[Illustration: 9109]
N the weeks that followed the little house came to know him well.
Everybody in the little house treated him as though his injury were a
decoration, which had been won especially in their defence. They were
prouder to see him come walking up their steps with his blue hospital
band on his remaining arm, than if Sir Douglas Haig himself had called
upon them. Nobody took any count of the frequency of his visits--nobody
except himself. Nobody seemed to think it strange that the moment the
doctors had finished his dressings, he should wander off to Dolls' House
Square. Nobody seemed to guess just how fond he was of the little lady.
He hardly guessed himself. There were times when he wondered exactly
how fond he was. He did not believe he was in love with her; the feeling
that he had was too gentle. He had always understood that love was
exciting, passionate and tumultuous with dreads, whereas in her presence
he knew neither fears nor hesitancies. He wasn't the least in terror
that he would lose her. He felt simply safe, the way a ship might feel
when the winds had ceased to buffet and it lay still in a sheltered
harbour on a level keel. This feeling of safety struck him as an
extraordinary sensation to be produced in a soldier by a woman; he was a
trifle ashamed of it, as though it were not quite manly.
While he spoke with her, he found himself believing with a child-like
faith that all women were mothers and that the world was good. He knew
that for the present he could not do without her, but he was at a
loss to imagine what he would do with her for always. She was like
religion--she went beyond him, was bigger and better. He only dimly
understood her, but was comfortable in believing that everything
hidden was as kind as the part he knew. In a strangely intimate way
he worshipped her, as a child adores his mother, thinking her the most
perfect and beautiful being in the world. He discovered in her a wisdom
of which nothing in her conversation gave the least indication; her
unhurried attitude towards life created the impression. If this were
love, then all the hearsay information he had gathered on the subject
was mistaken.
There were days when, after his wound had been dressed and he had left
the hospital, he made a pretence that he was not going to visit her. He
told himself that he was making her a habit, and that to make a habit
of anyone was foolish. Instead of going to Dolls' House Square, he
would invent some urgent business and take himself off citywards. But
expeditions in which she had no share soon grew flat. He would find
himself thinking about her, wondering whether she was waiting for
him. He would end up, as he always ended up, by jumping in a taxi and
knocking on her door in Dolls' House Square.
He never once found her out. There was invariably a welcome for him. He
would take his seat by the fire in the quiet room and watch her sewing
till the darkness deepened and the lamp had to be brought out. It didn't
seem to matter much whether he talked or was silent; her contentment
seemed complete when he was there. She made no effort to entertain him,
which was the best proof of their friendship. She was perfectly willing
that he should ignore her, if that was his mood, by reading the paper or
playing with the children.
Though she made no effort to entertain him, the entire household had
re-organised itself in readiness for his sharp _rat-a-tat_. Everyone,
without expressing the fact, recognised that it was nice to have a man
about the house. When one rose in the morning, there was something to
which to look forward now. A man dropping in, even occasionally, gave
this group of women a sense of protection and of contact with the
unwidowed world.
To Robbie and Joan he stood for something midway between a big
brother and a pal. They had sharp rivalries as to who should light his
cigarette. It wasn't easy for him to grip the box between his knees
and strike the match with only one hand. They watched him and by
anticipating his wishes tried to constitute themselves his missing hand.
When they were with him, the little lady withdrew into the background,
making herself so still and self-effacing that it scarcely seemed that
he had come to see her. It was as though she had three children; he
appeared to be their friend much more than hers. He would carry them
off to the Zoo, to matinees or to see the Christmas toys in the West End
shops. Sometimes she would accompany them; more often she would listen
to their adventures when they had returned. But she never was really
left out. While they were absent from her, she formed the main topic of
conversation. Of this she was well aware; if she had not been, she would
not have been so happy.
In a way she derived more pleasure from staying at home and picturing
them laughing through the crowded streets, going into tea-shops, riding
in taxis and coming back through the dusk together. The children looked
so proud in their sole possession of a man, especially of a soldier who
had been wounded. Had their father come through the war, that was how
they would have looked in his company. She was glad that they should get
away from skirts. He could give them something which it was not in her
power to give, however much she loved them. She was only a woman. Her
reward followed when they returned a little conscience-stricken at
having left her, bringing with them a present as indisputable proof that
she had been remembered.
One evening in talking with her after the children had been put to bed,
he asked her if she didn't think she ought to go out more often.
“I know I ought.”
“Then why don't you?”
She smiled gently, thinking how little he knew of the world. “When
you've not got your own man to take you, it's difficult. The world moves
in pairs. A woman can't go to many places unaccompanied.”
“But surely you don't need to. You must have quantities of friends who
would be glad...”
She cut him short. “When a woman is left by herself, she learns a good
many things about men that she didn't suspect when she was married. The
men she would trust herself with have their wives or fiancées--they have
no time to trouble over shipwrecked women like myself. And the other
kind of men... The world has no place for a widow. It doesn't mean to be
unkind, but it simply doesn't know what to do with her. Unmarried women
consider her an unfair rival; they think she's seeking a second chance
before they've had their first. In the old days India solved the problem
by burying us with our husbands. In England they do the same thing, only
less frankly. It's rather stupid to have to live and yet to be treated
as though you ought to be dead. One fights against it at first; then one
gradually becomes reconciled to be out of the running. If one's wise,
she puts all her living into her children.”
“But that's not fair,” he spoke hotly.
“It's the way it happens.”
He sat frowning into the fire. What she had told him had upset all his
preconceptions about her. Without looking at her, he re-started the
conversation. “I've thought of you as being so happy. I always thought
of you that way at the Front. I've pictured you as being perched high on
a ledge out of reach of waves and storms. From the first you've given me
the feeling that nothing could hurt or move you, and that nothing could
hurt or move me while I was near you. It's a queer thing for a man to
admit to a woman, but you make me feel absolutely safe.”
“That's not so very queer,” she said, “because that's the way you make
me feel.”
“Do I? You're not laughing at me?” He swung round, leaning over the back
of the couch, his entire attitude one of amazement.
She met his surprise with a quiet smile. “I'm perfectly serious. But
you know the reason why we feel so safe in each other's company? It's
because, in our different ways, we're both lonely people. We're not like
the rest of the world; we don't move in pairs. I'm lonely because I'm
a woman on my own, and you're lonely because you're in hospital in a
foreign country. We met just at the time when we could give each other
courage.”
“But you don't look lonely,” he protested; “one always thinks of
lonely people as being sad and untidy. You always look so terrifically
well-groomed and expensive. You create the impression that you're either
going to or returning from a party. I never saw you when you weren't
self-assured and occupied. I used to wonder how you spared me so much
time from your engagements.”
“Clever of me, wasn't it?”
Instead of answering her, he came over and stood above where she sat
stitching beneath the lamp. He was seeing her for the first time not
as wise, self-reliant and fashionable, but as beautiful, alone and
unprotected. He could almost feel the ache of the bruises she had
suffered. He felt self-reproached; what had he given her? Up to now
anything that he could have given had seemed too small to mention. He
had taken from her continually, supposing that she had a surplus of
everything. And all the while she had been sharing his own hunger for
the presents that money cannot buy.
“It's great to be alive, when you'd expected to be dead.”
It was her turn to be surprised. She raised her head quickly,
recognising a new earnestness in his tone.
[Illustration: 0119]
“One doesn't talk much about what happened at the Front,” he said;
“but one can't help feeling that his life was spared for some definite
purpose. I believe the purpose was to be happy and to make others happy.
I don't want to hog my own pleasure any more or to trifle in the old
slovenly ways. I want to crowd every second with gratefulness for the
mere fact of living. That's what's been bringing me here so often.
That's why I've been so glad to carry Joan and Robbie away. Kiddies mean
so tremendously much more to me than they did before I nearly died. And
then there's home and women. I took them for granted once, but now...
It's like saying one's prayers to be in a good woman's presence. I
don't know if you at all understand me. I'm trying to thank you for what
you've done....”
And there his eloquence failed, leaving him gazing down at her and
wondering whether she thought him foolish. She patted his hand, but
she did not meet his eyes. “It's all right. Don't explain. I know what
you're meaning to say.”
“Do you?” He spoke doubtfully. “I think I was trying to ask you if we
couldn't be happy together. I'm not married and I'm not engaged; but I'm
not like the other men you mentioned.”
“My dear boy, I never thought you were. If I had, you wouldn't have been
here. You're honourable all the way through; I knew that the moment I
saw you. Does that make you feel better?”
He laughed happily. “Much. Do you know what I believe I've been trying
to ask you through all this maze of words? If I get permission from the
doctor to stay out late tomorrow night, would you be gay and go with me
to a theatre?”
Her eyes met his with gladness. “I should love it.”