"Oho! What have we here--romance?"
"Yes; I think so," said Peter quietly.
"Who'd have thought it? Our friend Peter has met his soul-mate! Out of
the great crowd he has chosen the mother of his children. It is to
laugh!"
"Think so?" said Peter. "I don't."
Kenyon put down his razor and stood in front of the man with whom he had
lived for several years and who had now apparently come up against a big
moment in his life. It didn't suit him that Peter should be seriously in
love yet. He looked to his friend to provide him with a certain amount
of leisure in the future. His plans would all go wrong if he had to
share him with someone else. He had imagined that his friend was only
temporarily gone on this little girl whose brief entry into Oxford had
helped to make Eight's week very pleasant. It was his duty to find out
exactly how Peter stood.
"Do you mean to tell me," he asked, "that you've proposed to Betty
Townsend?"
"Not yet," said Peter, "but I'm going to this morning--that is if I have
the pluck."
"My dear fellow," said Kenyon, with a genuine earnestness, "don't do it.
I've no doubt she'll jump at you, being under the influence of this
place and seeing you as a small hero here; but take the advice of a man
who knows and bring caution to your rescue. What'll happen if you tie
yourself up to this girl? After all, you can't possibly be in love with
her--that's silly. You're under the influence of a few silver nights,
and that most dangerous of all things--propinquity. Dally with her of
course, kiss her and write her letters in which you quote the soft stuff
of the poets. That'll provide you with much quiet amusement and assist
you in the acquisition of a literary style; but, for God's sake, don't
be serious. You're too young. You've not sown your wild oats. What's the
use of taking a load of responsibility on your shoulders before you're
obliged to do so? I'm talking to you like a father, old man, and I've
the right."
"Oh yes," said Peter, "you've the right--no man better--but you and I
look at things differently. I want the responsibility of this girl. I
want someone to work for,--an impetus--an ultimate end. It may seem
idiotic to you that I know the right girl directly I see her, but all
the same it's a fact. You see my undergraduate days are almost over.
When I go home in the fall I shall start earning my living. What am I
going to work for? A home, of course, and a wife and all that that
means. If that's what you call romance, thank you, it's exactly what I
want. Do you get me?"
Kenyon shrugged his shoulders. "Then I don't see that there's anything
more to be said. Does all this mean that you're going to chuck me?
Supposing Betty accepts you? Are you going to dog her footsteps for the
rest of the summer and leave me in the cart?"
"Oh Lord, no!" said Peter.
"Thank God for small mercies! And now if you'll give me a little
elbow-room I'll have my bath."
"Right-o!" said Peter. "Buck up! Breakfast at nine o'clock."
He went out, not singing as usual but with a curious quietness and a
strange light dancing in his eyes.
Kenyon was left the sole master of that little bedroom. As he finished
dressing he marshalled his thoughts and into them entered the figure of
a certain very beautiful person who lived in a cottage on the borders of
his father's estate. Before now she had twisted young men, quite as
romantic as Peter, out of their engagements to simple little girls. He
would see that she worked her wiles on Peter. He didn't intend that his
friend should devote himself to any person except Nicholas Kenyon so
long as he could prevent it.
X
It was a rather curious meal,--this final breakfast at the Randolph
Hotel. There were several under-currents of feeling which seemed to
disturb the atmosphere like cross winds. The Doctor and Mrs. Guthrie
were genuinely sorry that the week had come to an end. It was one which
would be filled with memories. Graham would very willingly have remained
at Oxford as long as Kenyon did. He had fallen a complete victim to the
attractions of this master of psychology. He regarded him as the very
last word in expert worldliness. He paid him the highest tribute that he
considered it was possible for one man to pay another, by calling him "a
good sport," and he looked forward with enormous pleasure to the time
when he would be able to show Kenyon the night side of New York, with
which he had himself begun to be well acquainted.
As to the two girls, wonderful things had happened to both of them
during that emotional, stirring, picturesque and altogether "different"
week. It seemed almost incredible to them they had been in that old town
for so short a time, during which, however, their little plans--their
girlish point of view--had undergone absolute revolution. The
high-spirited Belle, who had hitherto gone through life with a
consistent exuberance and rather thoughtless joy, was rendered
uncharacteristically serious at the knowledge that she would not see
Nicholas Kenyon again for some months. Not for a moment did she regret
the fact that she had fallen badly in love with him. It was a new
sensation for her, and young as she was, it was the new thing that
counted. Her mind was filled with dreams. In imagination she walked from
one series of pictures into another and all were touched with
excitement, exhilaration and a sense of having won something, the
possession of which all her friends would envy her.
In going over in her mind all that Kenyon had said to her, she could
not put her finger on any actual declaration on his part; but his subtle
assumption of possession, the way in which he touched her hand and
looked at her over other people's heads with eyes which seemed to
embrace her, seemed to her to be far more satisfactory than any
conventional set of words ordinary under such circumstances. Then, too,
there was that wonderful and sudden kiss on the landing stage in the
shadow. Why, there was no doubt about it. She had, like Caesar, come and
seen and conquered. She was to be the Hon. Mrs. Nicholas Kenyon,
daughter-in-law of Lord Shropshire, of Thrapstone-Wynyates. What a
delightful surprise for father and mother, and how proud they would be
of her!
Betty knew that Peter intended to make her his wife. She knew it and was
happy. His very incoherence had been more eloquent to her than the
well-rounded sentences of all the heroes of her favorite novels, and if
he never said another word before she left, she would be satisfied. In
her heart there was the sensation of one who had come to the end of a
long road and now stood in a great wide open space on which the sun fell
warmly and with great beauty.
Not much was said by anyone, and the question of the afternoon train
which was to leave at four-thirty was consistently avoided by them all.
Breakfast over, the whole party followed Kenyon into the street, where
two cars were waiting for the trip to Woodstock. They were to lunch at
the old inn which stood beneath the gnarled branches of the oaks that
had sheltered the Round Heads and Royalists. The first car was Kenyon's
roadster, in which he placed Mrs. Guthrie, the Doctor and Graham. He had
intended that Betty should sit by his side as he drove, and that Peter
should take Belle in his two-seater. But Master Peter was too quick for
him this time. He had touched Betty on the arm and said: "You're coming
with me." And before Kenyon could frame a sentence to break up this
arrangement these two were off together with the complete disregard for
speed limits which was peculiar to the Oxford undergraduate. Kenyon had
the honesty to say about this to himself that it was well done, but all
the same he was immensely annoyed. As he drove off with Belle on the
front seat he was not, for at least a mile, a very talkative companion.
Belle put his silence down to the fact that she was going away that
afternoon.
Along St. Giles, past the burial ground, the Roman Catholic Church,
Somerville, and into the Woodstock road as far as the Radcliffe
Infirmary, Peter kept the lead, and then the big car overtook him and
left him behind. Graham waved his hand and shouted something which Peter
didn't catch. It was probably facetious. As far as Wolvercote Peter kept
in touch with the car in front, when he began to fall gradually behind.
He had a plan in the back of his head.
The morning seemed to suit all that he had to say, if he found himself
able to say it. The earth was warm with the sun. The hedges and trees
were still in the first fresh vigor of early summer. Everywhere birds
sang and were busy with their young.
Peter pulled up short at the edge of a spinney. "Let's get out of
here," he said, "I want to show you a corking little bit of country."
And Betty obeyed without a word. She rather liked being ordered about by
this big square-shouldered person.
They didn't go far,--hardly, in fact, fifty yards from the car,--and
when they came to a small opening among the beeches where bracken grew
and "bread and cheese" covered the soft turf with their little yellow
heads, Peter said: "Sit down; I want to speak to you."
And again Betty obeyed without a word. It was coming--she knew that it
was coming--and the only thing she was afraid about was that Peter would
hear the quick beat of her heart.
He laid himself full stretch at her feet, threw off his cap and ran his
fingers through his hair. "You know this place," he said.
"I? No, I've never been here before."
"Yes, you have. You've been here with your friends. They come out every
night from the first of May until the first of October. Can't you see
the marks their feet have made as they danced here in the ring? It's
awfully queer. This is the first place I came to after I got to
Oxford--all the leaves were red--and I sat here one afternoon alone and
wondered how long it would be before I should look up and see you. I've
often come here since, winter and summer, and listened for sticks to
crackle as you came along through the trees to find me. Why don't you
laugh?"
"Why should I?"
"I knew you wouldn't. If you had it wouldn't have been you."
He turned himself round on to his elbows and looked up at her, and
remained looking and looking. And Betty looked back. Her heart was
beating so loudly that it seemed to her that someone was whacking a
carpet somewhere with a stick. She wondered whether she would be able to
hear Peter when he spoke again,--if ever he did.
And Peter said: "I'm going to begin to be a man exactly five months from
to-day. That is to say, I'm going into a law office in New York to make
a beginning. I'm going to work like the dickens. Do you know why?"
Betty shook her head and then nodded. He was a long time coming to the
point. If he wasn't quick she'd simply have to scream. Her heart was up
in her throat--it was most uncomfortable.
Peter went on. Somehow words came easy to him. The earth was so friendly
and so motherly and so very kind, and after all this was his spot and
she was there at last. "I forget the number of the house," he said, "but
up on the eighth floor of it, facing south, there's a most corking
apartment. The rooms are large and can be filled with big furniture and
enormous book-cases. I'm going to work to get that. I don't know how
long it'll take, but I'm going to ask you to help me to get it. Will
you?"
Betty nodded again. Someone was beating the carpet in a most violent
manner.
Peter, without another word, sprang up, put two large strong hands
under Betty's elbows and set her on her feet. She came up to the top
button of his coat and he held her there tight and it hurt her cheek.
But oh, how fine and broad the chest was behind it and how good it was
to nestle there. She heard him say much that she forgot then, but
remembered afterwards--simple boyish things expressed with deep
sincerity and a sort of throb--outpourings of pent-up feelings--not in
the very least incoherent, but all definite and very good. And there
they stayed for what appeared to be a long time. The man with the carpet
had gone away, but without looking up Betty knew that there were
hundreds of little people dancing around them in the ring and the little
clearing full of the yellow heads of wild flowers seemed to have become
that great open space and out of it, between an avenue of old trees,
stretched the wide road which led to,--the word was the only one in the
song that filled her brain,--motherhood! Motherhood!
A rabbit ran past them frightened, and Betty sprang away. "Peter! What
will the others say?"
Peter shook himself and his great laugh awoke the echoes of the woods.
"I don't care what anybody says," he answered. "Do you?"
"Yes. Let's go. We shall be late for lunch."
And Peter picked her up, carried her to the car, kissed her, put her in,
and drove away.