finished cigarette into the plate which they were using as an ash-tray.
He was in brown tweeds, which made his beautiful fairness appear to
dominate and penetrate even his clothes. The fresh brown of his face,
the strength of his shoulders, the gold at his temples and in his
neat moustache, the cleanness of his lips and chin, and the general
magnetism of his air of disciplined vigour, were all apparent. But in
addition she was most singularly moved by the fine moulding of his
cheeks and that air of confident good-humour with which the popular
man is so peculiarly endowed. His smile, so ready, so consciously
agreeable and charming, was a part of Harry himself. Patricia, equally
fair, with her piquant little head, and the blue expressive eyes and
mobile lips, was his delicious counterpart. She was her age, and a
child, and a witch, with much greater unconsciousness than he, because
with Patricia, whose thoughts were quick and fleeting, every thought
had a reflection in her face. And at this moment, from happiness, she
had turned to a sudden grave discovery, far more quickly than most men
could have done; and her gravity had given way before resolution,
desire, uncertainty, and again conviction.
"I'd like to have a big house," she said. "A country house, with lots
of servants, and a lake, and peacocks, and a ballroom, and a wood, and
lawns. I'd like to manage an estate."
"Good God!" cried Harry, pretending to be startled, and sharply
dropping his cigarette stump into the plate. "What for?"
"I'd like it. You see, all this running about--it's great fun, and I
love it. But it won't _last_."
"Why not?" Harry's tone was a little flat, as though his surprise had
only been exaggerated, as though he had been disturbed by a definite
assumption. "I don't see why it shouldn't. After all...."
"I shall get tired of it."
Harry laughed, showing his big white teeth. Patricia wondered if he
knew that when he laughed she had a sudden almost aching thrill of
affection for something boyish and lovable in him. Did he know?
"You won't," he assured her, the laugh remaining and fixing in his
cheeks for a moment deep lines of untroubled good humour. "Not for a
century."
"I might. I might get tired of it in a month," she said. "Sometimes I'm
tired of it already." Patricia hardly knew what she was saying. The
words came easily; but the conviction was lagging behind somewhere in
another thought. "You see, Tom Perry and Daphne and Woods--they're all
right, but they've got no brains. If I want to talk to anybody--really
talk, I mean,--there's nobody but you."
"Well?" His grin reappeared. "Aren't I enough?"
"You're splendid, of course."
"You're not so sure?" Harry's question was teasing: he was not taking
her seriously, was being indulgent, deliberately winning: but a shock
ran through Patricia even as she responded to his charm. The hesitation
which he had detected--had it really been there? Quick emotion moved
her. She turned away her head for an instant. For that fraction of time
her doubt had become a reality. She was pitiably uncertain of herself.
Surely if one were--say, even half-in-love--one never had such a doubt
of the beloved? And yet Harry--he was older than herself, a man, fixed
perhaps in his present state of life.... If she grew out of him! What
then? In such a life as they led.... Patricia still clung to the theory
of constancy, of common growth, of happiness for ever after. With all
her arrogance, she did not want to lead. To be led was a necessity to
her.
"Don't you see I'm not sure?" she asked. "How can you be sure? How can
you ever know what you'll think in a week, or a month, or a year?"
"Of course you can't," Harry agreed jocularly. "The best way is not to
think of it--not to look forward at all." His words were light, his
face untroubled. Did he not understand? Was he reassuring her, or did
his words truly represent the limitations of his insight?
"But I've _got_ to!" She was urgent. Tears were in her eyes. "I was
just thinking...."
"I'm not going to get tired of it," Harry said, his jaw set and his
laughter gone.
"Aren't you?" asked Patricia, her heart sinking. Her doubt of an
instant before seemed to be confirmed. A heavy sigh escaped her. For a
moment she was silent. Then, with an abrupt rally, she shook her head.
"No," she continued. "You're not going to get tired of it. Nor am I!"
iii
But as soon as she had spoken the words, she knew they were not true.
She could not tell whether she would tire now or later; but she was
sure that one day she would tire. Her capacity for growth already flew
a warning, and she could not for ever be blind to the signal. Well, and
what then? A shadow darkened her eyes. She looked across at Harry's
clear and happy face, at his crisp hair, and felt the strength and
energy that was in him. How resist that boyish charm, the laughter that
seemed so constant? Could one ever tire of laughter? Surely it was
impossible. Her heart softened. The little impetuous mouth drooped ever
so little. At sight of that, Harry's smile broadened.
"You've got a quaint mind," he said. "It doesn't matter in the least."
"It does." Patricia frowned. Then as suddenly she smiled in return.
"No, it doesn't. You're quite right. And yet it does, you know."
"Well, which?"
"I don't know. I don't know. I'll never know."
"As for these young cubs and cublets, let 'em rip. _They'll_ never
be any different. Where you're wrong is in worrying about it. If you
think, you wobble. Therefore, don't think."
"It's easy to say." Patricia regarded herself for a moment with
solemnity. She had a clear sense of herself refusing to be content
with something less than the best. She wanted to live to the fullest
capacity. She was quite intensely in earnest about that, about her
responsibility to Patricia Quin. It was a sacred trust.
He stretched a big hand across the table and caught her wrist,
pressing it. Their exchanged glance was of joy, almost, it seemed, of
understanding.
"Cheer up!" Harry urged. "Let's clear out of this."
Within two minutes they were out in the black street. A stormy wind
rushed along towards and past them, leaving Patricia shivering a
little. Harry put out an arm and caught her suddenly to him. She was
immediately free again, but she was breathless with something other
than loss of breath, and her heart was beating.
"We'll go and dance somewhere," he suggested.
Patricia shrank from his tenderness at this moment. The wind, the
hint of rain, her hidden conflict of perplexity, all discomposed her.
She wanted to be alone, to think. And yet, on the contrary, most
passionately to be with him, and not to think--never to think, never to
wake.... At last:
"No," said she. "I'm not in the mood. I'd spoil it. I'll go home. Let's
go by Tube."
They came out into Shaftesbury Avenue, which was half deserted now that
the omnibuses and the theatres had engulfed so many of those who crowd
the street; and then that deluge which had been on the tail of the
wind was suddenly released, and poured down so sharply that the two of
them had to run to the Piccadilly Circus station. Warmed and laughing,
they stood close together in the crowded lift, and plunged down into
the earth. Echoing passages, vehement advertisements of concerts and
theatres, some stairs in a blaze of baffling light; and they were
listening to the distant rumblings of Underground trains.
"On Saturday," resumed Harry, "we'll go to the Ireland match at
Twickenham. It's always the best Rugger of the season. If you'd like
to? And in the evening Puffer's got a party in his cellars. Sweaty but
jolly, the cry is, I believe."
"No, I'm going to Monty Rosenberg's."
"The devil! Monty?" He pulled up quickly. His head was shaken. "No,
don't go there. Puffer's a decent old sort."
"So's Monty." Patricia was suddenly defiant, as at some assumption of
right. Harry grimaced at her.
"First I've heard of it," he said. "Don't go there, there's a dear!"
"I've promised. I'm going with Jacky Dean."
"Good Lord!" Harry was amazed. He would have protested further; but
their train at this moment burst from the tunnel. They were crushed
into it by eager fellow passengers, and sat blinking in that strained
artificial light which is so much more trying to the eyes than the
light of the sun. Extraordinary roaring filled their ears. With the
crowd and the dazzle and the subterranean re-echoings of violent noise
they were dazed and helpless. Impossible to converse. Impossible to
think clearly. When they wished to communicate with one another it was
only by means of raised voices at each other's ears. At last Harry
could stand it no longer. At a shout, he proceeded: "Jack's ... a
decent little ... owl. But he's an _awful_ ... fool!" Patricia nodded.
The train ran into a station, and there was an instant's silence. In
it, Harry resumed: "Why not come with me? Don't you want to come?" No
answer. He bent nearer, and Patricia could not look up. "You'd rather
go to Monty's? Well, look here, come to the match, any way. I've got to
go there--on business. I'm doing a special on it. Will you? That all
right? Good."
The train started again. They were lost in that fearsome jungle of
uproar. Patricia was struggling with herself. The noise seemed to have
destroyed all her wit, all her confidence. She could not understand the
sensation she had--as though she were stifling, as though the blood
were filling her cheeks.
"I'd rather come to Puffer's," she managed to shout.
"Well?"
"I can't."
Harry turned away grimly, staring at an advertisement. Their wills were
in conflict. Patricia's eyes closed. Her brain was full of tormenting
thoughts. He was cruel. Then, no ... it was she who had been....
Uncontrollably, her hand swiftly moved, and was tucked lightly between
his arm and his body. Harry's hand came as swiftly to press hers, and
although the two hands drew apart again Patricia's remained within the
crook of his elbow for the rest of the short journey.
iv
By the time they reached South Kensington station the rain had ceased.
Big clouds were passing overhead at high speed, and the wind remained
fierce. Somehow it appeared to Patricia that when one had looked
upwards and seen the clouds, and behind them that lighter darkness
the sky, all that stood upon the surface of the earth was dwarfed.
The people, the lamps, the trees, the houses, were all shrunk to
insignificance, as the pain and bewilderment of poor humans must seem
to those steady eyes of pity, the stars. She could not see any stars,
but the gusts of wind made for the impression of great spaces, and
presently the few trees by the side of the road, and the dark houses
which lay beyond, took on the air of a mysterious wood. She felt that
she and Harry were wandering alone in a wood at night, beneath the
stars, listening to the endless torment of the anguished leaves; and
all her love of beauty made her heart soft, so that she was moved
beyond tears, and wished only to rest her head and prolong the ecstatic
moment.
But she could not speak to Harry. She could have taken his hand and
walked onward in silence; but that was impossible, because this
vision that she had was unsubstantial, and Harry, whose laughter was
so delightful, would not understand anything that was so intangible,
so unrelated to his normal life. She was conscious in him of a thick
stream of emotion, of the power of serious preoccupation with sensual
things, amounting to obsession; and sometimes she had that same
thickness of emotion when she was with him or longing for him, but
never with obsession;--always with a shyness, a flying away, as of some
will o' the wisp. But she more often had only a light playing of fancy,
which made love a beautiful game; and now she had only a childish
desire for happiness and mystical beauty. This her instinct told her
was not shared. If Harry laughed, it was because there were whole
realms of which he knew nothing. She had a swift certainty; there was
no poetry in his nature. He was all the time absorbed in the tangible.
Oh! What treason! She would not allow such thoughts. They were wicked,
unjust, treacherous.... How the wind thrust and blustered among the
trees! She could feel it upon her face and in her hair, and in her
eyes. Harry said:
"Your friend Amy Roberts has been making a fool of herself."
Patricia, withdrawn from her wonderings by so incongruous a speech,
could hardly understand him for a moment. Amy ... Amy.... It was an
instant before she could bring herself to recognition.
"Oh." At last, vaguely, Patricia groped for his meaning. "What's she
been doing?"
"It seems she ran into Felix Brow somewhere, and taxed him with saying
she couldn't paint. Of course, poor Felix muffed the thing. Or perhaps,
after all, he didn't. He said he didn't know she painted at all. Yes,
I expect that wasn't so much of a muff as I thought it was at first.
Damned insulting," Harry laughed appreciatively, thinking the speech
over to himself before he continued: "He begged her not to betray him.
That made Amy angry. Somebody had told her he'd said she painted with
a besom. She'd prefer even that to being ignored. After all, she's no
good as an artist. She's too stupid. And she _makes_ these ridiculous
scenes. There's some itch in her that makes her precipitate a row."
"I think she's conceited."
"Of course she is. Did you ever know a fool who wasn't? But she's
worse, because she quarrels with people who mean kindly by her."
"I know." Rather despairingly, Patricia shook her head. "Did Felix
really say that?"
"My dear! Poor old Felix wouldn't say anything so dull. After all, he
is a wit. He'd say something worth saying, and worth repeating, or he
wouldn't open his mouth."
"These witty things, though. Are they really said?"
Patricia's cynicism was too much for Harry. He laughed, looking down at
her with an almost proprietary air of delight.
"I've heard a few of them. They're not always spontaneous, of course.
But it's so absurd of Amy to quarrel with a man like Felix. It can only
do her harm. He _will_ say something about her now. I mean, he's a man
to stand in with, not quarrel with."
Patricia was struck by this point.
"Do you really think that?" she asked. "That one ought to 'stand in'
with people."
"Of course!" Harry's tone was severe.
"You think it's right? You do it yourself?" Patricia's tone was
sad. She could not see his face; but then neither could he see hers.
For Patricia the question was of vital importance. Yet Harry was not
conscious of the meaning of her question.
"You've got to do _everything_ in this world," he assured her
confidently.
"How base!" Patricia's protest was so low that it escaped Harry. "But
surely, Harry, if you're any good...."
"All the more reason. Of course, it doesn't matter in Amy's case...."
"I must go and see her."
Patricia spoke mechanically. She was not thinking of Amy. She was
thinking of Harry, and of herself.
"She'll probably tell you about Felix--with embellishments of her own.
A few of the withering replies she's thought of since. I will say that
for Amy: she improves her speeches a lot in revision." He laughed with
some dryness.
"Harry!" protested Patricia. "I believe you're spiteful!"
"As a nun!" he agreed. "Didn't you know?"
Again Patricia shrank into herself. They were nearing her home
now, and the road was very dark, and Harry's nearness gave her a
sense of happiness and security. And yet she was neither happy nor
secure. It seemed as though the stormy evening had reawakened all her
sensitiveness. No, she was not happy. Intermingled with her own mood
was the strange jumble of problems which had been raised by their
talk and the memories it evoked. Now she wanted to leave him, now to
stay--and at each turn she was exasperated anew at her own waywardness.
The shallowness of Harry's conviction that one ought to cultivate those
who might be useful hurt her (as similar remarks had done several
times before). She remembered several of her distastes for things he
had said. She remembered, too, their talk over dinner on the subject
of growing up; and it made her shiver. And yet she continued to walk
by Harry's side, feeling in his proximity the same joy, the same warm
affection as she had done all the evening. It surprised her to know
that one's love for a person could fluctuate so, and so persist; that
it could come and go almost as if with breathing. She was undecided.
Did she perhaps not love him at all? It was as though some reality
greater than inclination, or else some very strong illusion, was always
interrupting her love and making it ineffective. He was the only
man she had ever wanted to kiss her, the only man to whom she could
physically have yielded herself; and yet....
She fell into a series of fresh ponderings, about Amy and Jack Penton,
about Harry and Amy, about Harry and Rhoda, Harry and Bella, about
Harry's spitefulness; and with each variation of the theme it became
less and less possible to disclose the nature of her thoughts to Harry.
How could one love a person, and yet sometimes dislike what they said,
and resent what they did, and hate what they thought? And yet, as her
heart told her, he was the man she loved, so beautiful, so strong, so
much her true love. What were thoughts and speeches compared with that
instinctive certainty? She was torn. It was a puzzle to Patricia that
this hesitation should arise. She was unhappy under her happiness.
Suddenly she became aware that they were outside her home, and that the
house was dark, and that Harry had spoken to her without receiving a
reply.
"Hey!" he cried sharply, to attract her attention.
Patricia, startled, looked up at him as if she were dreaming. The
little hushing wind in the slim and bare branches of small trees was
accompanied by the pattering drops of a fresh shower. Cold splashes
touched her cheeks. She could see Harry standing like a giant above
her, could feel the radiance of his strength and beauty and love for
her. She was deeply moved. Harry, amused and laughing at her abstracted
silence, put his arm round her. As if naturally, but in reality because
she was only half-attentive, Patricia stopped, standing there within
his arm. She was quite happy, quite at ease, but dreaming.
"What is it?" she asked, in a very hushed way, hardly to be heard.
"Only that you're a darling!" Harry stooped and kissed her, holding
her tightly but gently within his arm, and with his free hand raising
her hand to his lips. She felt his rough cheek against her own, his
warm lips, and against her hair the brim of his hat. How strange that
for a moment, held so firmly, Patricia felt nothing at all except that
it was delicious to be there, delicious to be so encircled, so loved.
Harry kissed her a second time, but not her averted mouth. She felt his
lips encroaching, his hold more urgent. Patricia's heart beat faster.
So she might yield herself to love. He would kiss her lips, and she
would kiss him, and then for ever--for ever.... She was half-yielding.
She was yielding. Faster and faster ran her heart, and the wind and
rain and darkness were blotted out in this sweet stupor. And then some
electrical revolt shocked her into resistance.
"No!" she said, very quietly, and sought to disengage herself.
"Kiss me!" demanded Harry. "My dearest!"
"No!" said Patricia, again. But she was not really unwilling or afraid.
She was happy and at ease and full of almost luxurious reassurance. And
at the same time she was inexorable. When Harry would have kept her
and again would have kissed her he was unable to do so. Her body seemed
to be steel, her will greater than his impetuousness. In the struggle
between domination and the instinct for liberty this new strength of
Patricia's was in no way to be gainsaid. She continued, despite his
effort, unquestionably to belong to herself. The impulse to submit was
vanquished by something yet more insistent.
"Patricia!" commanded Harry. He was warm, was masterful. Such a tone
had never hitherto failed him, and was now both ardent and sincere.
Patricia was quite aware of the physical agitation which he thus
expressed. He was bent upon victory, forcing the issue. And with each
fleeting second his will strengthened her own. Harry was urgent.
Patricia's nerve was steadied. He followed her, determined, very nearly
irresistible.
"No. I'm not sure that I want you to." Her tone was cold and without
feeling; but her eyes were shining and her heart was full.
"My dear, you can't...."
She held his hand, and pressed it, all the time evading his renewed
embrace. The wind came sweeping along the street, and around them was
blackness and silence. Moved and troubled, but as one in a dream,
Patricia freed herself, made no answer to his entreaty, and left him
listening to the sound of a closing door, and feeling the smart tingle
of raindrops upon his face and the backs of his bare hands.
CHAPTER EIGHT: A DAY IN PATRICIA'S LIFE
i
Patricia undressed, still trembling, still with a set face and a false
air of coolness. Only when she was in bed was she hysterically filled
with anger for herself, and contempt, almost with self-horror. She
could not comprehend herself or her own stupidity, so great was her
longing for love and understanding.
"Love--yes; but understanding!" He could understand her in
happiness--now, at dinner, at the dance. But as she grew older, as she
needed guidance and wisdom? Never! That was her thought of Harry, the
first wild sweep of anger at _his_ deficiency. "He'd never understand
me--never!" And then again she demanded of the silence, striking the
pillow with her vehemence: "Why--why--why?" Why had she so shrunk
from love? Excuses poured into her mind, the more vehement because
she felt them to be invalid. It had been a mood, this rejection of
his love. She wasn't accountable for her moods. She said definite
things without knowing them to be definite--without meaning them to
be definite. It wasn't final. It _wasn't_. Then self-anger again grew
uppermost. "You fool! You little fool!" she cried aloud. Then again:
"I'm not _ready_. I don't know what love is. I only want to _be_
loved. I don't _want_ to love and be loved--not finally, like this;
not give myself up to it. Only like a little girl. I don't love him.
I felt it. I've just been playing ... I _can't_ love him! If I did, I
should be sure. I shouldn't think ... of all this ... of his not ...
of my growing out of him.... I should be proud--overwhelmed. I'm not
proud. Not overwhelmed. He's only selfish. I could tell. Anybody could
have told. The _feeling_ was all wrong. It was.... He's kissed other
girls. _They_ were proud--willing.... He wants love in _his_ way--not
mine. He can't have it. I'm not _sure_. I've got to be sure. It's for
life. He must give me time. I felt he wouldn't.... And yet I do love
him so.... Harry! My dear!" She pressed her lips to her own fingers,
kissing them sweetly. "I wanted him to kiss me. I liked it. I wanted
it. I wouldn't let him.... How could I be so beastly--so _beastly_! I
couldn't have kissed him. I've thought of it--liked the idea of it.
It's the reality--cowardice. Oh, I'm afraid of life. It's all very well
to play and dream--lovesick girl. When a man really.... It wouldn't
have been right. It wouldn't have been true. It _can't_ be right to
feel like this! I'm sophisticated. I want love, and not love,--love and
friendship and wisdom and understanding--somebody to understand me;
somebody delicate and wise ... beautiful.... I want too much. You can't
ask...."
With a mind distraught, she turned upon the pillow, until it grew hot
and seemed to rasp her cheeks; and her head ached and her eyes and lips
burned and the room seemed overpoweringly full of stale air. She could
see the darkness out of doors, and hear the wind tearing and pressing
in wild gusts out of doors, and soot whispering down the chimney, like
mice foraging in a newspaper. The wooden rod at the foot of the hanging
linen blind knocked against the casement until she was frenzied; and
she rose passionately to draw the blind to its full height, out of the
draught. Standing there in the darkness she could feel the cold air
upon her raised arm and her breast, and in a moment through her thin
nightgown. And all the time her lips were drawn back and down in this
great distress and self-blame which had come suddenly into her blithe
days. And she realised that it had all been implicit in her blitheness,
that only a young girl could have supposed that the postponement could
go on for as long as her delight in it was maintained.