The funeral of old Mr. Valentine, the ‘To Let’ board on Green Gates, and
the cottage into which the Miss Valentines were to move at the March
quarter, gave Brackenhurst a pleasant change from the Mad Dog of Europe
and the soaring prices of meat and margarine. But long before the
subject was exhausted it had to make way in turn for the news that
Justin Cloud had been made a Captain—“Oh, three stars, I believe: it’s
the Majors that have the crown—” and that Robin Gedge had married
Annabel Moulde at a registry office. It was Brackenhurst’s first war
wedding, and it divided the village into two camps, into those that were
more thrilled than shocked and those that were more shocked than
thrilled. Annabel, of course, suffered as a pioneer does; for when Rhoda
Cloud, six months later, married a man she had nursed a week and known a
month, it was acclaimed as a most romantic affair; but Brackenhurst,
rallying round Mrs. Gedge, had few good words for Annabel—and none at
all for Laura Valentine. For it came out, as such things will, that
Laura Valentine had been in the secret—had actually gone up to town with
Annabel and had seen her married. “Would you believe it? Such a sensible
girl, and her grandfather not dead six weeks!”
“And it wasn’t—” Aunt Adela wailed, “as if you’d ever been friends with
Annabel!”
“I know,” said Laura guiltily.
She was as puzzled at her own conduct as Brackenhurst, or as Annabel
Moulde herself.
For Annabel, that silken skirmisher, had found herself, as she sheltered
at Green Gates one afternoon, neither feinting, thrusting, nor awaiting
attack; but, huddled over a comforting hearth, with the rain curtaining
the windows, the flames dancing from her little bronze toes on the
fender to Laura’s knitting needles and back again to her toes, was
inexplicably impelled to confidences.
“Robin—going out—simply miserable, both of us. Mrs. Gedge—an old
beast—loathes me—always has—‘Wait till the war’s over’—always the same
old story.”
It came out in jerks to the accompaniment of the crackling fire and the
purring of the cat on Laura’s knee.
“If I were only married to him—it would make all the difference—I could
stand it then.” Then, in sudden, sullen retreat: “Oh, of course, I don’t
expect you to understand. You think it’s husband-hunting—like Mrs.
Gedge.”
Again there was a silence, with the flames lighting up Annabel’s face
and losing Laura’s in the shadows of Gran’papa’s chair.
“Not that I care what you think. But if Robin’s hurt—they’ll keep me
out. I couldn’t even wear mourning.”
Laura’s exclamation could have meant anything—but Annabel reddened,
stammering a little—
“Well, but—can’t you understand? It’s true. I’d have no right——I want my
right. And—and I’ve never felt like that about any of my boys. I never
did about Robin himself—till the war. But now——Oh, Laura, what am I to
do?”
“Do? What can any one do?” Laura’s voice was as expressionless as her
face.
“No—that’s just it. And yet——I tell you, Laura, sometimes I’m ready to
take Robin at his word and marry him in spite of his mother.”
“He wants that?” Laura paused a moment in her work and considered the
pretty, blubbered face thoughtfully.
“Well—what do you think?” Annabel’s smile suited her better than tears.
“I—see. Well, why don’t you, then?” Laura turned her sock with a flick.
Annabel stared at her.
“What—d’you mean—run away? Really? Seriously?”
“Why not?”
Annabel giggled nervously.
“Well—I haven’t any money to begin with. I’ve spent my next quarter
already.”
“I’d lend you some. And Robin would meet you in town.”
“But—but—how could I? Mother would never get over it. Mother’s terrified
of Mrs. Gedge. I couldn’t——”
“Oh, well then——”
Laura dropped the subject indifferently.
They sat awhile in silence.
Annabel fidgeted. Her restless eyes wandered round the room.
“I ought to be going. The rain’s stopped,” she volunteered at last.
“Oh—must you?” Laura rose courteously.
“Laura—” Annabel stooped to pick up the disgruntled tabby stretching
itself indignantly on the hearth-rug—“Laura—if I did—Laura—do you
honestly think it would be right?”
“Right?” The flames had found Laura’s face at last, lighting up, laying
bare its weakness and its strength, soft eyes and tender mouth and the
new hard lines about eyes and mouth alike. “Right? You’re a woman,
aren’t you? You’ve a man fighting for you? You give what you can and
take what you can—while you’ve the chance! Right?” Her voice deepened.
“It’s your own two lives! Don’t you let them rob you—even if they are
your own people. They talk about prudence and marry in haste—and tell
you to wait—and wait—and wait! It would be devilish the way they talk,
if they understood. But of course—they can’t. They’re old. They’ve
forgotten. They mean well. But you—you take your chance!”
“But—but—” began Annabel helplessly.
“And there’s another thing. You talk about rights. It’s not only your
right. The children—our children—they have their right to be born.
Well—and if he is killed and you are poor—you’ll be able to feed a
child, and clothe it, and teach it to read, I suppose—if you can’t send
it to Eton. You give it life anyway, and love, and care. That ought to
be good enough. ‘What porridge had John Keats’?”
“But—you talk,” Annabel whimpered. “I only want Robin.”
Laura, pulled up short, stared at her a moment. Then she laughed.
“I know. Of course. Of course I know. And—and—” she flushed prettily.
“All I meant—I only mean, my dear—it’s no business of mine—but if you
want backing, I’ll back you. There’s a telephone in the next room. He’s
at Maidstone, isn’t he? It’s a trunk call. Aunt Adela won’t be in till
supper. You go and talk things over with Robin.”
* * * * *
And the end of it was that Annabel and Laura went up to town by an early
train one fine morning, for a day’s shopping. And indeed they did buy
various trifles, besides a white coat and skirt, and a white beaver hat,
and an inconspicuous bunch of lilies of the valley with a sprig of
orange blossom tucked away in the middle—but they were a present from
Laura. Laura came home alone with a note for Mrs. Moulde and another for
Mrs. Gedge in her pocket (she thrust them through the letter-boxes and
fled) and, as I told you, was cold-shouldered by the vicarage long after
Robin and Annabel had been forgiven.
But though Mrs. Cloud included the vicarage set in her visitors’ list,
the vicarage set could not claim the honour of including Mrs. Cloud. At
any rate, Mrs. Cloud gave no sign of disapprobation: might have been
thought, indeed, to be kinder of late to Laura. But Mrs. Cloud was
always kind. Certainly it did Laura no harm to be met at the Priory more
often than usual by Brackenhurst: indeed, as she called in for the third
day running on some small errand—a basket of early primroses, I believe,
that a school child had given her, but that were so obviously grown for
the great glass bowl in the yellow parlour that she had to pass them
on—she thought, to herself, she would not permit herself to think, that
it was like old times....
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