that were her
intention, she misjudged Harry's feelings. He felt baulked of his scheme
of confession and absolution--baulked and tantalized. He felt almost
insulted--did she not think him gentleman enough to apologise? He felt
curious--did she not feel the desire for an apology herself? He felt
amazed--had she no anxiety about Andy? The net result was that he could
think of little else than of her and of the incident. And under these
circumstances he had to carry on his orthodox love-making! The way of
trangressors is said to be hard; at moments Harry felt his worse than
that; it had a tendency to become ridiculous.
Against this abhorred peril he struck back vigorously and instinctively
on effective lines. He could hold his own in a duel of the sexes. His
court of Vivien not only seemed but became more ardent--in these matters
the distinction between being and seeming runs very thin, since the
acting excites the reality. If one woman teased him, occupying his
thoughts without satisfying his desire, he turned to the adoration of
another, and gave her of his own that hers might be more complete.
Adoring Vivien found herself adored; Harry's worship would break out
even in Isobel's presence! He who had been rather too content to accept
now asked; she could not do enough to witness her love.
Half-unconsciously fighting for a victory he less than consciously
desired, he struck at Isobel through Vivien--and made Vivien supremely
happy. Happiness gave her confidence; confidence gave her new charm, a
new vivacity, a daring to speak her gay and loving thoughts. Who should
not listen if Harry loved to hear? Her growth in power to allure made
Harry wonder that he could not love single-heartedly, why his
recollection of the incident remained so fresh and so ever-present. If
Isobel would give him a chance to wind it up! It was troublesome now
only because it hung in a mystery created by her silence, because the
memory of it was irritated by a curiosity which her evasion of him
maintained. Did she think it nothing? Or could she not bear to speak of
it, because it was so much more? At any rate she should see how he loved
Vivien!
The three had this week to themselves--Andy engulfed in town and Gilbert
Foot and Co., Wellgood not due back till the Saturday. So they passed
it--Vivien in a new ecstasy; Harry ardent, troubled, wondering; Isobel
apart, thoughtful, impossible to read. Thus they came to the Friday.
To-morrow Wellgood would be back. Harry, thinking on this, thought
suddenly of what had led up to the incident--what had been the excuse,
the avenue, for his venture. It had been absorbed in the incident
itself. Wellgood's coming gave it back to independent life. If what
Isobel had said were true, another lover entered on the scene--Isobel's!
That night--when Harry had gone--Vivien came to Isobel and kissed her,
saying, "It's wonderful, but to-night I'm sure!"
Isobel was looking at an illustrated paper. She let her hand rest in
Vivien's, but she did not raise her eyes from the pictures. "Silly
child, you've been sure all along!"
"Not as I am to-night. I've been sure I pleased him, that he liked me,
that he liked my love. I've never been sure that he really wanted it
till the last two or three days." She paused a moment, and added softly,
"Never sure he must have it, as much as I must have his!"
Isobel's paper slipped from her knees on to the floor, but still she did
not look at Vivien.
"It's a wonderful feeling that," the girl went on; "to feel he must have
it--that he must have my love as I must have his. Before he seemed to be
doing all the giving--and I could hardly believe! Now I'm giving
too--we're sharing. Somehow it makes a woman of me." She playfully
caressed Isobel's hand, running fingers lightly over fingers. "I don't
believe I'm afraid even of you any more!" Her tone was gay,
affectionately bantering.
Now Isobel looked up at her as she leant over her shoulder. "It makes
you look very pretty."
"It makes me feel prettier still," laughed Vivien. She put her face
close to her friend's and whispered, blushing, "He kisses me differently
now."
Isobel Vintry sharply drew her hand away. Vivien's blush grew painfully
bright.
"Oh, I--I oughtn't to have said that. You're right, Isobel. It's--it's
too sacred. But I was so happy in it. Do forgive me, dear. I've got no
mother to talk to, Isobel. Not even a sister! I know what you felt, but
you must forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive, child. I meant nothing when I took my hand
away. I was going to pick up the paper."
"Then kiss me, Isobel."
Isobel slowly turned her head and kissed the girl's cheek. "I know what
you mean, Vivien," she said with a smile that to the girl seemed
wistful, almost bitter.
"You dear!" she whispered. "Some day you must be very happy too." Her
voice carolled in song as she sped upstairs.
"The good which I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I
do." That--and possibly one other--reminiscence of the Scriptures came
back to Isobel Vintry when, with a kiss, she had dismissed Vivien to her
happy rest. There was another law, warring against the law of her
mind--the law of the Restless and Savage Master. He broke friendship's
power and blurred the mirror of loyalty. He drove her whither she would
not go, commanded her to set her hand to what she would not touch,
forced love to mate with loathing. "The child is so beautifully happy,"
her spirit cried. "Aye, in Harry Belfield's kisses," came the Master's
answer. "Wouldn't she be? You've tasted them. You know." She knew. They
were different now! From those he had given Vivien before? Yes. From the
one he had given her? Or like that one? Her jealousy caught fresh flame
from Vivien's shy revelation--fresh flame and new shame. Harry was
repenting--with smiles of memory. She was sinning still, with groans,
with all her cunning, and with all her might. Pass the theory that it is
each man for himself in this fight, and each woman for her own hand. No
doubt; but should not the fight be fair? The girl did not so much as
know there was a fight, and should not and must not, unless and until it
had gone irrevocably against her. "All's fair in love--and war." Yet
traitors suffer death from their own side and the enemy's contempt.
His kisses were different now--that set her aflame. Aye, and to mark how
under their new charm Vivien opened into new power and took hold on new
weapons! The new kisses somehow made a woman of her! It might be
tolerable to see him make his marriage of convenience, doing no more
than somewhat indolently allowing himself to be adored. But to see him
adoring this other--that was to be worsted on the merits--not merely to
be impossible, but to be undesired. Was that coming about? Had it come
about--so soon after the stolen kiss? Then the kiss had been all
failure, all shame; he had mocked while he kissed. She was cheapened,
yet not aided. The cunning of the last six days had been bent to prove
that she had been aided--her value not cheapened but enhanced.
Looking again out of the window whence she had watched the pair at their
love-making, looking over the terrace, now empty, across the water
(water seems ever to answer to the onlooker's mood), she exclaimed
against the absence of safeguards. Were she a wife--or were Vivien! That
would be a fence, making for protection--a sturdy fence, which to break
down or to leap over would be plain trespassing, a profanation, open
offence. Were she--or were Vivien--a mother! The Savage Master himself
must own a worthy foe in motherhood--one that gave him trouble, one that
he vanquished only after hard fighting, and then saw his victory
bitterly grudged, piteously wept over, deplored in a heart-rending
fashion; you could see that in the morning's paper. She chanced to have
read such a case a day or two before. The letter of confession was
signed "Mother the outcast." To have to sign like that--if you let the
Master beat you--was a deterrent, a safeguard, a shield. Such defences
she had not. Vivien was neither wife nor mother; no more was she. The
engagement seemed but victory in the first bout; was it forbidden to try
the best of three? Nothing was irrevocable yet--on either side. "At
lovers' vows--!" Or a stolen kiss! Or a stolen victory?
Suddenly she remembered, and with the same quality of smile as Vivien
had marked, that she had been an exemplary child, ever extolled, never
punished; a pattern schoolgirl, with the highest marks, Queen on May-day
(a throne not to be achieved without the Principal's _conge d'elire!_),
a model student at Cambridge. Hence the unexceptionable credentials
which had introduced her to Nutley, had made her Vivien's preceptress,
Vivien's bulwark against fear and weakness, Vivien's shield--and
destined to be a shield to successive young ladies after Vivien. Who
first had undermined that accepted view of destiny, had disordered that
well-schooled, almost Sunday-schooled, scheme of her life? Vivien's
father, who came back to-morrow. At whose challenge was the shaken
fortress like to fall? Vivien's lover, who came yesterday and the day
before, to-morrow and the day after, every day till he went out of life
with Vivien.
As with minds greatly preoccupied, the ordinary traffic of the hours
passed unnoticed; bed, sleep, breakfast, were a moment. She found
herself greeting Wellgood, newly arrived, ruddy and robust, confident,
self-satisfied--as she saw in a moment, eager. His kiss to his daughter
was carelessly kind, and with it he let her go, she not unwilling; Harry
was due at the gate. Wellgood's real greeting was for the woman whom to
see was his home-coming. He led her with him into his study; he laid his
hand on her arm as he made her sit down near him.
"Well, have the lovers bored you to death with their spooning since I've
been away?"
"There's been a good deal of it, and not much relief. Only Andy Hayes
now and then."
"Rather tiresome to be the onlooker all the time. Wouldn't you like a
little on your own account?"
"I'm in no hurry." She looked him straight in the face, rather
defiantly.
"I've made up my mind since I've been away. I'm not a good hand at
speeches or at spooning, but I'm fond of you, Isobel. I'll make you a
good husband--and it's for you to consider whether you'll ever get a
better chance."
"I should like more time to think it over."
"Oh, come, don't tell me you haven't been thinking it over for weeks
past. What's the difficulty?"
"I'm not in love with you--that's all."
"I don't expect to inspire a romantic passion, like young Harry."
"Can't you leave Harry Belfield out of it?" she asked irritably.
"I see he has bored you," chuckled Wellgood. "But you like me? We get on
together?"
"Yes, I like you, and we get on together. But I don't want to marry
yet."
"No more do I--just yet!" He rose and went to the mantelpiece to choose
a pipe. "Have you got any friends you could stay a month with?"
His back was to her; he was busy filling the pipe. He saw neither the
sudden stiffening of her figure nor the fear in her eyes. Was he going
to send her away--now? But she answered coolly, "Yes, I think I could
arrange it, if you wish."
"Somehow a man feels rather a fool, being engaged himself while his
girl's getting married. We should have all the idiots in the
neighbourhood buzzing about with their jokes and congratulations. I've
made a plan to avoid all that. We keep it quite dark till Vivien's
wedding; then you go off, ostensibly for good. I stay here and give the
place an overhauling; then I'll join you in town, we'll be married
there, and go for a jaunt. By the time we come back they'll have cooled
down--and they'll be jolly glad to have shirked their wedding presents."
By now he had turned round; the strain and the fear had passed from
Isobel; the month's visit to friends was not to come now. "How do you
like the scheme?" he asked.
"I like the scheme very much, and I'm all for keeping it quiet till
Vivien is disposed of."
He stood before her, smoking his pipe, his hands in his pockets. "Shall
we call it settled?"
"I don't want to call it settled yet."
He put down his pipe. "Look here, Isobel, because I can't make pretty
speeches, don't you think I don't feel this thing. I want you, and I
want the thing settled. You ought to know your mind by now. If you want
to say no, you can say it now, but I don't believe you do. Then why
can't you say yes? It's devilishly uncomfortable to go on living in the
house with you while the thing's unsettled."
Would the visit come into play after all, unless she consented? Isobel
sat in thought.
"Just understood between ourselves--that's what I mean. I shan't bother
you with much love-making, as I daresay you can guess."
She had cried out for a fence, a protection. Did not one offer itself
now? It might prove of service. She saw that the man loved her in his
rough way; his love might help her. For the time, at least, his honest
sincerity of affection touched her heart. His "I want you" was grateful
to her. That other thing--the thing to which the stolen kiss
belonged--was madness. Surely she had resolution to withstand it and to
do what was wise? Surely she could be honest? If only because, in all
likelihood, dishonesty led nowhere.
"Suppose I said yes--and changed my mind?" She was trying to be
honest--or perhaps to put herself in a position to maintain that she had
been honest, if need arose.
"I must take my chance of that, like other men," laughed Wellgood. "But,
like other men too, I don't suppose I should be very pleasant about it.
Especially not if there was another fellow!"
"No, I don't suppose you would." She smiled at him for a moment; he
showed there a side of him that she liked--his courage, his
self-confidence, his power to stand up for himself.
"You leave it to me to keep you when once I've got you," he went on,
smiling grimly. "That's my affair; you'll find I shall look after it."
She smiled back at him--defiance in return for his grimness. "Very well,
I'll leave it to you to keep me. After all, there's no reason to expect
competition."
"Not in Meriton, perhaps! But what of London, Miss Isobel? I must keep
an eye on you there!" He took hold of her hands and pulled her to her
feet. "It's a promise?"
"In the way I've told you--yes."
"Oh, that's good enough for me!" He drew her to him and kissed her. "We
shan't have many chances of kissing--or we should give the thing away.
But give me one now, Isobel!"
She did as she was bid in a very friendly fashion. His kiss had been
hearty but not passionate, and hers was an adequate response. It left
Wellgood entirely content.
"That's all right! Gad, I feel ten years younger! You shan't repent it.
I'll look after you well--while I'm alive and after I'm gone too. Don't
be afraid about that. Perhaps there'll be somebody else to look after
you, by the time I get notice to quit. I'd like to leave a Wellgood of
Nutley behind me."
"Do you know, that's sentimental?" said Isobel. "Mere sentiment!"
"Not a bit of it, miss. It's a sound natural instinct, and I'm proud of
it." He kissed her again. "Now be off, there's a good girl. I've got a
thousand things to do, and probably everything's been going to the devil
while I've been away."
"I rather pity everybody now you've come back!"
"Don't you worry. I know I shall find your department in good order. Be
off!" He took her by the shoulders in a rough playfulness and turned her
towards the door. She left him chuckling to himself. He was very content
with the issue of his suit.
Was her department in good order? Her lips twisted in a wry smile.
As she approached the drawing-room door, Harry Belfield came out of it.
He started a little to see her--not that it was strange she should be
there, but because he had not seen her alone since the night of the
stolen kiss. He closed the door behind him and came to her.
"Vivien"--a jerk of his head told that Vivien was in the
drawing-room--"has sent me to say 'How do you do?' to Mr. Wellgood."
"He's in his study, Mr. Harry. Don't stay long. He's very busy." She
drew aside, to let him pass, but Harry stood still.
"Are you never going to give me an opportunity?" he asked in a low
voice.
"An opportunity for what?"
Harry jumped at the chance of his confession and absolution. "Why, of
saying how awfully sorry and--and ashamed I am that I yielded--"
"What's the use of saying anything about it? It's best forgotten."
"Now Wellgood's back?" he whispered, with a flash of his eyes.
"Certainly best forgotten, now that Vivien's father is back."
He shook his head at her with a smile, owning her skilful parry. "You
won't give me one chance?"
"Does the dashing Mr. Harry Belfield need to have chances given him? I
thought he made them for himself."
Harry's eyes gleamed. "I'll take you at your word in that!"
"You've been in no hurry about it up to now--and you seem in none to say
'How do you do?' to Mr. Wellgood." She motioned him to go on, adding,
"It was very silly, but no harm's done. We'll forget."
Harry gave her a long look. She met it with a steady smile. He held out
his hand.
"Thank you. We'll forget. There's my hand on it."
She gave a little laugh, shook her head, and put her hands behind her
back.
"I seem to remember it began that way before," she said, and darted past
him swiftly.
That was how they set about forgetting the stolen kiss.