tower as if she belonged to the purposeful minority which was making
its way to the grey porch. Not that she had started out with any
intention of going to the service, but her girl friend had come across
an admirer at the church corner, and so it became necessary to do
something in self-defence. Impossible to contemplate wandering alone
on a Sunday evening without a companion of any sort. The lack of a
"boy" for such a purpose made Caroline feel oddly self-conscious--as if
people were staring at her and wondering. She would have been glad of
the young railway porter's company now, if he had turned up, and would
have welcomed him as a sort of refuge.
He sat and smoked on a bench by the sea front, however, all unaware of
the opportunity that was rushing past him, never to return. At the
last insistent "Come!" Caroline caught sight of Lillie with a young man
rounding the next bend of the road, and the idea of being pitied for
her solitary condition made her march straight up the flagged path to
the church door, as if she had meant going ever since leaving home.
But once inside the church, she experienced a gradual cessation of that
prickling awareness of other people's thoughts and other people's eyes
which had been so uncomfortable on the road. For she was familiar with
the service--having gone to the Sunday school in childhood and attended
church at times since, though the Creddles were chapel folk--so that
the places in the Prayer Book came automatically to her fingers, and
the soothing flow of the words gave her a chance to come to herself.
She did not worship in any real sense of the word, but her mind was,
despite itself, attuned to peace. "From all the perils and dangers of
this night----" Then, after an interval during which the sunset struck
golden across a tomb in the chancel: "The grace of our Lord Jesus
Christ . . . now and for evermore. Amen."
She rose from her knees and her glance fell upon Miss Ethel, who sat a
fair distance away in the sparsely filled side aisle. She wondered
whether Miss Ethel were a really religious sort or not--you never heard
her mention a word about it, and she seemed so up against everything----
Then the hymn--old-fashioned because the Vicar was away and the elderly
organist who had chosen it liked that kind best. Perhaps he knew that
all religion must at the last be a matter of feeling and not of reason,
for he had lived such a long time in the world and really loved God.
But the strange preacher who was going to occupy the pulpit looked down
the church at the congregation singing and felt they required a great
deal of sound teaching. So, being a good man with a high ethical
standard, he stepped up into the pulpit and did his best during the
opportunity which was at his disposal to correct the effect of what he
considered sentimental doggerel.
But as Caroline listened to him, she felt his explanations of a
reasonable faith washing away from her mind all the beautiful pictures
which had been stored there and had formed part of her life, though she
had not valued them. No doubt he meant well; still the explanations
took away and gave nothing to fill the empty place. Soon her mind
wandered and she caught sight of a hat trimmed in a way that was
exceedingly smart and easy enough to copy; so that occupied her
attention until she heard the familiar rustle among the congregation
and the "Now" which gives release.
The clergyman stood near the east window to give the blessing with a
side light slanting across his white surplice, and a thought darted
into Caroline's mind, turning her hot from head to foot--Why, that was
just how the Vicar would stand with the bride and bridegroom before him
at the altar-rails in three weeks' time! And a vision of Laura in her
veil beside Wilson's broad, strong figure gave her a queer, unhappy
feeling of irritation and pain; yet somehow she wanted to indulge the
pain--to press it in upon her senses by dwelling on it.
Then her healthier instincts suddenly revolted. "It's nothing to me.
I aren't jealous of another girl getting married! I could be married
myself to-morrow if that's all." But deep within her she felt it was
not all; so rising abruptly she went out, not looking again at the
chancel.
Miss Ethel came forth more deliberately, nodding to one here and there
among the townspeople as she passed under the porch into the cool
evening, but her salutations were not acknowledged with the appearance
of gratification or respect which she had seen accorded to her parents
years ago--young people from shops and post-offices nodded off-handedly
back, or at most gave a somewhat condescending "Good evening, Miss
Wilson," feeling in their confident youth and independence that it was
they who had done her the favour.
It was all so different; that constant burden of her thoughts---- And
as she walked home through the end of the sunset, the forlorn
restlessness of the cat turned out of its basket and forced to wander
in cold, strange places seized upon her again. She could not formulate
her unease excepting by that one phrase: it was all so different.
When she reached home, Mrs. Bradford looked up with a sort of solid
expectancy: "Well, did you have a good sermon?"
"I suppose so. The Vicar was not there. The man we had explained to
us that there was no heaven and no God, so I suppose he was very
clever."
Mrs. Bradford stared, then relaxed comfortably into her cushions once
more. "Oh, you mean he held those new views about religion," she said.
"I have just been reading a novel that has something about that in it.
Was he young? I always like a young preacher, because their voices are
generally stronger and you can hear better."
Miss Ethel had gone to the window and now stood there, looking out.
The eyebrow which was affected a little by emotion or excitement gave a
slight twitch occasionally and her lips were pressed close together.
She saw the little flag on the roof over the privet hedge hanging quiet
on the still air, and it added to her sense of being conquered by those
forces which had been creeping on steadily, bit by bit, until she could
not ignore them any more than the new houses.
But she had never before felt it as she did to-night, looking up at
that exquisite clear sky with the sickle moon rising. She was not
well, tired with the walk and the service; and a most unwonted pressure
of tears ached behind her eyes, though she fiercely fought against them.
"Ethel!" said Mrs. Bradford. "What are you standing there for? Why
don't you go and take off your things for supper?"
"I am going." Miss Ethel controlled her voice to speak as usual.
"I'll just put the kettle on first, because Caroline won't be in for
some time yet." And she began to cross the room, when suddenly,
abruptly, she stopped short. Standing quite still in the midst of all
those heavy chairs and tables that gleamed dimly in the falling dusk,
she blurted out in a queer, strangled tone: "I hated that sermon. I
don't think clergymen ought to be allowed to preach like that. They
want to change God. They can't even leave God the same."
"You really do upset yourself about things so, Ethel," said Mrs.
Bradford fretfully. She wanted her supper. "What does it matter to
you what other people think? You should just take no notice and go on
in your own way, and believe what you always have believed--as I do."
Miss Ethel made some inarticulate reply, and went out to put on the
kettle. Not for any earthly consideration would she have told her
sister that that was exactly what she could not do: that because she
listened carefully to sermons and read articles about religion the
unchanging God was gradually giving place to a vague Power which
nebulously adapted itself to the needs of a changing civilization.
The gas-ring spurted under the match in her hand, lighting up with a
bluish light her pale, thin face. Her lips moved as she murmured to
herself for comfort: "The _same_ yesterday, to-day and for ever." But
she could not find anything to hold on to in that any more.
Then she heard an unexpected sound at the door, and the next minute
Caroline came in, drawing off her gloves.
"I'll see to the hot water, Miss Ethel," she said.
"You are in early to-night," said Miss Ethel.
"Yes." Caroline paused. "Oh, I have been going to tell you that I
shall----" But with the words nearly over her lips, she found herself
unable to speak them. "Shall be late in to-morrow," she substituted;
for somehow she could not after all cut herself adrift from this house
yet, though she came fresh from a conversation which had left her
burning with annoyance.
She tingled still at the recollection of one girl saying to another in
passing: "That's Caroline Raby! What's she doing? Oh, she's in
service." And at the memory of her own sharply-flung: "I'm not in
service, then! I take tickets on the promenade and I'm going into an
office after that."
But though it was evident that she was regarded by some as being in
service, and though she felt no higher regard for it than anyone else
who has just emerged from women's oldest and grandest profession, she
could not bring herself to break the threads which held her to these
two women--and to something beyond them which she would not realize.
But after she was in bed, she could see in the darkness the church
window in the sunset, and the altar rails, and the clergyman standing
as he would do when Wilson and Laura were married.
So the three women lay in bed, thinking their own thoughts, with the
sea moaning--moaning--as it broke in a long even wave and withdrew on
the soft sand; quite a different sound every day, though Miss Ethel had
heard it for fifty-six years. But she was scarcely conscious of
hearing it at all, though it had formed an accompaniment to every
thought and action of her life during all those years.
But to-night--perhaps because it was so warm and still, and she had the
window facing the sea wide open--she did really listen to the waves;
and that sound might perhaps have comforted her, with its deep note of
unhasting permanence, if the ears of her mind had also been open to
hear. But she only felt its melancholy. It seemed to accentuate her
forlorn sense of having nothing stationary to hold on to, not even an
unchanging God.
_Chapter XI_
_The Gala_
The Thorhaven season had passed its height, and that August month,
towards which all the efforts of the lodging-house keepers and
tradespeople converged during the year, was nearly at an end, while on
every fence and wall employed for bill sticking could be read in large
letters: "A Great Gala Night will take place on Thursday, August the
twenty-ninth. Splendid Illuminations. Continental Attractions.
Dancing on the Green from eight to ten-thirty."
The term Continental Attractions was the inspiration of Mr. Graham, who
had recently visited the South of France on account of his wife's
health--at least he gave that as his reason, though Mrs. Graham told
all her friends confidentially that she would never have incurred so
much trouble and expense if her husband had not shown symptoms of
incipient bronchitis--and she equally believed herself to be speaking
the truth. Anyway, there it was; and from the visit to Cannes resulted
this idea of imparting a _joie de vivre_ to the Thorhaven Gala by means
of paper streamers and air balloons. There had been some consideration
of squeakers and false noses; but one or two members of the Promenade
Sub-Committee raised the reasonable objection that the squeakers would
interfere with the band, while the false noses---- Well, there was
something indefinably loose about false noses which they could feel but
could not describe in words. At any rate, they were not going to allow
such things on their promenade.
There was a good deal of talk concerning the Gala in the town; so that
those inhabitants who were familiar with illustrated magazines and the
lighter drama--and also possessed a sanguine temperament--no doubt went
about picturing to themselves a still night with coloured lanterns
hanging motionless against a deep blue sky, while a crowd of exuberant
visitors disported themselves in pale garments and unusual attitudes
for the amusement of the Thorhaven people.
But the clerk of the weather was not going to have anything so
incongruous as all that, and the 29th rose cold and grey--one of those
summer days which are a premonition of autumn. A strongish wind blew
from the west; leaves came whirling down on the road leading to the
promenade, and the sky was grey-black with clouds scudding across;
while beneath it, a rising sea showed a line of white breakers in the
gloom--like the cruel teeth of a monster seeking something to devour.
Still the evening came with no sign of rain; the band stationed at the
edge of the green played cheerful dances with a will, and it was no
fault of theirs that the music sounded so lost and futile amid the
roaring of the sea--rather as if a penny whistle were to be played in a
cathedral while the organ was booming out solemn music among the
springing arches. Perhaps the visitors and the Thorhaven people felt
something of this themselves, for they put no real zest into their
attempts at carnival, but they danced rather grimly in the cold wind,
with little tussocks in the grass catching their toes and the fairy
lamps which edged the lawn blowing out one after the other.
At the windiest corner, near the hall, was planted the respectable
middle-aged woman who sometimes assisted in cleaning the church--though
she was herself an ardent Primitive--and in her arms she held a
struggling mass of air balloons which seemed most anxious to escape
over the North Sea to those parts of Europe where carnival is more at
home. But no one seemed to be buying from her excepting a few
children, whose needs were soon satisfied. Then a worn-looking young
man came up and purchased two balloons for his children at home, but
after that the woman stood there alone again, with the balloons
buffeting about her head.
At another point farther down the promenade, a boy suffering from a
slight cold in his head offered for sale a tray of those snake-like
paper missiles which can be shot out suddenly with startling effect.
But he seemed rather ashamed of his job and kept in the gloom as much
as possible, now and then making a sale among the children, who ran in
and out behind the more sheltered seats where their elders sat in
winter coats.
Mr. Graham--as the originator of these attractions--felt exceedingly
impatient, both with his fellow-townspeople and the visitors, as he sat
watching. A chill air blew down the back of his neck and he was
conscious of an incipient cold, which all added to his feeling of
bitterness. "No earthly use trying!" he burst forth, rising abruptly
from his seat. "English people don't know how to enjoy themselves, and
it's no use trying to teach them."
He scowled first at the scene before him and then at his wife, who sat
with Mrs. Bradford and Miss Ethel on a long wooden seat.
"You couldn't imagine the weather would be like this, dear," said Mrs.
Graham soothingly.
"The air will do us good," added Miss Ethel, a little pink about the
nose, but wishful to be polite.
"Well, there's plenty of it," he said bitterly, grabbing his hat, which
threatened to blow away.
It was plain that he jested with an anxious heart, thinking of what
might be said of his venture at the next Council meeting. Those very
offensive fellows who always were against him would, of course, make
capital out of this. . . . Suddenly he braced himself up and strode
away across the lawn. They _should_ frisk, if any influence of his
could make 'em!
His wife looked after him sympathetically, then turned to Miss Ethel.
"That's right!" she said. "Arthur will soon put a little more spirit
into them. You see he knows how it is done. I shall never forget the
way he entered into the spirit of the thing that time when we were
abroad. If you could have seen him going down the Plage with a sort of
a rattle in his hand and his hat on one side---- But there's something
in the climate, of course."
"I suppose there must be," said Miss Ethel, with an involuntary glance
at the couples jigging solemnly about the grass in front of her.
They sat silent for a time, feeling colder and colder, but sparing Mrs.
Graham's feeling by remaining where they were. "Isn't that Caroline?"
said Mrs. Bradford, after a long pause.
"I dare say. She told me the arrangements were somewhat different this
evening, and she was to come off duty at half-past nine," said Miss
Ethel.
Then Mr. Graham came back and bumped himself down so heavily on the
wooden seat that the ladies felt a slight jar.
"No life!" he exclaimed. "No gaiety! No _joie de vivre_!" He paused,
blowing his nose. "Well, this is the last time. I'll never attempt
anything of the sort again."
"You must not say that. I am sure the Thorhaven people are grateful,"
murmured Miss Ethel.
"Old fool!" blurted out Mr. Graham with alarming ferocity and
suddenness. "A woman like that ought to be kept indoors when other
people are enjoying themselves, and only taken out in a churchyard on a
chain. Fit for nothing else!"
"Arthur! What are you talking about?" said his wife, naturally
startled.
"Well," he said, then had to swallow and choke. "Well, I bought one of
those paper snakes just to encourage the lad and set things going a
bit. Then I let it run out as I passed a dull-looking group that
seemed not to be enjoying themselves. And--and----"
"Well, Arthur?"
"A wretched woman turned round and called me an impudent old
scoundrel--told me she didn't want any grey-haired married men after
her girls."
"I don't believe it! I can't! She meant somebody else. Don't you
feel sure she must have meant her remark for some other passer-by, Mrs.
Bradford?" said Mrs. Graham, much agitated by his annoyance.
Mrs. Bradford eyed Mr. Graham with stolid thoroughness. "I think she
must. He doesn't look at all like that. But my husband used to say
that the sedate middle-aged-looking ones were often the worst, so
perhaps she may have thought the same."
"If she did, she was an idiot," said Mrs. Graham; then abruptly changed
the subject. "Oh, there's Godfrey Wilson! I suppose he often comes
through here on his way to his rooms."
"Yes, that's it. No fear of his wanting to dance with the girls on the
promenade nowadays," answered Mr. Graham, beginning to recover himself
by degrees. "Well, Lizzie, I think we've had enough of this, don't
you? Shall we go in and have a bit of supper? Then I will see Mrs.
Bradford and Miss Ethel home."
But as they walked away, he could not refrain from casting a backward
glance at the decent woman struggling with her unruly air-balloons, and
a sense of disappointed _joie de vivre_ came over him once more. "I
wish to goodness the whole bag o' tricks would blow away into the sea,"
he said. "I'd willingly pay the piper. I'm sick to death of seeing
the things bob up and down in the wind."
"Are you?" said Miss Ethel in her sharp way. "Then why don't you buy
them all up and send them to the children at the Convalescent Home that
Laura is so interested in?"
"Now that's an idea," said Mr. Graham at once. For the feeling that it
was his duty to give to a charitable institution when he could, had
been handed down to him--it was a part of life, no less natural than
having his hair cut or going to the dentist's. Out in the new, changed
world this instinctive generosity might already be taking
flight--scared away, as the fairies had been by steam traffic--but in
Thorhaven it still remained.
So he went back to the woman selling air-balloons with restored
self-satisfaction, and stood there in the high wind, diving into his
pockets for the amount required. The air balloons blew about--purple,
pink and white--all looking almost equally colourless by the faint
light as they bobbed about the woman's head, impeding her view of the
purchaser. A few moments later she was making her way home, thankful
to be done with a job which seemed to her ridiculous.
_Chapter XII_
_The End of the Gala_
Godfrey Wilson waited until Mr. Graham had departed, then strolled
slowly along the promenade towards Caroline. He had no real objection
to anyone knowing that he spoke to her, but preferred to say a
necessary word or two about the type-writing machine when Miss Ethel
and her party were not there. This is what he told himself as he went
along the path to the place where she stood with another girl, watching
the dancing.
All the same it was something deeper than argument which informed his
movements--something stronger than common sense. It was a stirring of
the insatiable curiosity of the human being who has begun to be
sexually interested in another. Though not exactly coarse-fibred, he
was so far removed from anything attenuated as almost to be so. He
only thought of himself.
He wanted to know what she was thinking of him, whether she liked him
more or less than when they last met. And yet in spite of that he
believed himself to be quite honest when he assured his conscience that
he only wanted to say something about a paper carrier which had not
worked well. For instinct is such a wonderful hand at camouflage that
he believed quite honestly--despite previous experience--that he wanted
nothing more. For the most wonderful thing about this kind of
deception is that the same old trick may seem new time after time.
Just as a healthy woman forgets what she has gone through on having her
child, so a very virile man will forget--in a way--what he has
experienced in pursuit of a girl.
At any rate, Godfrey Wilson was not at all conscious of going over old
ground; though when he approached Caroline saying rather formally,
"Good evening, Miss Raby. I just wanted to ask you if that paper
carrier was working satisfactorily now----" he could not quite ignore
the suggestion of a giggle in the attitude of Caroline's companion, who
moved away at once with some murmur about finding a cousin. The "Two's
company and three's none!" in her tone spoke as plainly as that.
Wilson felt annoyed by it.
"Oh well, that was all I wanted to know," he said when she had given
the information, and he spoke rather loudly and distinctly, so that
anyone near might hear.
But as Caroline at once moved away to follow her friend, he suddenly
felt that he wanted to say something more.
"The Gala has not been a very gay affair, has it? Nearly over now,
though," he said.
She stood still again and they both glanced up and down the long
promenade, which was fast emptying: just then a heavy cloud sailed
across the moon, obscuring everything but those islands of light near
the gas-lamps. The little coloured globes were by now more than half
blown out, while the rest flickered uncertainly, accentuating the windy
darkness. It was the last dance, and the band played very quickly.
The few couples left were mostly men and girls more or less in love
with each other who wanted to spin out the happy hours.
"Come!" said Wilson, putting his arm round Caroline's waist, on the
impulse of the moment. "Let's dance these last few bars. It is all
over."
All over---- It was curious how the words echoed in his own mind as he
circled round faster and faster. He would not be dancing with little
girls on the Thorhaven promenade any more after to-night. He would be
a married man when the next Gala took place--ranged, respected; and
though he felt a deep affection for Laura, he knew it was not on that
altar alone that he had sacrificed his freedom. His wife's fortune
would also just lift him above the dead-level where opportunities are
very few, into the region where a clever and enterprising man with
ambition is certain to find many; but he was sufficiently fond of Laura
to make the prospect of matrimony with her agreeable, though he was not
what is called a marrying man.
But a bridegroom of his type is bound to have regrets, unless in the
thrall of an engrossing passion; and to-night Wilson felt these
misgivings more acutely than he had done since his engagement--perhaps
because the loss of bachelor freedom was getting so near. Therefore
his dance with Caroline--though such a trivial matter in itself--was
not simply a dance, but a last fling: and he felt a ridiculous desire
to call out to the band to go on when he heard them stopping, so as to
prolong something in his own life which he knew to be nearly at an end.