BACK TO “THE GAME”
Gilbert did not prove an easy patient to manage, because though he
was still in need of treatment, being well had become a habit. He was
impatient of any restraint, and sometimes almost rude to Colin, who took
the chief share of the restraining. Neeburg had limited him to nine
holes, morning and afternoon, which meant that a good portion of his day
was unoccupied.
And that which Claudia had foreseen came to pass. He had no hobby to
amuse him. He hated to be alone with his own thoughts, and yet he was
either impatient with other people’s conversation and ideas, or he was
bored with the subjects that interested them, and did not interest
him. He did not sleep well, and he had taken a dislike to books.
Bridge and billiards he had always considered a waste of time, and the
entertainments at the small Casino did not amuse him. He took no interest
in the small happenings of life, which for other people pleasantly
diversify the days with their light and shade. His day was one long
fidget to get back into harness.
Still, the bracing air did him good, and his nerves daily got steadier.
Sometimes he almost looked his old self.
One day, after they had been there for a week, it happened to be very
wet, and golf for Gilbert was out of the question. He and Colin were
sitting out on the verandah of the Golf Hotel, smoking and talking, when
Claudia came out to them. She seated herself a little distance away,
with _Le Petit Journal_, which she looked at in a desultory holiday sort
of way, as they went on talking. Gilbert was evidently replying to some
remark of Colin’s.
“It’s what you call ‘tolerance’ that is ruining England. It’s a blessing
for her that there are a few ‘intolerant’ people left. You know, Colin,
you’ve got mixed up with a lot of cranks, all grinding their own little
axes. For instance, I can’t think why you want to mess about with such
questions as Child Labour. It won’t make you popular, very few people
take an interest in it. Why don’t you leave such questions to faddists? I
wonder that a man of your ability plays about with such small issues.”
Claudia saw a fighting gleam in Colin’s eye, but he replied quietly
enough.
“We always did disagree on our definition of ‘small,’ you know, Gilbert.
A small question does not become a big one because it becomes the popular
one of the day.”
Gilbert made a gesture of impatience. “Nonsense, you must accept the
world’s verdict on these things, and let me tell you, as a lawyer,
that the verdict of the people is pretty sound, in spite of any
Ibsen paradoxes you may fling at me. If you like to paddle about in
a backwater, no one can prevent you, but don’t pretend it’s the main
stream, or rather don’t expect anyone to believe you. I think enough has
been talked about Child Labour. Sentimental twaddle! The law has done all
that is necessary.”
“Have you ever gone closely into the question, Gilbert?” Colin took his
cigarette-case out of his pocket and abstracted another cigarette.
“Yes, as much as I want to. I once had a compensation case, where a lot
of sentiment was dragged in by the heels.”
“Ah! you represented the employer, of course?” He threw the match over
the verandah.
“Well? The parents of the child were willing it should work. The
sentiment came in when it got injured.”
“Exactly, that’s just what we complain of. Child labour demoralizes the
parents. But, leaving the parents out of the question,” his voice grew
warmer, in spite of his evident effort to keep cool—“don’t you see that
the interest of future generations of workers demands that children,
instead of becoming ‘half-timers,’ shall have a chance to develop, to let
their bodies grow into something strong and fine, so that—and this should
appeal to _you_—England may hold her own against other younger, more
vigorous nations. I say nothing about the joyless lives of the children
who are old in mind as well as body before those of our class go to Eton
or Harrow, but surely the future of the race interests you? You get more
work out of a vigorous, able-bodied man or woman.”
“Oh yes! I’m interested, but I prefer to work for the present generation.
I’ll do without a rain-washed, dirty statue that a crank occasionally
puts a wreath on and no one else remembers.”
“Gilbert!” exclaimed Claudia, unable to let the taunt pass. “How can you
be such an arrant materialist?”
“We live in a materialistic age, my dear,” said her husband coolly. “In
a few years’ time ideals will be as dead as door-nails. Idealists are
usually weak dreamers, who resent the driving force of others, and who
try—ineffectually—to dam the current of their progress. I don’t mean
that you are to be classed with these ineffectuals, Colin, but you allow
yourself to be carried away by their enthusiasms. Enthusiasm is a good
servant, but a bad master. To do anything worth doing, you must have a
judicial mind, and put nothing of yourself in the scale.”
“All the great reformers of the world have been enthusiasts,” cried
Claudia impetuously. “The dry-as-dust, cold-blooded men and women have
never achieved anything. I say, thank God for the enthusiasts of the
world, who are not dismayed by columns of statistics!”
Her eyes and Colin’s met, and his thanked her silently, but a little
shake of the head told her not to trouble to argue, that it was only
beating her head against a brick wall.
“My dear Claudia, you are a woman and belong to the emotional,
impressionable sex. But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t you join any of
these crank movements,” he went on impatiently—“for if I am going into
Parliament, I don’t want to be saddled with my wife’s partisanships. It’s
quite enough to fight the cranks in the House, I don’t want any on my own
hearthrug.”
She was tempted to make a hot retort, but Colin’s look checked her. After
all, it _was_ useless, and she had determined not to quarrel with him.
“I shan’t be able to stick this much longer,” grumbled her husband,
getting up and inspecting the leaden skies. “Rotten weather!”
“It’s the first bad day we’ve had, old man,” replied his friend
cheerfully.
“And no newspapers yet.... I wasn’t cut out for a life of idleness. I’ll
go in and write some letters.”
He got up and left them on the verandah, and Claudia gave up the pretense
of reading.
“Colin,” she exclaimed vehemently, “how came you and he to be friends
when you are so different? His views are too awful.”
“There are a lot of people who think as he does,” returned Colin
thoughtfully. “But it was sweet of you to take up the cudgels on my
behalf. Those things are not easy to do in front of—a Gilbert.”
She flushed a little. “I just had to say it. I was so entirely with you.
I always am. And yet, he is my husband.”
“_You_ don’t think me weak and ineffectual?” He looked out over the
rain-bleared golf-course, at the dark row of pines in the distance.
“You used to lay so much stress on strength, on achievement. You quite
frightened me.”
“Don’t!” she said quickly. “Sometimes one may mistake hardness for
strength. Don’t”—pitifully—“don’t rub it in, Colin.” Her eyes suddenly
filled with tears.
“Oh, my dear!”—the caress seemed to slip out involuntarily—“I didn’t
mean to do that.... And though I wanted you to say I wasn’t, I _am_
weak—pitifully weak.... I want a woman’s good opinion, a woman’s
approval. I want someone to believe in me, to urge me on ... that’s weak,
isn’t it?”
“Only according to Gilbert’s creed,” she said softly. “You and I have a
different one.”
He got up and paced the verandah.
“It would be happier for you if you could adopt his creed—and you’re very
young. You want happiness?”
“Badly.”
“I wish—I could see you happy. The Bible says, ‘the prayer of the
righteous man availeth much,’ but I can’t pray.”
“I don’t believe you are any happier—although you seem so cheerful—than I
am.”
“No.”
The rain softly murmured around them. They were the only occupants of the
verandah.
“We’re not very lucky, are we?...” She turned abruptly to him, her
hands gripping the edge of the verandah, her eyes bright with a curious
wildness. “Colin, I’m sometimes so frightened of the future. I’m
twenty-four now. Shall I always go on being unhappy and dissatisfied
until I become a nasty, bitter, lonely old woman, jealous of every happy
couple I meet, envious of everyone else’s happiness? It’s a horrid
picture, isn’t it?”
He did not say a word, but he watched her profile as she looked out at
the rain.
“Gilbert will grow more and more like his father, and he will become the
right honorable member for Langton. He may rise to be Attorney-General.
Perhaps he’ll get a seat in the Cabinet. I shall open Primrose League
bazaars and be chilly to the wives of Labour members when I meet them.
I shall go to innumerable long, stupid dinners and try and remember to
be gracious to the right persons. I shall become the possessor of some
wonderful china and perhaps flit about with a duster in a silk bag. And
my heart—well”—with a sudden gust of passion that left her face deathly
white—“I hope it will be atrophied by that time.”
They had neither of them noticed the approach of a motor, so that they
were both startled to hear an English shout from the bottom of the steps.
“Hallo! Isn’t the water cold?”
It was Pat, neat and workmanlike in her blue serge, a small hat rammed
down over her yellow hair. She grinned up at their surprise.
“Pat! We didn’t expect you until to-morrow.”
“I know, but I suddenly got fed up with London. I hope I haven’t put the
town band out by coming so soon, but I just had to come.”
She came striding up the steps and gave Claudia a hug.
“Bless you, my children. Paton, I shall be in tremendous form to-morrow.
I feel it coming on. Directly I got on the boat I wanted to drive off
from the head of the gangway, only it would be sure to have been a
lost ball.... I lost five last week. I think they were winged angels
masquerading as golf-balls. How’s Gilbert? Billie sends his forlorn love.
He’s as mournful as a Chinese idol. Do you know where I’m supposed to
hang myself up?”
Claudia, who had arranged for her room on the morrow, went ahead into
the hotel, Colin and Pat following after. She could not help hearing a
hasty whisper of, “Paton, I’ve got lots of things to tell you. Just _had_
to see you. Everything is going to be all right, and I’m so happy.”
So her suspicions were correct. Colin and Pat were in love with one
another. Pat “just had to see him.” What was that but love? Only love can
drive with such impatience.
“I hope it’s a pretty long bed,” she could hear Pat chattering. “I went
to stay at an hotel once, and we took it in turns to rest, my top half
and my lower half. I’d like to sleep all at once, if possible.”
Colin laughed. He was always on very cheery terms with Patricia, and she
with him. It was she, Claudia remembered, who had once so highly extolled
Paton as a possible husband. At that time she had not appeared to have
any _penchant_ for him. But sometimes the knowledge of her love comes
suddenly to a young girl. Perhaps it had come suddenly to Pat. And she
would make him a very nice wife. She was loyal to the core, and she would
believe in him. She would fight for him, if necessary, through thick
and thin, the bigger the fight the more she would like it. She would
never quite understand one side of him, perhaps, but maybe her steady
cheeriness was what he needed. How often she had heard it said that
like should not seek like in marriage. She remembered someone had said,
“In love they who resemble, separate.” Pat was lucky, and if she felt a
little twinge of jealousy—well, it was the first symptoms of the soured
old woman period she had been envisaging. She would presently look on all
young couples in the same way.
“So your sister has arrived,” she heard Mr. Littleton say, as she stood
musing in the hall. “She hasn’t brought good weather with her.”
“No,” returned Claudia mechanically, “but Pat doesn’t mind the weather.”
“Well, I guess that befits an Amazon. She’s a splendid specimen of
English womanhood.”
Her sister nodded. Yes, she was; no wonder Colin admired her.
“A little too splendid for my taste,” smiled Littleton. “Who was it laid
down the law that a woman should be just as high as the shoulder of the
man she loves?” He looked at the dark, glossy head just on the level of
his own shoulder, but she did not notice it. She was trying to adjust her
ideas: “I reckon he was a cosy man, who ever he was.”
He wondered what had caused that curiously blank look on her face, a sort
of half stunned surprise.
Just then Pat and Colin came laughing into the hall, she having, with her
characteristic quickness, found and donned a tweed rain-proof coat.
“Claud, we’re going for a tramp. Come with us? It’s no good minding the
wet. You look as if you’ve been in all day.”
Her sister pulled herself together and replied lightly, “I’m sure, from
your tone, it’s an unbecoming look, but I refuse to let the rain wash it
off. I hate walking in the rain.”
“It’s nearly left off,” said Paton, glancing out of the door, “the clouds
are breaking.”
“I tell you I don’t want to go.... Run away, young people!”
Littleton noticed the edge to her tone, noticed it because he loved her
and, by now, had grown sensitive to its many inflections. Because he
loved her, he tried to understand her, to respond to her moods, to fall
in with her humours. He adored her quick changes, sometimes half a dozen
in the space of ten minutes; the melodies in her voice, sometimes tender,
sometimes firm, occasionally gay and still girlish. He was willing to
do anything to make her happy, and he had seen very clearly the rift in
the lute, the rift that had been inevitable. Could he hope to win her
love? She had given him nothing that could be considered encouragement,
although she was always friendly and ready to talk to him. She no longer
loved her husband, and it was not possible that such a woman could exist
for long without some man in her life. Why not——
Then he saw the expression on her face. She had forgotten he was standing
there. She was absorbed in her thoughts, but her eyes were fixed on the
couple going down the path. Pat was talking eagerly, and she had just
slipped her hand confidentially within Colin’s arm to emphasize some
point.
Love gives even the most stupid of men extraordinary powers of intuition
where the woman he loves is concerned. In a flash he knew that his own
suit was hopeless and the reason.
His fair skin had grown very grey as he spoke to her, and the light in
his eyes was suddenly quenched.
“Mrs. Currey, this is my last day here, you know. Too bad it’s wet, isn’t
it? We might have gone over the links once again together.”
The words effectually roused her. “Your last day here? I thought you were
going to stay on a few more days? Oh, I’m sorry! But we shall meet when I
come back to town, _n’est-ce pas_?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said regretfully. “I—I shall probably be sailing
for New York next week. The firm has been calling for me for some time.
‘Home, sweet Home,’ you know, and the American eagle!”
“Why, that’s too bad.” Her tone was unaffectedly regretful and sincere.
Perhaps, later on, he would feel it a slight consolation that he had won
through to her friendship, but at present it was caustic on the wound.
“I shall miss you. I suppose it’s ‘the game’ once more? We women are
hopelessly out of it!”
He shook his head. “There is only ‘the game’ left to me, and now—it
doesn’t interest me very much. Life has a queer way of giving you
backhanders occasionally, hasn’t it? Mrs. Currey, you’ve taught me there
are finer things, more worth striving for, than mere commercial gain.
Oh, it will fill up the time quite nicely, and I shall still get some
thrills out of doing the other fellow.” They had wandered out on the
verandah again. “See here, I don’t know how a woman takes these things.
I don’t know whether she likes a man to tell her he loves her, or would
rather he went away with his tongue held between his teeth. But I feel I
should like to tell you that I love you.... I would have done anything
to win and keep your love, if there had been any hope for me.... At one
time I had a crazy dream you might, perhaps, trust yourself to me and
make another start with me on the other side. I know you’re brave enough
to make a fight for your happiness, and not begrudge paying a price for
it. You’re not the kind of woman to be frightened by a few law-court
bogys.... No, you need not look so sorry. It’s my own fault. I walked
clean into it. I guess I gave the best years of my life to the rottenest
game out. Well, that game’s all that is left me. I’ve got to go on
playing, whether I want to or not.”
“But I _am_ sorry.... I like you so much. I almost wish—— But I think
something has happened to my heart.... I can’t feel it. I feel sort of
numbed. I don’t even seem to believe in love any longer. I wish I could
fall in love. I think it would put some life in me. I used to laugh at
a woman who said when she wasn’t in love she was only half alive. But
there’s something in it. Degrading admission, isn’t it?”
He looked at her with a curious expression—half wonderment, half
tenderness.
“Then you don’t know!” he exclaimed.
“Know what?” The figures of Colin and Pat were rapidly becoming
miniatures in the distance.
“Never mind. Only when you _do_ know—remember how we stood here—and that
I knew.”