Somehow I had never thought of that, had never even hoped for it.... And
now, with all its train of dazzling possibilities, it was leaping
towards me.... Not Helen--but June.... That wanted some realizing....
And with the realization, and the serenity of it, came just a faint
flavour of sadness too. I think there is always a sadness in feeling
that time _does_ count, and that _grandes passions can_ fade away.
Mother and daughter.... What sort of a battle had they been waging,
silently, perhaps unconsciously, during the months that had passed?
Helen, I know, had been scrupulously platonic, and maybe, after all, it
was a just irony that he should come to desire no more than her
friendship. But June? Was there more than friendship there?
I believe, if it comes to laying down a creed, that the love of Terry
and June had grown very quietly and gradually until at last, in Taplow's
garden that night, it had broken out into no more than those two words
of hers--"Don't go..."
I don't know how exactly Terry and I got over the immense difficulty of
his reserve. Perhaps we never did get over it; at any rate, he never
admitted in so many words that he had grown to love June. But from a
certain moment of that warm July night I began to talk to him as if he
_had_ admitted it, as if it were something obvious and perfectly
understood between us. I said, for instance: "No man ought ever to think
he has no chance with any woman." He didn't ask me what on earth I was
talking about as I had half expected. He just leaned back in his chair,
puffed restlessly at a cigarette, and pondered--until I thought he was
never going to answer at all. And then, when the reply did come, it was
spoken in another tone--as if the whole plane and angle of our
conversation had been shifted. "It's as you said, Hilton.... Material
things crop up at awkward moments. What chance would a penniless man
approaching middle age have with a young girl of wealth and position?"
"It depends, of course. It depends on whether she loves him or not."
"She doesn't."
"Then obviously he would stand no chance at all."
Silence for a while after that. He looked--if the combination is even
possible--triumphant and despondent--triumphant at having led his
argument to an apparent victory, and despondent over the deeper issues
of the discussion. Then, rather daringly after a pause, I introduced the
personal element by asking him why he thought June had been so keen on
his declining the Australian offer.
"I suppose she thought that--in various ways--it wasn't suitable."
"Even after you assured her it was? Do you think that in such a matter
she would set her opinion against yours, unless she had some deeper
reason as a motive?"
"What deeper reason?"
"Do you really mean to pretend it doesn't occur to you? To me it seems
the most perfectly obvious thing that ever was. She doesn't want you to
go to Australia because she doesn't like the thought of being without
you when you've gone."
"Oh ... that's absurd...."
"Not a bit absurd. Do you think she's known you all this time without
growing fond of you?"
"We've been good friends, of course."
"_Friends_? ... Some people would smile if you told them that. They'd
say, to begin with, that she's compromised herself with you pretty
hopelessly by staying here to-night.... Mrs. Taplow as a chaperon
wouldn't impress them."
"_What_! Do you mean to say----"
I said, interrupting him: "Whatever I mean is not the slightest
reflection on either you or her. I really needn't say that. We're
broad-minded people--we don't bother about silly conventions.... But
some people do--you'd be surprised how many--and my point in mentioning
the matter is simply this.... Is it likely that June would risk getting
herself talked about in connection with a man of whom she wasn't rather
fond?"
"I don't think she cares whether people talk about her or not."
"Then depend upon it," I answered, "the crisis has been reached. When a
woman doesn't care whether people talk about her or not, there's only
one conclusion to be drawn. She's in love."
"Oh, that's nonsense--if you're trying to make out that she's in love
with _me_...."
"Perhaps you can think of somebody else, then?"
And so it went on. It was uphill work, I can tell you, trying to
convince Terry that he wasn't the meanest little worm that ever crawled
on the earth.
Towards three o'clock the moment came when I judged it safe to mention
the word "marriage." If, I said, he thought there was any doubt about
her feeling for him, why didn't he put the matter to the obvious test?
"Go to her straightforwardly and say: 'I don't want to give up your
charming society, but I really must have that job. If, however, you
would care to marry me and accompany me to Australia, the difficulty
would be rather neatly solved.'"
_Marriage_? It was absurd to think of it, he said. He had never dreamed
of such a thing, and he never would dream of it. He wouldn't insult her
by even discussing it abstractly. What prospects had he? What sort of a
life could he ask her to share with him? ... There were some things too
ridiculous to be worth discussing, and that was one.
Nevertheless, I objected, he had got to discuss it, because it was the
only thing left to discuss. To my mind, I said, it was only fair that he
_should_ give her the chance of accepting or refusing him. She had shown
pretty plainly that she didn't want him to leave her; that was quite as
much as she could be expected to do on her own. It was for him to take
the next step.
"But--_think_ of it, man! Three hundred a year for the two of us, after
the sort of life she's been used to! It's _monstrous_!"
"That's for her to decide. If she thinks it is, then it is. But if she
thinks it isn't--"
"Well?"
"Then it mightn't be.... You never know. Miracles have been done on
three hundred a year before now."
"No man has a right to expect miracles," he said.
"Every man has a right to perform them," I answered. (Really, for three
o'clock in the morning, our conversation was quite brilliant.)
But no; he wouldn't consider the matter. "Whatever you say, Hilton, you
won't alter my mind. I've no right to ask for such a sacrifice--no right
even to _think_ of it.... If there's anything at all that I've learnt
from experience, it ought to be this--that women can't bear to give up
_things_--especially the sort of things that I don't much care about."
In some ways, that was the nearest we ever got to talking about the
past.
"If _I've_ learnt anything from experience," I countered, "it's that one
woman can be absolutely and entirely different from every other."
But it was still no use; he was adamant. Whatever I said, he had some
rejoinder; there was no sign of his conversion. The dawn peered over the
ridge of the hills before we left off talking, and I had to admit to
myself that, so far as the immediate object of the discussion was
concerned, I had failed altogether. The idea of proposing marriage to
June seemed to afflict him with a kind of mental explosion whenever he
thought about it. It was preposterous. Rather refuse or accept a
thousand jobs than commit such tempestuous folly. Incredible that I
should ever have seriously suggested it.... And so on.... And so on....
And then we went to bed and to sleep.
V
All that happened last night; or, to be precise, early this morning....
It is a strange thing to have caught up with the present after so long
writing of the past. Ever since I arrived here I have been at my desk; I
was tired when I began, but Roebuck's iced coffee and the achievement of
bringing this record up-to-date have made me feel curiously fresh and
exhilarated.
It is the business lunch-hour now, and all the seats in Lincoln's Inn
Fields, which is just across the road from my window, are filled with
office-workers enjoying their respite. They look happy; the whole world
looks happy--but that, maybe, is because I am feeling happy myself. The
skies have cleared miraculously during the past twenty-four hours--have
shown me Terry enslaved to June's calm and inarticulate youth, and June
(I think) no less attached to Terry.
Whether it comes to anything is, of course, another matter. June is very
young, and Terry's prospects are certainly none too rosy. Besides that,
there is all the difference in the world between being pleasantly fond
of a man and wanting to emigrate with him to the other side of the
world. I'm rather afraid I lost sight of that during my argument with
Terry; it all seemed just a shade easier than it is. The main and
incontrovertible facts are these--that Terry will never propose to her
on his own, and that if he were to take the Australian job and go away,
June would be left here miserable.
I always find it so hard to know what to do--whether to interfere or
not. On the whole, I lean to interference; I hate minding my own
business, which is usually so much less interesting than other people's.
And yet, in this case, it _may_ have been a mistake to write that
interfering note to June.
I wrote it in an immense hurry before leaving the hotel this morning. A
sudden impulse seized me while I was having breakfast; it was 7.30; my
train from Haslemere was due to leave at 8.15; and Taplow's Ford was
already shaking its hoary sides in the yard. I scribbled it out in
pencil and gave it to the maid to take up to June along with the morning
cup of tea. But the extraordinary part of it is that I can't very well
remember what I wrote. The general trend, I imagine, was to give June
the tip that it wouldn't be any use her expecting _him_ to do the
proposing; but I hope to God I didn't put it quite so crudely as that.
Probably I didn't; perhaps it was a marvel of tactful insinuation.
Anyhow, it's done now, and can't be helped.
Helen is coming here to tea this afternoon; I asked her two days ago,
thinking it would be a change for her if she felt too desperate. Now I
rather wish I hadn't asked her. I am altogether out of the mood for
skating on thin ice. It is bound to be difficult, and Heaven alone knows
what we shall talk about. I shan't--I can't--tell her anything about
Terry and June....