THE TWO CURRENTS
Roland returned home dissatisfied with himself and anxious to vent the
dissatisfaction on someone else. He was in a mood when the least thing
would be likely to set him into a flaring temper, and at dinner his
father provided the necessary excitant. They were considering the
advisability of having the dining room repapered and Mr. Whately was
doubting whether such an expensive improvement would be possible for
their restricted means.
“I don’t know whether we can manage that just now,” he said. “We have
had one or two little extras this last year or so; there was the new
stair carpet and then the curtains on the second landing. I really think
that we ought to be a little careful just now. Of course later on, when
Roland and April are married----” And he paused to beam graciously upon
his son before completing the sentence. “As I was saying, when Roland
and April----” But he never completed the sentence. It remained forever
an anacoluthon. It was that beam that did it. It exasperated Roland
beyond words. Its graciousness became idiocy.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, father,” he said. “We’ve heard that
joke too often.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Whately was for a moment too
surprised to speak. He had made that little pleasantry so often that it
had become part of his conversational repertory. He could not understand
Roland’s outburst; at first he was hurt; then he felt that he had been
insulted, and, like all weak men, he was prone to stand upon his
dignity.
“That’s not the way to talk to your father, Roland.”
“I’m sorry, father, but oh, I don’t know, I....” Roland hesitated, and
the matter should then have been allowed to drop. Mrs. Whately had
indeed prepared to interfere with an irrelevant comment on a friend’s
theory of house decoration, but Mr. Whately, having once started on an
assault, was loath to abandon it. “No, Roland, that’s not at all the way
to speak to me, and I don’t know what you’ve got to be impatient with me
about. You know quite well that you’re going to marry April in time.”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
“Don’t be absurd; of course you do; it was arranged a long time ago.”
“No, it wasn’t; nothing’s been arranged. We’re not engaged, and I won’t
have all this talk about ‘when Roland and April are married.’ Do you
hear? I will not have it!”
It was a surprising outburst. Roland was usually so even tempered, and
the moment afterwards he was bitterly ashamed of himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was saying.”
For a moment his father did not answer him. Then: “It’s all right,
Roland,” he said; “we understand.”
But Roland saw quite clearly he was not forgiven, that his behavior had
increased the estrangement that had existed between his father and
himself ever since, without asking parental advice, he had abandoned
the idea of the bank. They did not talk much after dinner, and Mr.
Whately went to bed early, leaving Roland and his mother alone. It was
easier now that he had gone.
“I feel such a beast,” Roland said. “I don’t know what made me do it. I
was worried and tired. I didn’t enjoy myself as much as I had hoped to
down at Hogstead.”
“I know, dear, I know. We all feel like that sometimes, but I don’t see
why that particular thing should have upset you. After all, it’s a very
old joke of father’s; you’ve heard it so often before.”
“I know, mother, I know. I don’t know what it was.”
He could not make clear to her, if she was unable to appreciate through
her intuition, his distaste for this harping on his marriage, this
inevitable event to which he had to come, the fate that he could in no
way avoid.
“Really, dear,” his mother went on, “I couldn’t understand it. You
haven’t had any row with April, have you?”
“Oh, no; nothing like that, nothing.”
“Then really, dear----”
“I know, mother, I know.”
It was no good trying to explain to her. Could anyone ever communicate
their grief, or their happiness for that matter, to another? Was it not
the fate of every human soul to be shut away from sympathy behind the
wall he himself throws up for his defense?
“And, dear, while we’re on the question,” his mother was saying, “both
father and I have been thinking that--well, dear, you’ve been spending
rather a lot of money lately, and we thought that, though you have such
a certain post, you really ought to take the opportunity of putting by
a little money for setting up your house later on. Don’t you think so,
dear?”
“I suppose so, mother.”
“You see you’ve got practically no expenses now. I know you pay us
something every week, and it’s very good of you to, but you could quite
easily save fifty pounds a year.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And don’t you think you ought to?”
“I’ll try, mother, I’ll try.”
She rose from her chair, walked across to him, and, bending down, kissed
his forehead.
“We do feel for you, dear,” she said, “really we do.”
“I know you do, mother.”
For a long while after she had left him Roland remained in the
drawing-room; he was burdened by a confused reaction against the
influences that were shaping his future for him. He supposed he was in
love with April, that one day he would marry her; but was there any need
for this insistence upon domesticity? Could he not be free a little
longer? His eyes traveled miserably round the small, insignificant
drawing-room. The window curtains had long since yielded their fresh
color to the sunshine and hung dingily in the gaslight. The wall paper
was shabby and tawdry, with its festooned roses. The carpet near the
door was threadbare; the coverings to the stiff-backed chairs were dull
and crinkly. This was what marriage meant to men and women in his
position. He contrasted the narrow room with the comfort and repose of
Hogstead. What chance did people stand whose lives were circumscribed by
endless financial difficulties, who could not afford to surround
themselves with deep arm-chairs and heavy carpets and warm-colored wall
papers? It was cruel that now, at the very moment when he had begun to
escape from the drab environment of his childhood, these fetters should
be attached to him. It was cruel. And rising from his chair he walked
backwards and forwards, up and down the room. The days of his freedom
were already numbered. They would be soon ended, the days of
irresponsible, unreflecting action. It was maddening, this semblance of
liberty where there was no liberty. He recalled a simile in a novel he
had once read, though the name of the book and of the author had escaped
his memory, in which human beings were described as fishes swimming in
clear water, with the net of the fisherman about them. He was like that.
He was swimming in clear water, but at any moment the fisherman might
lift the net and he would be gasping and quivering on the bank.
Next day, in pitiful reaction, he presented to Mr. Marston a request to
be allowed to commence his foreign tour immediately instead of, as had
been previously arranged, in the beginning of the autumn.
“But, my dear fellow,” Mr. Marston expostulated, “you surely don’t want
to go in the very middle of the cricket season, when you’re in such
splendid form? Think what games you’ll be missing. There’s the
Whittington match in August. We simply can’t do without you. And then
there’s that game against Hogstead in September, in which you did so
splendidly last year. It’s no good, my dear fellow, we simply can’t
spare you.”
But Roland was stubborn.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, “but I do feel that I ought to be going
out there soon, and July and August will be slack months--just the time
to see people and form alliances. In the autumn they would be too busy
to worry about me.”
Mr. Marston shrugged his shoulders. It was annoying, but still the
business came first, he supposed.
“All right, my dear fellow. I daresay you are right. And I am glad to
see you are so keen on your work. I only wish Gerald was.”
“Oh, but I think he is really, sir,” said Roland, who, for one horrible
moment, had a feeling that he was playing a mean trick on Gerald. At
school he had resented the way that little Mark-Grubber Shrimpton had
gone up to Crusoe at the end of the hour to ask his questions. He had
found a nasty name for such behavior then, and was there so much
difference between Shrimpton’s thirst for knowledge and his own desire
to travel when he might have been playing cricket? But Mr. Marston
speedily reassured him.
“Oh, yes; Gerald--he’s keen enough of course, and, after all, he’s
rather different. He’s known all along there was no necessity for him to
over-exert himself, and I daresay he’s heard so much shop talked that
he’s got pretty sick of the whole thing. You have come fresh to it.”
“Then I may go, sir?”
“Yes, yes, if you want to. I’ll ask Mr. Perkins to make an arrangement.
I expect we’ll be able to get rid of you next week.”
And so it was arranged.
* * * * *
Two days before his departure, as he was bounding downstairs on his way
to lunch, Roland was suddenly confronted at the turn of the staircase
below the second landing by a tall, graceful figure, in a wide-brimmed
hat and light crinkly hair. He gave a surprised gasp. “I am so sorry,”
he began; then saw that it was Beatrice. “Oh, how do you do, Mrs.
Arnold?” It was rather dark and for a moment she did not recognize him.
“Oh, but of course--why, it’s Mr. Whately! And how fortunate! I was
wondering how I should ever get to the top of these enormous stairs. I
can’t think why you don’t have a lift. I’ve come to see Gerald. Do you
think you could run and tell him I’m here? I suppose I should have gone
and asked one of your clerks, but they do so embarrass me. Oh, thank you
so much. It is kind.”
Within a minute Roland had returned with the news that Gerald had
already gone out to lunch, that his secretary did not know where he had
gone, but that he had left a message stating that he was not to be
expected back before three.
A look of disappointment crossed her face.
“Oh, but how annoying!” she said. “And I had wanted him to take me out
to lunch. We haven’t seen each other for such a long time. I suppose
it’s my own fault. I ought to have let him know. All the same, thank you
so much, Mr. Whately.”
She had half turned to go, when Roland, with one of those sudden
inspirations, of which a moment’s thought would have rendered him
incapable, suggested that she should come out and lunch with him
instead. “It would be so delightful for me if you would.”
As she turned towards him, her features expressing an obvious surprise,
he wondered how on earth he had had the courage to ask her. He had never
seen her look more beautiful than she did, standing there in the half
light of the staircase, her pale blue dress silhouetted against the dull
brown of the woodwork, and one arm flung out along the banister. For a
moment he thought that she was going to refuse, when suddenly the look
of surprise passed into a gracious smile.
“But how kind of you, Mr. Whately; I should love to.”
He took her to a smart but quiet restaurant that was mostly used by city
men wishing to lunch unobtrusively with their secretaries, and they were
lucky enough to find a corner table. At first he found conversation a
little difficult; the waiter was so slow bringing the dishes. There were
uncomfortable pauses in their talk. But by the time they had finished
their fish, and drunk a little wine, Roland’s nervousness had passed. It
was a delight to look at her, a delight to listen to the soft
intonations of her voice; and here in the quiet intimacy of the
restaurant he was able to appreciate even more acutely than at Hogstead
the mystery and romance that surrounded her. The pathos of her life was
actual to him; they were discussing a new novel that had been much
praised, but of which she had complained a falsity to life.
“But then you are so different from the rest of us,” he had said.
“Ah, don’t say that,” she replied quickly. “I’m so anxious to be the
same as all of you, to live your life and share your interests. It’s so
lonely being different.”
She made him talk of himself, of his hopes and his ambitions. And he
told her that in two days’ time he would be going abroad.
“In the middle of August! Before the cricket season’s over! What horrid
luck!”
“Oh, no, I wanted to go,” said Roland. “I was getting tired of things. I
wanted a change.”
She looked at him with curiosity, a new interest for him in her deep
dove-colored eyes.
“You, too!” she said.
“I don’t know what it is,” Roland continued. “I feel restless; I feel I
must break loose. It’s all the same, one day after another, and what
does it lead to?”
She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her face resting upon the
backs of her hands.
“Ah, don’t I know that feeling,” she said; “one waits, one says,
‘Something is sure to happen soon.’ But it doesn’t, and one goes on
waiting. And one tries to run away, but one can’t escape from oneself.”
Their eyes met and there seemed to be no further need for words between
them. Roland’s thoughts traveled into spaces of vague and wistful
speculation. A profound melancholy consumed him, a melancholy that was
at the same time pleasant--a sugared sadness.
“What are you thinking of, Roland?” The use of his Christian name caused
no surprise to him; it was natural that she should address him so. He
answered her, his eyes looking into hers.
“I was thinking of how we spend our whole lives looking forward to
things and looking back to things and that in itself the thing is
nothing.”
She smiled at him. “So you’ve found that out too?” she said. Then she
laughed quickly. “But you mustn’t get mournful when you are with me.
You’ve all your life before you and you’re going to be frightfully
successful and frightfully happy. I shall so enjoy watching you. And now
I must really be rushing off. You’ve given me a most delightful time”;
and she began to gather up her gloves and the silk purse that hung by a
gold chain from her wrist.
Roland could do little work that afternoon; his thoughts wandered from
the ledger at his side and from the files of the financial news. And
that evening he was more acutely aware than usual of the uncolored
dreariness of his home. For him Beatrice was the composite vision of
that other world from which the course of his life was endeavoring to
lead him. She represented, for him, romance, adventure, the flower and
ecstasy of life.
But two days later he felt once again, as he leaned against the taffrail
to watch the English coast fade into a dim haze, that he was letting
drop from his shoulders the accumulated responsibilities of the past six
months. Did it matter then so much what happened to him over there
behind that low-lying bank of cloud if he could at any moment step out
of his captivity, relinquish his anxieties and enter a world that knew
nothing of April or of his parents, that accepted him on his own
valuation as a young man with agreeable manners and a comfortable
independence? Who that held the keys of his dungeon could be called a
prisoner?
PART III
THE FIRST ENCOUNTERS
CHAPTER XV
SUCCESS
He felt less certain of his freedom when he watched, three months later,
the white coast of England take visible shape on the horizon. He should
have been feeling very happy. He was returning to his friends, his home,
his girl. And he was returning with credit. He had not made, it is true,
large profits for the firm, but that had not been expected of him. He
had done what he had been told to do. He had established important
connections, made friends with two large business men, and,
incidentally, brought several thousand pounds’ worth of business to the
firm of Marston & Marston. He had done better than had been expected.
When he had written home and told Mr. Marston that M. Rocheville was
prepared to sign a contract for varnish on behalf of the Belgian
Government, Mr. Marston had dropped the letter on his desk and had sat
back in his chair amazed at this good fortune; and when, a fortnight
later, the news arrived of a possible combination with the German firm
of Haupsehr & Frohmann, Mr. Marston had jumped from his seat and walked
backwards and forwards, up and down the office. And for two days he
disconcerted his secretary by muttering in the middle of his dictation:
“Marvelous boy! marvelous boy!”
And he had been marvelous both in his fortune and in his audacity. He
had met M. Rocheville under circumstances of ridiculous improbability.
He was dining at a small restaurant in Antwerp; he had just ordered his
meal and had commenced his study of the wine list when he became
conscious of a commotion at the table on his left. There was a mingling
of voices, reproachful, importunate, and one in particular feebly
explanatory. Roland listened, and gathered from the torrent of words
that the owner of the feeble voice had lost his purse and was trying to
explain that he had friends in the town and would return and settle the
account on the next day. But the proprietor, from a long experience of
insolvent artists, actors, courtesans and other dwellers on the fringe
of respectability, demanded a more substantial guarantee than the card
which the subject of the misfortune was offering him.
“No, no,” he was saying, “it is not enough; you will leave me your watch
and that ring upon your second finger and you may go. Otherwise----” And
he shrugged his shoulders. To this the prosperous little gentleman, whom
an empty bucket beneath the table proved to have dined expensively,
would not agree. It was a personal affront, an insult to his name, and
he brandished his card in the face of the proprietor; it availed little,
and the intervention of the police was imminent when Roland heard the
name “Rocheville” flung suddenly like a spear among the waiters.
On the waiters it had no effect; they winked, nodded, smiled to one
another. They had heard that tale before. Many indignant customers had
flourished the trade-mark of their reputation. Had not a poet produced
once from his pocket the review of his latest book as a proof of his
nobility? To the waiters the word “Rocheville” meant nothing; to Roland
it meant much. The most important man in the Army Ordnance Department
was named Rocheville. He might not be the same man, of course, but it
was worth the experiment; certainly it was worth the loss of fifty
francs that he would charge to the firm as a “special expense.”
He rose from his seat and walked across to M. Rocheville.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I trust you will forgive me if I am
committing an impertinence, but from what I overheard I gathered that
you had lost your purse. If that is so, please allow me to lend you
whatever you may need to settle your account.”
“But, sir--no, really I couldn’t; it would be an unthinkable liberty.”
But Roland insisted. And having appeased the proprietor, who retired in
a profusion of bows, he turned again to meet M. Rocheville’s thanks.
“But it was nothing, sir, really it was nothing, and I could not endure
the sight of a gentleman being submitted to such an inconvenience.”
Monsieur Rocheville executed an elaborate bow.
“It is too kind of you, and if you will give me your address I will see
that a cheque is sent to you to-morrow.”
“But I’m afraid that I go to Brussels first thing to-morrow, and I am
not certain at which hotel I shall be stopping. But it does not matter.”
“But it does, of course it does,” M. Rocheville expostulated. “How shall
we manage it?”
For a moment he paused, his hand raised to his forehead, essentially,
Roland thought, the gesture of a bureaucrat.
“Yes, yes, I have it,” said M. Rocheville: “you will come back with me
to some friends of mine that live here and we will arrange it.”
“Well, then,” said Roland, “if that is so, will you not do me the honor
first of sitting at my table while I finish my meal and sharing a bottle
of wine with me?”
M. Rocheville had already drunk a full bottle of champagne, but he had
lived on perquisites for so long that he could not resist the temptation
of accepting any offer that put him under no pecuniary obligation. And,
besides, this was a confoundedly pleasant young man, who had saved him
from an undignified situation, and in whose company he would no doubt
pass agreeably a couple of hours.
“I should be delighted,” he said; “and do you know my name?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Roland.
With a slightly diffident flourish M. Rocheville handed his card to his
young companion. It was for this moment that Roland had arranged his
dramatic sequence. He examined the card carefully, then looked up with a
surprised, half-modest, half-excited expression on his face.
“You aren’t--you aren’t _the_ Monsieur Rocheville?”
A slow smile spread itself over the ample features of the bureaucrat. It
was a long time since his vanity had been so delicately tickled, and
after the insults he had received from the waiter this recognition of
his value was very pleasant.
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose I am.”
“The Monsieur Rocheville who manages the Ordnance administration?”
Roland persisted.
It was a sweetly sugared pill. To think that this young foreigner should
know all about him. He, himself, was perhaps more important than he had
been led to think--a prophet in his own country; but abroad, in
England, they estimated truly the value of his services. He was inclined
to agree with them; too much praise was given to the Generals and
Commanders of Army Corps. He always experienced a slight impatience when
he heard eulogies of the exploits of Malplaquet and Marshal Ney and
Turin. They had done the spectacular work. The light of popular approval
had to be focused somewhere, but that in itself proved nothing. Mankind
was an ass. Was not authority delegated? Was not the private soldier
less valuable than the colonel? Was not the colonel less valuable than
the general? In the same way might not the general be less valuable than
the organization which provided him with food, with cannons, with
rifles, with ammunition, and, as far as that went, with his army too?
The farther one was from the firing line the more important one became.
The organization, was it not himself? A sound line of argument. And he
sat back contentedly in the chair that Roland offered him and lifted the
glass that Roland had filled for him.
He raised it to the light, then gently, very gently advanced his lips to
it. He rolled the rich, heavy Volnay on his tongue. It was good. A
little shudder ran through his body. The wine had warmed him. He sat
back in his chair and smiled. It was good to be appreciated. And Roland
in this respect accommodated him to the full. By the time Roland had
finished his dinner the old man was in a state of maudlin self-pity and
self-complacency. “I am not understood”; that was the burden of his
complaint.
And then, very carefully, very gently, Roland introduced his own
subject--the sale of varnish. Monsieur Rocheville lamented the
inferiority of the Belgian species. It would not polish and it was so
dear. But what would you! The Belgians were interested only in husbandry
and food and wantonness. Monsieur Rocheville’s eyes glistened as he
brought out the word, and in another minute Roland would have been
forced to attend to a recital of the Rocheville enterprises in the lists
of gallantry; this, however, he evaded. If varnish in Belgium was so
dear, why did he not send for it elsewhere--to Germany, or France, or
Italy? He had heard there was very good varnish to be obtained in Italy.
And when M. Rocheville advanced the theory that one should encourage
national industries, Roland persuaded him that there was nothing that
could better encourage the Belgian varnish industry than a removal of
the Government’s patronage.
“If they think they are certain of your custom they won’t work. Why
should they? Commerce is competition. You stimulate competition and
you’ll find your industry is a hundred per cent more healthy in five
years’ time than it will be if you let it go on on the old lines: buying
dear and buying bad.” M. Rocheville agreed. How true it all was and how
clearly this young man understood it--a delightful young man, on the
whole the most delightful young man he had ever met. It was a pity that
he insisted on talking about varnish all the time. There were so many
much more interesting things that they could have found to discuss
together. Still, it was all very warm and nice and comfortable.
Looking back the next day, and trying to reconstruct the sequence of
their conversation, M. Rocheville found it impossible to recall the
exact moment at which Roland had stated his interest in Marston &
Marston’s varnish and made his proposal that the Belgian Government
would do well in the future to deal with his firm direct. As far as he
could remember, there had been no such exact statement in so many words.
They had discussed varnish from every point of view--from the
international standpoint, from the financier’s standpoint; they had even
touched on the vexed question of retail business, and also the
refractory behavior of trade unions. They had discussed varnish indeed
so thoroughly that it was impossible to recall what had, and what had
not, been said. One thing alone M. Rocheville could recall with painful
distinctness--that there had come a point in the conversation when he
had realized that this engaging young man was offering to sell him a
very large quantity of varnish--good varnish--better than the Belgian
firms could supply and at the same price. There was no question of buyer
or seller, no bargaining, no haggling. It was altogether different from
his usual harsh business interviews, that were so distressing to a man
of taste. In the same way that this young man had rendered him
assistance in that trying altercation with the proprietor, so did he now
in this matter of varnish lay his undoubted talents and experience at
his disposal. It was a charming, friendly action, and the young man was
so business-like. He had produced from his pocket a printed contract in
which he had made certain alterations “between friends,” he had called
it, the cancellation of two or three small clauses; he had spread the
document on the table for him to sign. He had then given M. Rocheville a
similar agreement signed by his firm, and he had then ordered another
glass of Benedictine, and the conversation turned from varnish into more
intimate channels. He could not remember about what he had talked, but
he felt that, at such an hour, their comments on whatever topic they
had chosen to discuss must have been profound. In describing the
occasion to a friend he waved a hand vaguely: “For two hours, he and I,
we talked of life.”
Then they had visited a M. Villeneuve to settle the matter of the loan.
Roland had demurred, but M. Rocheville had insisted. And this part of
the evening, owing to the sudden change of air, he could recall more
clearly. Monsieur Villeneuve was in bed when they arrived and did not
extend to him a very cordial welcome. But the loan was at last
successfully negotiated, and Roland then discovered that in five hours’
time he would have to catch a train and that it would be agreeable to
spend those five hours in sleep. But M. Rocheville was very loath to
part with him. For a long while he stood in the porch and, as far as
Roland could discern any clear intention behind his confused utterances,
appeared to be suggesting that Roland should still further trespass on
the hospitality of M. Villeneuve.
“Then, perhaps, if you cannot do that,” M. Rocheville persisted, “you
will come and spend a week-end with me before you return. You have my
card. I have a nice house in Brussels, very quiet and comfortable. I am
not married.”
But Roland had reminded him that he was very busy, and that he did not
know if he would have time, but that he would certainly try to arrange a
lunch at their next visit.
“And in the meantime I will see that you get that varnish.”
“Ah! that varnish,” said M. Rocheville. And observing that he was now
standing alone in the porch, with no one to whom he might address his
profound reflections upon the mortality of man, he walked slowly
towards the gate, a little puzzled by Roland’s conduct and by his own.
“A delightful young man,” he said, then paused as though he must qualify
this estimate, but his Latin cynicism saved him. “Well, well,” he said,
“an agreeable interlude.”
That was Roland’s first triumph, and the other, if less adroitly
stage-managed, was more audacious, and owed its success to skill quite
as much as to good fortune.
Haupsehr & Frohmann directed one of the largest polish factories in the
south of Germany; they supplied, indeed, practically the whole of the
Rhineland with their goods, and Roland had considered that a meeting
between them might prove profitable. He found, however, that it was
impossible to obtain an interview with either Herr Haupsehr or Herr
Frohmann. “They will not look at English goods.” That was what everyone
told him, and a carefully worded request for an interview that he
addressed to the head of the firm was answered by return of post with a
bald statement that Herren Haupsehr and Frohmann did not consider a
personal interview would further the interests of either Mr. Roland
Whately, representative of Marston & Marston, or of themselves. And
Roland was thus driven to the reluctant conclusion that his advisers
were correct. If he were to effect an introduction it would have to be
done by guile.
He awaited his opportunity, and the opportunity came to him in the
passport office. He had gone to fulfill some trifling by-law concerning
the registration of aliens. For a long time he had sat in a draughty
corridor, and then for a long time he had stood beside a desk while a
busy bureaucrat attended to someone else’s business, and when at last
he had succeeded in making his application a bell rang in the next room,
and without an apology his interlocutor rose from his chair and hurried
to the next room.
“How terrified they are of their chiefs,” Roland thought. He had by now
become accustomed to the trepidation of officials. How typical was that
desk of the words that were written and the sentences framed at it;
precise, firm, tabulated and impersonal: the plain brass inkstand, with
red and black ink-pots; the two pens, the blotter, the calendar, the
letter files, the box for memoranda; and the mind of that fussy little
official was exactly like his desk, and, leaning over, Roland tried to
see to whom the letter on the blotter was addressed.
As he did so, his eye fell on a slip of pasteboard that had been put
behind the inkstand. It was a calling card, the calling card of a Herr
Brumenhein, and on the top, in handwriting, was inscribed the words: “To
introduce bearer.” The name Brumenhein was familiar to Roland, though in
what connection he could not recall. At any rate, the fact that he
recollected the name at all proved that it was the appendage of an
important person, and as it was always useful to possess the means of
being introduced under the auspices of a celebrity, Roland picked up the
card and placed it in his pocketbook.
When he returned to the hotel he made inquiries about the unknown
patron, and learned that Herr Brumenhein was a very distinguished
Prussian minister, and one who was honored by the confidence of the
Crown Prince. “He will be a great man one day,” said the hotel
proprietor.
“As great as Griegenbach?”
“Who knows?--perhaps, and it is said the Crown Prince is not too fond of
Griegenbach.”
And then Roland’s informant proceeded to enlarge on the exaggerated
opinion Griegenbach had held of his own value since his successful
Balkan diplomacy. “He thinks he is indispensable and he makes a great
mistake. No one is indispensable. The post of minister is more important
than the man who fills it.”
Roland, of course, agreed; he always agreed with people. It was thus
that he had earned the reputation of being good company, and at this
moment, even if he had held contrary opinions as to the relations of the
moment and the man, he would have been unable to develop them in an
argument. He was too busy wondering how best he could turn this
discovery to his advantage. And it was not long before the thought was
suggested to him that this card might very easily procure him the
desired interview with Herr Haupsehr. It was a risky game of course, but
then what wasn’t risky in high finance? It was quite possible that
Herren Haupsehr and Brumenhein were the oldest of friends, that awkward
questions would be asked and his deceit discovered. But, even if it was,
he could, at the worst, only be kicked downstairs, and that was an
indignity he could survive. It would destroy for ever the possibility of
any negotiations between himself and the German firm, but that, also,
was no serious drawback, for, as things were, there seemed little enough
prospect of opening an account. He could not see how he would be in any
the worse position were he to fail--whereas if he brought it off.... It
was a dazzling thought.
And so at eleven o’clock next morning Roland presented himself at the
entrance of Herr Haupsehr’s office. He asked no questions; he made no
respectful inquiry as to whether at that moment Herr Haupsehr was, or
was not, engaged. He assumed that whatever occupied that gentleman’s
attention would be instantly removed on the announcement that a friend
of Herr Brumenhein’s was in the building. Roland said nothing. He
flourished his card in the face of the young lady who stood behind the
door marked “Inquiries.”
“You wish to see Herr Haupsehr?”
Roland bowed, and the young lady disappeared. She returned within a
minute.
“If you will please to follow me, sir.”
He was conducted through the counting-house and into the main corridor,
up a flight of stairs, along another corridor, till they reached a door
marked “Private,” before which the young lady stopped. Roland made an
interrogatory gesture of the hand toward it.
“If you please, sir,” she said.
Roland did not knock at the door. He turned the handle and entered the
room with the gracious condescension of a general who is forced to visit
a company office. It was a large room, with a warm fire and easy chairs
and an old oak desk. But Herr Haupsehr was not sitting at his desk; he
had advanced into the center of the room, where he stood rubbing his
hands one against the other. Some men reach a high position through
truculence, others through subservience, and Herr Haupsehr belonged to
the second class. He was a little man with a bald head and with heavy
pouches underneath his eyes. He fidgeted nervously, and it was hard to
recognize in this obsequious figure the dictator of that letter of stern
refusal.
“Yes,” he said, “you are a friend of Herr Brumenhein?” In the eyes of
Herr Haupsehr had appeared annoyance and a slight distrust at the sight
of so young a visitor, but the sound of the magic name recalled him to
servility.
“Yes,” he repeated, “yes; and what is it that I may have the honor to do
for a friend of Herr Brumenhein?”
Roland made no immediate reply. He drew off his gloves slowly, finger by
finger, and placed them in the pockets of his great-coat, which garment
he then proceeded to remove and lay across the back of one of the
comfortable, deep arm-chairs. He then took out his pocket-book,
abstracted from it a card and handed it to Herr Haupsehr. So far he had
not spoken a word. Herr Haupsehr examined the card carefully, raising it
towards the light, for he was shortsighted, and found the unusual
English lettering trying to his eyes. He read out the words slowly: “Mr.
Roland Whately, Marston & Marston, Ltd.” He stretched his head
backwards, so that his gaze was directed towards the ceiling. “Mr.
Roland Whately, Marston & Marston, Ltd....” The name was familiar, but
how and in what connection? There were so many names. He shook his head.
He could not remember, but it did not matter. Roland had watched him
anxiously; he had mistrusted that gaze towards the ceiling, and it was a
big relief when Herr Haupsehr stretched out his hand and indicated one
of the large arm-chairs--“And what is it that I can do for you?”
Roland then began to outline the scheme that had suggested itself to
him. The scheme was to the advantage of the German as well as to
himself. Haupsehr & Frohmann were the biggest dealers in polish in South
Germany. That was granted. But there were rivals, very dangerous rivals,
the more dangerous because they were specialists, each of them, in one
particular line of polish, and a specialist was always better, if more
expensive, than a general dealer. Now what Roland suggested was that
Haupsehr should devote his attention solely to metal polish, should
become specialists in a large sense, and that he should rely for the
varnish solely on Marston & Marston.
“Don’t worry about varnish,” Roland said: “we’ll let you have it a lot
cheaper than these rivals of yours can produce it at. There won’t be
much actual profit in it for you, not directly, but it will allow you to
put all your capital into the metal polish and, by smashing your rivals,
it’ll leave you with a clear market.”
The German considered the plan. It was a good one, he could see its
advantages. He would be trading, of course, with a nation for which he
had no great affection, but, even so, Herr Brumenhein apparently thought
well of it.
“Oh, yes, he thought it a capital idea,” said Roland. “He’s most anxious
to see trade alliance between Great Britain and Germany. He’s so afraid
there may be ill-feeling. I told him that that was, of course, absurd,
but still----”
“Yes, yes,” said Herr Haupsehr, “I see, of course; but there are
difficulties, grave difficulties.”
Roland could see that he was beginning to waver, that he was anxious to
postpone his decision, and that would, of course, be fatal. Roland had
learned early that when a man says to you: “Look here, I can’t decide
now, but I’ll write and let you know in a day or two,” he has already
decided against you. And so Roland played Herr Brumenhein for all he was
worth. Having discovered that Herr Haupsehr had never met the great man,
Roland felt himself at liberty to tell his story as amply as possible.
“But you should meet him,” he said; “a most charming companion. He
comes over and stays with us nearly every summer.”
“Really! Every summer?”
“Oh, yes, nearly always. And he’s the coming man, of course. Not a doubt
of it. Griegenbach’s day is done.”
Herr Haupsehr affected surprise. He respected every minister till he was
out of office.
“Oh, yes, not a doubt of it. He thinks he’s more important than his
job--a big mistake. A minister’s post is more important than the man who
fills it.”
With that Herr Haupsehr agreed. Himself had revered authority all his
life. This young man showed considerable sagacity. The job was bigger,
always bigger, than the man.
“Yes, he’s the coming man,” Roland went on; “we can see it more clearly
over in England perhaps than you can over here. If I were a German I
would back Herr Brumenhein with every bit of influence I possessed.”
And, indeed, so admirably did he present the future greatness of Herr
Brumenhein that Herr Haupsehr got the impression that he had only to
agree to these varnish proposals to be offered an important post in the
ministry. It was not stated in so many words, but that was the
suggestion. And, in the end, preliminary arrangements were drawn up and
a contract signed. Herr Haupsehr showed Roland to the door with intense
civility.
“And I was wondering,” he said, “do you think it would be altogether
wise if I were to write personally to Herr Brumenhein and tell him that
I have met you and agreed to your plan? Would it be wise?” And he stood
nervously fidgeting from one foot to the other--the eternal sycophant.
Roland scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then, after a moment’s
deliberation:
“No,” he said. “On the whole, no. I don’t think it would be wise. Herr
Brumenhein is very busy. I think it would be better to wait till he
visits us again in England and I shall tell him----”
“You will tell him all about me and my willingness, yes?”
“Of course, of course.”
“You are too kind, sir; too kind.”
“Aufwiedersehn.”
“Aufwiedersehn.”
Hands were shaken, the door closed, and Roland was in the passage, the
contract safe in his breast pocket.
With two such feats accomplished Roland should certainly have been
returning home with a light heart. He would be praised and made much of.
For at least a fortnight conversation would center round his exploits.
His return was that of a general entering his city after a successful
battle--a Roman triumph. But for all that he was dispirited. On his
journey out he had experienced the exhilaration of freedom, and on his
return he was obsessed by the gloom of impending captivity. To what,
after all, was he coming back?--worries, responsibilities, the continual
clash of temperaments. How fine had been the independent life of
vagabondage that he had just left, where he could do what he liked, go
where he liked, be bound to no one. There had been a time when the
sights and noises of London had been inexpressibly dear to him. His
heart had beaten fast with rapture on his return from Fernhurst, when he
had watched the green fields vanish beneath that sable shroud of roofs
and chimney-stacks. But now there was no magic for him in the great
city through which he was being so swiftly driven. Autumn had passed to
winter; the plane-trees were bare; dusk was falling; the lamp-lighter
had begun his rounds. For many it was a moment of hushed wonderment, of
peace and benediction, but Roland stirred irritably in the corner of his
cab, and there was no pleasure for him in the effusive welcome his
mother accorded him. He did his best to respond to it, but it was a
failure, and she noticed it.
“What’s the matter, darling? Wasn’t it a success? Didn’t you do well
over there?”
And behind her evident anxiety Roland detected, or fancied that he could
detect, the suggestion of a hope that he had not done so well as he had
expected to do.
“She would like to have comforted me,” he thought. “Her husband has been
a failure; he has had to depend upon her and so she has kept his love.
She would like me to be the same.” And this attitude, although he could
understand it, exasperated him. He was aware that through his new
friends he had become alienated from her, that she must be lonely now.
But what would you? Life went that way.
They had tea together, and though Roland spoke amusingly and with
animation about his experiences abroad, their talk was not intimate as
it had been. There was nothing said behind and apart from their actual
words, and Mrs. Whately imagined that he was impatient to see April.
As soon as they had finished tea she suggested that he should go round
to her.
“I’m sure you must be longing to see her.”
And when he had gone, she sat for a little while in front of the
unwashed tea things, thinking how hard it was that a mother should have
to yield her son to another woman.
She need not have. Roland, at the moment when she was thinking of him
with melancholy regret, was far from being “dissolved in pleasure and
soft repose.” He was sitting, as he had so often sat before, on the
chair beside the window-seat, in which April was forlornly curled, while
Mrs. Curtis expressed, to complete his depression, her opinion on the
economic situation in Europe. Soon she abandoned these matters of high
finance and reverted to simple matters of to-day--namely, her son and
her daughter. It was “dear April” and “dear Arthur”; and Roland was
reminded vividly of a bawdy house in Brussels and the old woman who had
sat beside the fire, exhibiting her wares. That was what Mrs. Curtis was
at heart. He could see her two thousand years earlier administering in
some previous existence to the lusts of Roman soldiery: “Yes, a dear
girl, Flavia; and Julia, she’s nice; and if you like them plump Portia’s
a dear, sweet girl--so loving. Dacius Cassius said to me only
yesterday....” Yes, that was what she was, and beneath her
sentimentality how cold, how hard, how merciless, like that woman in
Brussels who had taken eighty per cent of the girls’ money. He was
continuing to draw comparisons with a vindictive pleasure when he
observed that she was collecting her knitting preparatory to a move.
“But I know you two’ll want to be together. I won’t be a troublesome
chaperon,” she was saying; “I’ll get out of your way. I expect you’ve
lots to say to each other.”
And before Roland quite knew what was happening he was alone with April.
He turned towards her, and as her eyes met his she blushed a little and
smiled, a shy, wavering smile that said: “I am here; take me if you
want me, I am yours”--a smile that would have been to anyone else
indescribably beautiful, but that to Roland, at that moment, appeared
childish and absurd. He did not know what to say. He was in no mood for
protestations and endearments. He could not act a lie. There was an
embarrassing pause. April turned her face away from him. He said
nothing, he did nothing. And then very distinctly, very slowly, like a
child repeating a lesson:
“Did you have a good crossing?” The tension was broken; he began to talk
quickly, eagerly, inconsequently--anything to prevent another such
moment. And then Mrs. Curtis came back and the conversation was
monopolized, till Roland reminded her that it was seven o’clock and that
he would have to be getting back.
“I haven’t seen my father yet.”
“Of course, of course. We mustn’t keep him, must we, April?”
Roland took his leave, but April did not, as was usual, follow him to
the door. She remained huddled in the window-seat, and did not even turn
her head in his direction. She was angry with him, and no doubt with
good cause, he reflected; but Mrs. Curtis had gone so suddenly; he had
been taken off his guard. Heavens! but what a home-coming!
He felt happier though next morning when he walked into the office of
Marston & Marston. Everyone was pleased to see him back; the girls in
the counting-house smiled at him. He was informed by the lift-boy that
his cricket had been sadly missed during the latter half of the season,
and Mr. Stevens literally leaped from his desk to shake him by the hand.
It was ripping to see Gerald again, to come into his room and hear that
quietly drawled: “Well, old son,” and resume, as he had left it, their
old friendship.
“The governor’s awfully pleased with you,” said Gerald, “never seen the
old boy so excited over anything before. He’s been talking about nothing
else. He keeps on saying: ‘The fellow who can make fifty runs in half an
hour can run a business.’ But I’m damned if I know how you did it. I’ve
gone over there with carefully prepared introductions and had a chat
with a few johnnies, but you seem to have gone pirating about, holding
up Government officials and boosting into financiers’ offices. How’s it
done?”
Roland laughed.
“That’s my secret.”
“You are welcome to it,” said Gerald; “and tell me, did you have any
real adventures?”
“One or two.”
“Where? Good ones?”
“Not bad. Brussels, the usual place.”
Gerald shook his head. “You should give it up, old son, it isn’t worth
it.”
Roland laughed. “I like your talking! Why, I never knew such a fellow as
you for women.”
“For women, yes, but not professionals.”
“That’s much worse.”
But Gerald shook his head. “No, it isn’t, my son. No man ever got any
good yet out of going with professionals.”
But before Roland had had time to elucidate this riddle Mr. Marston had
entered the room. He took Roland’s hand in his and shook it heartily.
“This is splendid, my dear fellow, splendid! They told me you’d come
back and I knew where I should find you. It’s good to have you back, and
you’ve done splendidly--far better, I don’t mind telling you, than any
of us expected. We all looked on this as a sort of trial. But, my word,
you’ve brought it off.”
“I’ve been telling him, father, that you’ve been going round London
saying that the man who can make fifty runs in half an hour is sure to
be able to run a business.”
“And it’s true,” said Mr. Marston, “it’s true. If a man’s got the pluck
to face a ticklish situation at cricket, he can do anything. Business is
only bluff, like cricket, making the bowler think you’re set when you’re
really expecting every ball will be your last. If I’ve said it to Gerald
once I’ve said it fifty times. ‘My boy,’ I’ve said, ‘if you don’t do
another stroke of work in your life you’ll be worth a salary of five
hundred pounds a year for having brought young Whately to us.’ Now come
along and let’s go over those accounts.”
They spent over an hour together, and at the end of it Mr. Marston rose
from his desk perfectly satisfied.
“As far as I can see you haven’t made a slip. It’s first class
absolutely. Now, you run along to Perkins and settle up your personal
accounts with him, and then we’ll go out and have lunch somewhere
together, the three of us, and you can spend the afternoon at home. I
daresay your girl’s been missing you.”
“I haven’t got a girl, sir.”
“What! a young fellow like you not got a girl! We shall have to see
about that. Why, at your age I seem to remember....” And the old man
winked his eye and chuckled gayly.
Perkins received Roland with considerable politeness, mingled for the
first time with respect, also, Roland suspected, with a more deep
dislike.
“Well, so you’re back, are you? And they all tell me you’ve been doing
great things--interviewing Government officials.”
“I’ve had a bit of luck.”
“Useful luck?”
“I suppose so.”
“And now you want me to have a look at the accounts?”
“That’s it.”
“Right; bring them along.”
Roland laid out his personal accounts, his hotel bills, his railway
fares, his entertaining expenses.
“And, as far as I can see,” he said, “there’s a balance of about
thirteen pounds in your favor.”
“We’ll have a look and see,” said Mr. Perkins, and he began to
scrutinize the accounts carefully, adding up every bill, and checking
the amount of the German balance-sheet. Roland had taken a great deal of
trouble over these accounts. He would not have minded making a few slips
in the figures he had placed before Mr. Marston, but he was desperately
anxious to present no weak spots to Perkins.
“Yes, yes,” said Perkins, “these seem to be all right, and there’s a
balance, as you say, of thirteen pounds, five and threepence.”
“Right,” said Roland, and began to count out the money.
“Yes, but as far as I can see, there aren’t any--well, how shall I put
it?--any special expense accounts here. I usually let one or two of them
through all right.”
“No, I’ve stated what all my charges are for.”
“Well, then, aren’t there one or two little things? Usually you young
gentlemen like to have a few extras put down.” And his face, that was
turned to Roland’s, assumed a cunning, knowing smile, an unpleasant
smile, the smile of a man in a subservient position who enjoys the
privilege of being able to confer a favor on his superior, and at the
same time despises his superior for asking it. Roland had known that it
was in exactly this way that Perkins would offer to slip through a
special expense account. He knew that by accepting this offer he would
place himself eternally in Perkins’s debt. That, as in Gerald’s case,
there would be between them an acknowledged confederacy. This he would
never have. He had, as a matter of fact, incurred very few of the
special expenses to which Perkins referred. He had worked hard; he had
been alone. Solitary indulgence is never very exciting; one wants
companionship, as in everything, and so he had confined his excesses to
a couple of visits to a discreet establishment in Brussels, of which he
had decided to defray the cost himself.
He was able, therefore, to meet Perkins’s leer with a look of puzzled
interrogation.
“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Perkins. I think you’ve all my accounts
there, and I owe you thirteen pounds, five shillings and threepence;
perhaps you’ll give me a receipt.”
In the look that they exchanged as Mr. Perkins respectfully handed
Roland the receipt, each recognized the beginning of a long antagonism.
“Thanks very much, Mr. Perkins.”
Roland walked out of the room jauntily. He had had the best of the first
skirmish.
This victory put him on excellent terms with himself, and, later, a
bottle of excellent Burgundy at lunch wooed him to so kindly a sympathy
for his fellow-beings that any leader of advanced political opinions
would have found him an easy victim to any theory of world-brotherhood.
As, however, no harbinger of the new world accosted him on his way from
the City to Charing Cross Station, Roland was free to focus his entire
sympathy upon the forlorn figure of April. He thought of her suddenly
just outside Terry’s Theater, and the remembrance of his behavior to her
on the night before caused him to collide violently with an elderly
gentleman who was walking in the opposite direction. But he did not stop
to apologize; his sentimentality held a minor to his guilt. What a
selfish beast he had been. How miserable he must have made her. She must
have so looked forward to his return. He had hardly written to her while
he had been away. Poor little April, so sweet, so gentle. A wave of
tenderness for her consumed him. They had shared so much together; he
had confided in her his hopes and his ambitions. He worked himself into
a temper of self-abasement. He must go to her at once and beg
forgiveness.
He found her sitting in the arm-chair before the fire. She raised her
eyes in mild amazement, surprised that he should visit her at such a
time. She did not know how she should comport herself. Her dignity told
her that she should rise and receive him coldly, but her instinct
counseled her to remain seated and hear what he had to say. She obeyed
her instinct. Roland flung his hat and stick on the cushioned
window-seat and precipitated himself at her feet. She tried to push him
away, but his voice murmuring the word “darling” overmastered her, and
she let him put his arms round her and draw her head upon his shoulder.
“I feel such a beast, April, such a beast. All the day I have been
cursing myself and wondering what on earth possessed me. I don’t know
what it was. But all the time I’ve been away I’ve been so looking
forward to seeing you again. When I was all alone and unhappy I said to
myself: ‘Never mind, April’s waiting,’ and I thought how wonderful to
see you again, and then---- Oh, I don’t know, but when I came here last
night and found your mother here--I don’t know! All the time I was dying
to speak to you, and she would go on talking, and I got more and more
annoyed. And then, I don’t know how it happened, but I found myself
getting angry with you because of your mother.”
“But you mustn’t, Roland, really you mustn’t. You shouldn’t speak of
mother like that; you know how good she’s been to us.”
“Oh, yes, I know it, of course I do. But can’t you see what it was like
last night for me coming back to you, and wanting you, and then to hear
only your mother; and by the time she left us alone I had got so bad
tempered that----”
“Yes, you weren’t very nice, were you?”
And he had begun to pour out a further torrent of explanation when he
saw that a sly, mischievous smile was playing round the corners of her
mouth and that she was no longer angry.
“Then you’ll forgive me?” he said.
“But I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, but you have, haven’t you? I know you have.”
She began to remonstrate, to say that she had not forgiven him, that he
had been most unkind to her, but she made no resistance when his hand
slipped slowly round her neck and turned her face to his. And as he
raised it, she pouted ever so slightly her lips toward those that sank
to meet them. As their mouths met she passed one hand behind his head
and pressed it down to her. It was a long embrace, and when she drew
back from it, the luster of her eyes had grown dimmed and misty.
“You’ve never kissed me like that before,” she said.
“Perhaps I’ve never really loved you before.”
“Oh, but I should hate to think that.”
“But why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m silly, but if you only love me now, then
before--oh, it doesn’t matter, you love me now, don’t you?”
And he answered her in the only possible way.
One hour they had together, an hour of rich enchantment. The blinds were
drawn, the lamp unlighted; she sat on the floor with the firelight
playing over her, leaned back against him while he told her of Bruges
and its waterways, the proud boulevards of Brussels, the great cathedral
at Köln, the noble sweep of the Rhine and the hills on either side of
it. She followed little of what he said to her; it was enough for her,
after three long months, to be soothed by his presence, to hear his
voice, to hold his hand in hers, and to feel from time to time his
breath grow warm upon her neck and cheek as he bent to kiss her. It was
the tenderest hour their love had brought to them.
But for Roland it was followed by a reaction. He felt, in a confused
manner, that he had been playing a part, that he had said what was but
half true. He had certainly been exasperated by Mrs. Curtis’s
conversation, but it was her talk, the supreme futility of her talk,
that had exasperated him. It had annoyed him in itself and not as being
a barrier between himself and April. He had told a lie.
And it was not for the first time, he reminded himself. Half lies had
been an essential part of their love-making. At every crisis of their
relationship he had tampered with the truth. He had told her he had only
made love to Dolly because she had rejected him that evening at the
ball. He had told her that it was her belief in him that had inspired
his success at Hogstead. He had mistaken the fraction for the whole.
Were they never to meet on terms of common honesty? What was their love
worth if it had to live on lies?
He returned home to find the drawing-room fire almost out.
“Will these servants never do their work?” he grumbled.
That evening the soup plates happened to be cold and the joint overdone.
“It gets worse every day,” he said. “I don’t know what that girl thinks
she’s paid for. She never does anything right.”
And when he went upstairs to turn on a bath he discovered that all the
hot water had been used in washing up the plates. He returned to the
drawing-room in a fury of impatience.
“I do wish, mother,” he said, “that you’d explain to Lizzie that there’s
no need for her to wash herself as well as the plates in that sink of
hers.”
“And I wish you wouldn’t grumble the whole time, Roland,” his mother
retorted. “Lizzie’s got a great deal to do. She has to do the cooking as
well as the housework. I think that, on the whole, she manages very
well.”
“I am glad you think so,” said Roland, and walked out of the room.
Next morning he found on his plate a letter from Mrs. Marston, inviting
him down for the week-end.
“It seems such a long time since that cricket week,” she wrote, “and we
all want to congratulate you on your splendid work. So do come.”
He handed the letter across to his mother.
She raised her eyebrows interrogatively.
“Well, dear?”
“Of course I shall go.”
She did not answer him, and he read in her silence a disapproval.
“You don’t want me to,” he said.
“I don’t mind, dear. It’s for you to decide.”
“But you’d rather I didn’t?”
“Well, dear, I was only thinking that as you’ve been away from us for
three months, and....”
“Yes, mother, and what?”
“Well, dear, to go away, the very first week-end.”
“But you’ll be seeing lots of me all the week.”
“I wasn’t thinking of us, though of course we like to have you here. It
was April; don’t you think it might rather hurt her feelings?”
“Oh, bother April!”
“But, dear....”
“I know, mother, but it’s April this and April that; it’s nothing but
April.”
His mother raised to him a surprised, grieved face, but she made no
answer, and Roland, standing beside the table, experienced the sensation
of an anxious actor who has finished his speech in the middle of the
stage and does not know how to reach the wings.
“You see, mother,” he began, but she raised a hand to stop him.
“No, dear, don’t explain: I understand.”
He cursed himself, as he walked to the bus, for his ill-temper. What a
beast he was--first to April, then to his mother; the two people for
whom he cared most in the world. What was wrong? Why was he behaving
like this? It had not been always so. At school he had had a reputation
for good-naturedness--“a social lubricant,” someone had called him--and
at Hogstead he was still the same, cheerful, good-humored, willing to do
anything for anyone else. He became his old self in the company of
Gerald and his father and the light-hearted, irresponsible Muriel. It
was only at Hammerton that he was irritable and quick to take offense.
His ill-humor fell away from him, however, the moment that he reached
the office.
“Well, old son,” said Gerald, “and did you get a letter from the mater
this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re coming?”
“Well, I don’t know yet.”
“Oh, but of course you are. They’ll all be fearfully annoyed if you
don’t, especially Muriel----”
“Muriel! Why, what did she say?”
“Nothing particular as far as I remember, but she seemed frightfully
keen. She says you’re the only one of my friends she’s any use for. She
finds them too stuck up--middle-aged at twenty she calls them. So you’ll
have to come.”
“I suppose I shall.”
“Of course you will. Sit down and write a note this minute, so that
there’s no chance of your thinking better.”
When Roland returned home that night his mother made no reference to the
scene at the breakfast table. They spoke at dinner of indifferent
things, politics and personalities; but there was a brooding atmosphere
of disquiet. Not until nearly bedtime did Roland announce his intention
of going down to Hogstead. His mother’s reply expressed neither
reproach nor disappointment.
“Yes, dear,” she said; “well, I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.”
And just because her voice was even and unchallenging, Roland felt that
he had to give some explanation.
“You see, mother, Mr. Marston is, after all, my boss, and these
visits--well, they’re rather a royal command. They’d be a bit annoyed if
I didn’t go.”
“Of course, dear, of course. We only want you to do what you think
best.”
But he knew that she was disappointed. She was right, too. He supposed
he ought really to have stayed at home and gone for a walk with April.
He felt guilty in his attitude towards April, guilty and, in a way,
resentful, resentful against these repeated demands on his time and
energy, against this assumption of an unflagging passion, an eternal
intoxication. And yet he did feel guilty. Was he treating her as a boy
ought to treat his girl? How rarely, for example, had he ever taken her
anywhere. Ah, well, that at least he could remedy.
Next day, during his lunch hour, he went round to the box office of the
Adelphi and bought three stalls for Thursday night. He returned home
with the happy air of one that carries a delightful surprise in his
pocket.
“Mother,” he said, “what are you doing on Thursday night?”
“Nothing, dear, as far as I know.”
“Well, would you like to come out somewhere with me?”
“You know I always like to go out anywhere with you.”
“And April?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Well, then, what do you say to a dinner in Soho and the Adelphi
afterwards?”
“But, dear--oh, you don’t mean it?”
“Yes, I do, mother. I wanted to celebrate my return, so I got the three
seats. I’ve booked the table, and there we are.”
Her face flushed with pleasure.
“Oh, but you shouldn’t have, really you shouldn’t, and you don’t want
me.”
“Of course we do, mother, and anyhow we could hardly go alone.”
“And have you told April?”
“No, I’m just off to tell her.”
He bent down, kissed her, then straightened himself and ran out of the
room. She heard his footsteps clatter on the stairs, then move about in
the bedroom above her, and then once more clatter on the stairs. She
sighed, her eyes dimming a little, but glad, inexpressibly glad, that he
should still need her in his happiness.
Roland found April alone.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said.
“What is it?”
“What do you think?”
“A box of chocolates.”
“Do you want a box of chocolates?”
“I should like one.”
“Right! Then I’ll go and get you one.” And he turned towards the door,
but she ran after him and caught him by the sleeve of his coat.
“Don’t be silly,” she said; “come back!”
“But you said you wanted a box of chocolates.”
“But I want to know what your surprise is first?”
“Well, then, have a look in my pockets and see if you can find it.”
She put both her hands in his coat pockets, and quickly, before she knew
what he was doing, his arms were round her, and he had drawn her close
to him. Her hands were prisoners in his pockets and she was powerless.
Slowly he put his face to hers and kissed her.
“That’s not fair,” she said.
“It’s very nice.”
“I daresay, but I want to know what your surprise is?”
For answer he placed the envelope in her hand; she looked puzzled, but
when she had opened it she gave a little cry of delight.
“Oh, Roland, how dear of you!”
“Then you’ll come?”
“Of course. Oh, Roland, dear! It’s years since I went to a theater. I
shall love it.”
He was delighted with the success of his plan. He felt happy and
confident. How pretty, how charming April was; how much he was in love
with her. He took her on his knee and insisted on rearranging her hair.
“But you’re only making it worse, Roland,” she complained.
“Oh, no, I’m not; I’m getting on splendidly. You just wait and see,” and
he continued to stroke her hair, dividing it so that he could kiss her
neck.
“It’s in an awful state,” she said, “and someone is sure to come before
I can tidy it.”
“Don’t you worry,” he said, drawing his fingers along the curved roll of
hair. And then suddenly it all came down; the long tresses fell in a
cascade about them, covering them in a fine brown net.
“Oh, you beast, you beast!” she said, struggling to get up.
But he held her close.
“Oh, no; it’s ripping like that. You look lovely.”
“Do I?”
“And, look, I can kiss you through your hair,” and he drew a thin curl
across her mouth and laid his upon it, moving his lips slightly up and
down till he had drawn the hair into their mouths and their lips could
meet.
“But you did it on purpose, I’m sure you did. It couldn’t have happened
like that of its own, all of a sudden.”
“Well, what if it didn’t! You look simply ripping.”
She laughed happily, hiding her face upon his shoulder.
“It’s very wrong of you, though.”
“What! wrong to make you look pretty!”
And she could not refrain from kissing him.
“What would mother say?”
“She’s out.”
“But if she came in?”
“She won’t.”
“Well, at any rate, I shall have to go and put it up.”
“No, please don’t.”
“But suppose someone comes in?”
“They won’t. And besides, if they did, they ought to think themselves
jolly lucky; you look simply lovely!”
“Do I?” The words came in a soft whisper from lips almost touching his.
“As always.” The hand that lay in his pressed tightly. “You’ll stay like
that, won’t you?”
“If you’re good.”
“Darling!”
He did not tell her about the dinner. He suggested that he should call
for her at six, and she was too excited at the time to take into account
so material a consideration as food. But her eyes sparkled with pleasure
when he took her into the little Soho restaurant where he had booked a
table. She had never been in such a place before and her delight in the
unfamiliar room and food was joy to Roland. For her it was a place of
mystery and enchantment. She asked him hurried, excited questions: What
sort of people came here? Did he think the lady in the corner was an
actress? Who had painted the brightly colored fresco? He persuaded her
to take half a glass of wine; she sipped at it in a fascinating, nervous
manner, with little pecks, as though she thought it were going to burn
her, and between each sip she would smile at Roland over the rim of the
wine glass. As she sat she flung to left and right quick, eager glances
at the waiter, the hangings, the occupants of the other tables. Her
excitement charmed Roland. It was like seeing a child play with a new
toy. In a way, too, it was an excitant to his vanity, a tribute to his
manhood, to his superior knowledge of the world. And in the theater,
when the light was turned out, he sat close to her and held her hand
tightly at the moments of dramatic tension; and when she marveled at the
beauty of the heroine he whispered in her ear: “Nothing like as pretty
as you are!” And Mrs. Whately, sitting on the other side of Roland,
glanced at them from time to time with a kind indulgence, remembering
her youth, and her early love-making. It was a memorably happy evening.
When Roland walked back with April and kissed her good-night in the
doorway she said nothing, but her hand clenched tightly on the lapel of
his coat. And when he returned home he saw in his mother’s eye an
expression of love and gratitude that had not been there for a long
while.
He walked upstairs in a mood of deep contentment. After he had undressed
he stood for a moment at the open window, looking out over the roofs and
chimney stacks of London. Behind a few window panes glowed the faint
light of a candle or a lamp, but the majority of the houses were
obscured in darkness. Hammerton was asleep. But the confused murmur of
traffic and the faint red glow in the sky reminded him that the true
London, the London that he loved, was only now waking to a night of
pleasure. Ah, well, to-morrow he would be at Hogstead. He flung back his
arms with the proud relief of one who has fulfilled his obligations and
is at liberty to take his own enjoyment.
CHAPTER XVI
LILITH AND MURIEL
Roland was in the true holiday mood as he stepped into the afternoon
train to Hogstead. He had before him the prospect of sixty hours of real
happiness. He would be made much of, he would be congratulated, he would
be able, on occasions, to lead the conversation. It was no small feat
that he had accomplished. He had won the appreciation of a family that
was satisfied with itself and was inclined to regard its own
achievements as the summit of human ability and ambition. It had been
simple in comparison to make an impression on April--a dinner in a Soho
restaurant. Muriel and Beatrice would have accepted such an evening as a
matter of course, an affair of everyday occurrence. His heart beat
quickly as he thought of Beatrice. Would she be there, he wondered.
Would she have heard of his success? What effect would it have made on
her? She might regard it as much or little. One never knew. Muriel,
though, had been impressed; that he knew for certain. It would be great
fun receiving her congratulations. He thought of her as he had left her
four months ago, a tousle-headed Muriel, a little girl who had charmed
him with her chatter and had been so unexpectedly petulant when he had
questioned her about her aunt. He had not realized that at seventeen
four months make a big difference with a girl. No one had told him that
she had put her hair up and that her skirts would only reveal the instep
of her ankle. He had left her a girl and she had become a woman.
She was the first person he saw on his arrival. A footman had just taken
his bag and was helping him off with his coat when the drawing-room door
opened, there was a rustle of skirts, and Muriel came impulsively to
greet him.
He drew back in surprise at the sight of her tall, graceful figure, with
the long, tightly fitting skirt and hair no longer tossing mischievously
about her shoulders, but gathered behind her neck in a long, wide curve.
“What’s the matter, Roland?” she asked.
“But, Muriel,” he said.
“Well?”
“You are so changed.”
She broke into a peal, a silvery peal, of laughter.
“So you have noticed it? We wondered whether you would. Mother thought
you would, but I said you wouldn’t. And Gerald had a bet with father
about it and he’s won, so he’ll have to take us all to a theater. Come
and tell them about it.”
Roland followed her in amazement. The change in her was so unexpected.
He had always looked on her as a little girl whom he had teased and
played with, and now, suddenly, in a night, she had grown up into a
daughter of that other world of which he had caught fleeting, enticing
glimpses at restaurants and theaters. He watched her as she laughed and
talked, unable to realize that this was the little girl with whom he had
played last summer. And yet to him she was unaltered. She offered him
the same frank comradeship. She took him for a walk after tea and spoke
with real enthusiasm of his success.
“I can’t say how glad I am, Roland. I was so awfully anxious for you to
come off. I was so afraid something might go wrong. I think it’s
wonderful of you.”
Her words thrilled him. It was something to win the admiration of a girl
like Muriel. April was naturally impressed by his achievements. Of
course it would be wonderful to her that he should visit great cities
and dabble in high finance. It was like a fairy story that had come
true. But Muriel had spent all her life in that world. She had traveled;
her parents were rich. She was accustomed to the jargon of finance. It
would have been a feat for him, a new-comer to that world, to have
proved himself able to move comfortably there, but to have impressed her
with his achievements ... and when she began to ask him how he had
maneuvered those big interviews his flattered vanity could not allow him
to hold his secret.
“But I’ve told no one,” he said, “not even my people.”
“That’s all the more reason why you should tell me.”
“Will you promise to keep it a secret?”
“On my honor.”
And so he told her of his fortune and adroitness, how he had met
Monsieur Rocheville in the restaurant and how he had tricked Herr
Haupsehr with the magic name of Brumenhein. She laughed heartily and
asked him questions. What would happen if the two ever met?
“The Lord knows,” said Roland. “But in the meantime we shall have sold
many gallons of varnish, and perhaps we shall have become indispensable
to the old fellow.”
They made no mention during their walk of Beatrice. For some unexplained
reason Roland had felt shy of asking Muriel whether she was to be one of
the party. He had been content to wait and, on their return, he
experienced, as he pushed open the drawing-room door, a sudden
surprising anxiety. Would Beatrice be there? He assumed composure, but
he could not prevent his eyes traveling quickly round the room in search
of her. When he saw that she was not there he felt a sudden emptiness, a
genuine disappointment. She would not be coming, then. And now that she
was not there half his excitement, his enthusiasm, was gone. He sat
beside Mrs. Marston and discussed, without interest, the costliness of
Brussels lace, and wondered how soon he could conveniently go and change
for dinner. The minutes dragged by.
And then at last, in that half hour when the room was slowly emptying,
the door opened and he saw Beatrice, her slim figure silhouetted against
the dull red wall paper of the hall. His heart almost stopped beating.
Would she notice him, he wondered. Had she forgotten their lunch
together? Had the growing intimacy between them been dispelled by a four
months’ absence? He watched her walk slowly into the room, her hair, as
ever, disordered about her neck and temples, and on her features that
look of difference, of being apart, of belonging to another world, that
appearance of complete detachment. Then suddenly she saw Roland, and
smiled and walked quickly forward, her hand stretched out to him.
“I’ve been hearing so much about you,” she said. “They tell me you’ve
been doing wonderful things. Come and sit with me over here and tell me
all about it.”
And once again the love of vanity prompted him to confess his secret.
“But you won’t tell anyone, will you?” he implored.
She smiled. “If I can keep my own secrets, surely I can keep yours,” she
said. Then, after a pause, “And they tell me Gerald won his bet.”
He blushed hotly. “Yes.”
“I knew he would,” she said, and she leaned forward, as she had at the
restaurant, her hands pillowing her chin, her eyes fixed on his.
Roland laughed nervously. “But I don’t see why,” he began.
She shook her head. “That’s the mistake all you men make. You think a
woman sees nothing unless she’s not watching you the whole time. But she
does.”
It flattered him to be included under the general heading of “you men.”
And at that moment Muriel came into the room. She was wearing a low
evening dress, wonderfully charming in her new-found womanhood. Roland’s
eyes followed her in admiration.
“Isn’t she pretty?” he said. “That pale blue dress; it’s just right. It
goes well with her complexion. Pale colors always do.”
Beatrice did not answer for a moment; then she gave a little sigh. “Yes,
Muriel is very pretty. I envy her.”
Roland turned quickly to her a look of surprised interrogation.
“But you! Why you look younger than any of us.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps; but what’s the use of it to me?
Ah, don’t say anything, please. You mustn’t waste your time on me. Go
on and talk to Muriel.”
Dinner that evening was a jovial meal. Muriel having announced with due
solemnity that Gerald had won his bet, she proceeded to decide at what
theater Mr. Marston should fulfill his obligation.
“And don’t you think,” said Muriel, “that Roland ought to come with us?
If it weren’t for him we shouldn’t be going at all.”
“I suppose he ought, the young rascal, though I can’t think why he
should have spotted it. Muriel was an untidy little scamp when he went
away, and she’s an untidy little scamp now he’s come back.”
“Oh, father!”
“Yes, you are. You can’t tell what’s on purpose with you and what isn’t;
you’re all over the place.”
It was perfectly untrue, of course, but they laughed all the same.
“That’s a poor excuse, father,” said Gerald. “I knew he’d spot it. It’s
through spotting things like that that he manages to wrangle interviews
with all these pots.”
“Perhaps it is, perhaps it is; I’m bothered if I know how he does it.”
And Roland and Muriel exchanged a swift glance of confederacy; a feeling
that was increased when the last post arrived and Mr. Marston
interrupted the general conversation with a piece of news his letter had
brought him.
“My dear, here’s a funny thing. I never saw it in the papers, though I
suppose it must have been in them. But that fellow Brumenhein is dead.”
“Brumenhein!”
“Yes, you know--the fellow whom the Kaiser thought such a lot of. People
said he might very likely supplant Griegenbach.”
“I didn’t dare look at you,” Roland said to Muriel afterwards. “I
couldn’t have kept a straight face if I had.”
“And what a bit of luck.”
“It may save me a lot of unpleasantness later on.”
“You’re a wonderful boy.”
They were saying good night to each other on the landing, and Muriel,
who slept on the second floor, was standing on the stairs, leaning over
the banisters. Her words made Roland feel very brave and confident.
“And to think that you didn’t expect me to notice that you had put your
hair up!”
He meant it as a joking repartee to her compliment, but the moment after
he had said it he felt frightened. They looked at each other and said
nothing. There was a moment of chill, intense embarrassment, then Muriel
gave a nervous laugh and, turning quickly, ran up to her bedroom.
PART IV
ONE WAY OR ANOTHER
CHAPTER XVII
THREE YEARS
The next three years of Roland’s life were an amplification of those
three days, and nothing would be gained by a detailed description of
them. The narrative would be cut across frequently by visits to Europe,
dropped threads would have to be gathered up, relationships reopened.
The action was delayed, interrupted and, at times, held up altogether.
The trips abroad were always altering Roland’s perspective, and the
sense of distance made him reconsider his attitude. Four months after
the events described in the last chapter he had reached a state of acute
reaction against his home, his parents and, in a way, against April,
because of her connection with that world from which he was endeavoring
to escape. Very little was needed to drive him into declared revolt, but
at that moment he was sent abroad and, once abroad, everything became
different. He began to accuse himself of selfishness and ingratitude.
His parents had denied themselves comfort and pleasure to send him to an
expensive school; they had given him everything. Like the pelican, they
had gone hungry so that he should be full. Since he could remember, the
life of that family had centered round him. Every question had been
considered on the bearing it would have on his career. Was this the
manner of repayment? And it was the same with April. He forgot her
mother and her home; he remembered only her beauty and her love for him,
her fixed, unwavering love, and the dreams that they had shared. He
always returned home in a temper of sentimentality, full of good
resolutions, promising himself that he would be gentle and sympathetic
to his parents, that he would never swerve from his love for April. The
first days were invariably soft and sweet; but in a short time the old
conflict reasserted itself; the bright world of Hogstead stood in
dazzling contrast to the unromantic Hammerton. He became irritated, as
before, by the trifling inconveniences of a house that lacked a parlor
maid; unpunctual, unappetizing meals; and, more especially, by the
endless friction imposed on him by the company of men and women who had
been harassed all their lives by the fret and worry of small houses and
small incomes. Trivial, ignoble troubles, that was the misfortune of
everyone fated to live in Hammerton. And April was a part of it. He was
very fond of her; indeed, he still thought he was in love with her, but
love for Roland was dependent on many other things, was bound up with
his other enthusiasms and reactions. He enjoyed her company and her
caresses. In her presence he was capable of genuine tenderness; but it
was so easy. April responded so simply to any kindness shown to her.
There was no uncertainty about her. He missed the swift anger of the
chase.
More and more frequently he found himself receiving and accepting
invitations to spend the week-end at Hogstead; and always when he
announced his intention of going there he was aware of silent criticism
on the part of his parents. He felt guilty and ashamed of himself for
feeling guilty. It became a genuine struggle for him to pronounce the
words at breakfast. It was like confessing a secret, and he hated it.
Had he not a right to choose his friends? Then would come a reaction of
acute self-accusation and he would improvise a treat, a theater or a
picnic. His emotions would fling it like a sop to his conscience:
“There, does that content you? Now may I go and live my own life?”
Afterwards, of course, he was again bitterly ashamed of himself.
But always on the ebb-flow of his contrition came fear--the instinct of
self-preservation, to save, at all costs, his individuality from the
fate that threatened it. Whenever things seemed likely to reach a head,
a European trip would intervene, and the whole business would have to
begin again. An action that would ordinarily have completed its rhythm
within three or four months was lengthened into three years; in the end
inevitably the curve of the parabola was reached. The time was drawing
near when Roland would have to make his decision one way or another.
He was by now earning a salary of four hundred pounds a year, and
marriage--marriage as his parents understood it--was well within his
means. Up till now, whenever any suggestion about the date of his
marriage had been advanced, he referred to the uncertain nature of his
work.
“I never know where I’m going to be from one week to another. Marriage
is out of the question for a chap with a job like that.”
Their engagement was still unannounced. He had retained that loophole,
though at the time it was not so that he had regarded it.
Ralph had asked him once whether he was engaged. And the question had
put him on his guard. He didn’t like engagements. Love was a secret
between two people. Why make it public? He must strike before the enemy
struck. In other words, he must come to an agreement with April before
her mother opened negotiations. That evening he had brought up the
subject.
He was sitting in the window-seat, while she was on a stool beside him,
her head resting against his knees and his hand stroking slowly her neck
and hair and cheek.
“You know, darling,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about our engagement.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Well, are you awfully keen on an engagement?”
“But how do you mean? We shall have to be engaged sometime, shan’t we?”
“Oh, of course, yes. But there’s no need for a long engagement, is
there? What I mean is that we could easily get engaged now if we wanted
to. But it would be a long business, and oh, I don’t know! Once we’re
engaged our affairs cease to be our own. People will be asking us
‘When’s the happy day?’ and all that sort of thing. Our love won’t be
our own any longer.”
“It’s just as you like, dear.”
It was so nice to sit there against his knee, with his fingers against
her face. Why should they worry about things? It would be nice to be
engaged, of course, and to have a pretty ring, but it didn’t matter.
“It’s just as you like,” she had said, and they had left it at that over
two years ago and there had been no reason to rediscuss it. But he knew
that now the whole matter would have to be brought up. It had been
decided that he was to remain in London for a couple of years in charge
of the Continental branch; he would have to go abroad occasionally, but
there would be no more long trips. He was in a position to marry if he
wanted to. His family would expect him to, those of his friends who had
heard of the “understanding” would expect him to, Mrs. Curtis would
expect him to, and he owed it to April that he should marry her. For
years now he had kept her waiting. There was not the slightest doubt as
to what was his duty.
Nothing, however, could alter the fact that there was nothing in the
world that he wanted less than this marriage. It would mean an end to
all those pleasant week-ends at Hogstead. It was one thing to invite a
young bachelor who was no trouble to look after and who was amusing
company; it was quite another thing to entertain a married couple. He
would no longer be able to throw into his business that undivided energy
of his. He would not be free; he would have to play for safety. As his
friendship with the Marstons began to wane, he would become increasingly
every year an employee and not an associate. He would belong to the
ruled class. And it would be the end, too, of his pleasant little dinner
parties with Gerald. He would have to be very careful with his money.
They would be fairly comfortable in a small house for the first year or
so, but from the birth of their first child their life would become
complicated with endless financial worries and would begin to resemble
that of his own father and mother, till, finally, he would lose interest
in himself and begin to live in his children. What a world! The failure
of the parent became forgotten in the high promise of the child, and
that child grew up only to meet and be broken by the conspiracy of the
world’s wisdom and, in its turn, to focus its thwarted ambitions on its
children, and then its children’s children. That was the eternal cycle
of disillusion; whatever happened he must break that wheel.
But the battle appeared hopeless. The forces were so strong that were
marshaled against him. What chance did he stand against that mingled
appeal of sentiment and habit? All that spring he felt himself standing
upon a rapidly crumbling wall. Whenever he went down to Hogstead he kept
saying to himself: “Yes, I’m safe now, secure within time and space. But
it’s coming. Nothing can stop it. Night follows day, winter summer; one
can’t fight against the future, one can’t anticipate it. One has to
wait; it chooses its own time and its own place.” At the office he was
fretful and absent-minded.
“What’s the matter with you?” Gerald asked him once.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, but there must be, you’ve been awfully queer the last week or so.”
Roland did not answer, and there was an awkward silence.
“I say, old man, I don’t quite like asking you, but you’re not in debt
or anything, are you? Because if you are, I mean”
“Oh, no, really. I’m not even ‘overdrawn.’”
In Gerald’s experience of the world there were two ills to which mankind
was heir--money and woman. The subdivisions of these ills were many, but
he recognized no other main source. If Roland was not in debt, then
there was a woman somewhere, and later in the day he brought the matter
up again.
“I say, old son, you’ve not been making an ass of yourself with some
woman, have you? No one’s got hold of you, have they?”
“Lord, no!” laughed Roland. “I only wish they had!”
But Gerald raised a warning finger.
“Touch wood, my son. Don’t insult Providence. You can take my word for
it that sooner or later some woman will get hold of you and then it’s
the devil, the very devil. Did I ever tell you about the girl at
Broadstairs?” And there ensued the description of a seaside amour,
followed by some shrewd generalities on the ways of a man with--but to
conclude the quotation would be hardly pertinent. At any rate, Gerald
told his story and pointed his moral.
“You may take my word for it, adultery is a whacking risk. It’s awfully
jolly while it lasts, and you think yourself no end of a dog when you
offer the husband a cigar, but sooner or later the wife clings round the
bed-post and says: ‘Darling, I have deceived you!’ And then you’re in
it, up to the ruddy neck!”
Roland laughed, as he always did, at Gerald’s stories, but it hurt him
to think that his friend should have noticed a change in him. If he was
altered already by a few weeks of Hammerton, what would he be like in
five years’ time after the responsibilities of marriage had had their
way with him? And marriage was not for five years, but for fifty.
He never spoke to Gerald of April now. There had been a time in the
early days of their friendship when he had confided in him, under an
oath of secrecy, that he hoped to marry her as soon as his position
permitted. And Gerald had agreed with him that it was a fine thing to
marry young, “and it’s the right thing for you,” he added; “some fellows
are meant for marriage and others aren’t. I think you’re one of the ones
that are.” A cryptic statement that Roland had, at the time, called in
question, but Gerald only laughed. “I may be wrong,” he had said, “one
never knows, but I don’t think I am.” Often afterwards he had asked
Roland about April and whether they were still in love with each other
as much as ever, and Roland, his vanity flattered by the inquiry, had
assured him of their constancy. But of late, when Gerald had made some
light reference to “the fair April,” Roland had changed the
conversation, or, if a question were asked, had answered it obliquely,
or managed to evade it, so that Gerald had realized that the subject was
no longer agreeable to him, and, being blessed with an absence of
curiosity, had dropped it from his repertoire of pleasantries. But he
did not connect April with his friend’s despondency.
CHAPTER XVIII
THREE DAYS
The summer was nearly over, however, before the crisis came. It was on a
Friday evening in the beginning of September, and Roland was sitting
with his mother, as was usual with them, for a short talk after his
father had gone to bed. He could tell that something was worrying her.
Her conversation had been disjointed and many of her remarks irrelevant.
And suddenly his instinct warned him that she was going to speak to him
about April. He went suddenly still. If someone had thrown a stone at
him at that moment he would have been unable to move out of the way of
it. He could recollect distinctly, to the end of his life, everything
that had passed through his mind during that minute of terrifying
silence that lay between his realization of what was coming and the
first sound of that opening sentence.
“Roland, dear, I hope you won’t mind my mentioning it, but your father
and I have been talking together about you and April.”
He could remember everything: the shout of a newsboy in the
street--“Murder in Tufnell Park!” the slight rustle of the curtain
against the window-sill; the click of his mother’s knitting needles.
And, till that moment, he had never noticed that the pattern of the
carpet was irregular, that on the left side there were seven roses and
five poppies and on the right six roses and six poppies. They had had
that carpet for twenty years and he had never noticed it before. His
eyes were riveted on this curious deformity, while through the window
came the shriek of the newsboy--“Murder in Tufnell Park!” Then his
mother’s voice broke the tension. The moment had come; he gathered his
strength to him. As he had walked five years earlier with unflinching
head, up the hill to Carus Evans, so now he answered his mother with an
even voice:
“Yes, mother?”
“Well, dear, we’ve been thinking that you really ought to be settling
something definite about yourself and April.”
“But we didn’t want to be engaged, mother.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that, dear. I know about that. It’s a modern idea,
I suppose, though I think myself that it would have been better some
time ago, but it’s not an engagement so much we’re thinking of as of
your marriage.”
It was more sudden than Roland had expected.
“Oh, but--oh, surely Mrs. Curtis would never agree. She’d say we were
much too young.”
“Well, that’s what we thought, but I went round and saw her the other
day, and she quite agreed with us that it was really no good waiting any
longer. You are making a lot of money, and it’s quite likely that Mr.
Marston will raise your salary when he hears you’re going to be married;
and after all, why should you wait? As I said to your father: ‘They’ve
known each other for a long time, and if they don’t know their minds now
they never will.’”
Roland did not know what to say. He was unarmed by a sympathy and
kindness against which he could not fight.
“It’s awfully decent of you.” Those were the only words that occurred to
him, and he knew, even as he uttered them, that they were not only
completely inadequate, but pitifully inexpressive of his state of mind.
“We only want to do what will make you happy, and it is happier to marry
young, really it is!”
He made a last struggle.
“But, mother, don’t you think that for April’s sake--she’s so young.
Isn’t it rather hard on her to be loaded with responsibilities so
early?”
“It’s nice of you to think that, Roland. It shows you really care for
her; but I think that in the end, when she’s an old woman like I am,
she’ll be glad she married young.”
And then, because Roland looked still doubtful, she offered him the
benefit of what wisdom the narrow experiences of her life had brought
her. She had never unlocked her heart before; it hurt her to do it now
and her eyes welled with tears. But she felt that, at this great crisis
of his life, she must be prepared to lay before her son everything that
might help him in it. It might be of assistance to him to know how these
things touched a woman, and so she told him how she too had once thought
it cruel that responsibilities should have been laid on her so soon.
“I was only nineteen when I married your father, and things were very
difficult at first. It was a small house, we had no servant, and I had
to get up early in the morning and light the fires and get the breakfast
things ready, and all the morning I had to scrub and brush and wash up.
I had no friends. And then, after tea, I used to lie down for an hour
and rest, I was so tired, and I wanted to look fresh and pretty for your
father when he came home. And there were times when I thought it was
unfair; that I should have been allowed to be free and happy and
unworried like other girls of my age. I used to see some of my school
friends very occasionally and they used to tell me of their balls and
parties, and I was so envious. And then very often your father was
irritable and bad-tempered when he came back, and he found fault with my
cooking, and I used to go away and cry all by myself and wonder why I
was doing it, working so hard and for nothing. And then I began to think
he didn’t love me any more; there was another girl: she was fresher; she
didn’t have to do any housework. There was nothing in it; it never came
to anything. Your father was always faithful; he’s always been very good
to me, but I could see from the way his face lighted up when she came
into the room that he was attracted by her, and I can’t tell you how it
hurt me. I used to think that he preferred that other girl, that he
thought her prettier than I was. It wasn’t easy those first three years.
When you’ve been married three years you’re almost certain to regret it
and think you could have done better with someone else, but after ten
years you’ll know very well that you couldn’t, because, Roland, love
doesn’t last; not what you mean by love; but something takes its place,
and that something is more important. When two people have been through
as much together as your father and I have, there’s--I don’t know how to
put it--but, you can’t do without each other. And it makes a big
difference the being married early. That’s why I should like you and
April to marry as soon as ever you can. You’d never regret it.”
The tears began to trickle slowly down her cheeks; she tried to go on,
but failed.
Roland did not know what to do or say. He had never loved his mother so
much as he did then, but he could not express that love for her with
words. He knelt forward and put his arms round her and drew her damp
cheek to his.
“Mother,” he whispered. “Mother, darling!”
For a long time they remained thus in a silent embrace. Then she drew
back, straightened herself, and began to dab at her eyes with a
handkerchief.
“It’ll be all right, mother,” he said.
She did not answer, but smiled a soft, glad smile, and taking his hand
pressed it gently between hers.
“As long as you’re happy, Roland,” she said.
And so the crisis had come and had been settled. In those few minutes
the direction of fifty years had been chosen finally. It was hard, but
what would you? Life went that way. At any rate he would have those
first few scented months; that at least was his. For a year he and April
would be indescribably happy in the new-found intimacy of marriage, and
afterwards--but of what could one be certain? For all he knew life might
choose to readjust itself. One could not have anything both ways;
indeed, one paid for everything. The Athenian parent had been far-seeing
when he knelt before the altar in prayer that the compensating evil for
his son’s success might be light. One should do what lay to hand. As he
curled himself in his bed he thought of April, and his heart beat
quickly at the knowledge that her grace and tenderness would soon be
his.
He shut away all thought of the dark years that must follow the passing
of that first enchantment and fixed his mind on the sure pleasure that
awaited him. How wonderful, after all, marriage could be. To return home
at the end of the day and find your wife waiting for you. You would be
tired and she would take you in her arms and run cool fingers through
your hair, and you would talk together for a while, and she would tell
you what she had done during the day, and you would tell her of whom you
had met and of the business you had transacted, and you would bring your
successes and lay them at her feet and you would say: “I made so much
money to-day.” And your words would lock that money away in her little
hand--“All yours,” they would seem to say. Then you would go upstairs
and change for dinner, and when you came down you would find her
standing before the fire, one long, bare arm lying along the
mantelpiece, and you would come to her and very slowly pass your hand
along it, and, bending your head, you would kiss the smooth skin of her
neck. And could anything be more delightful than the quiet dinner
together? Then would come the slow contentment of that hour or so before
bedtime, while the warmth of the fire subsided slowly and you sat
talking in low tones. And, afterwards, when you were alone in the warm
darkness to love each other. Marriage must be a very fine adventure.
The next day brought with it its own problems, and on this Saturday
morning in early autumn the white mist that lay over the roofs of
Hammerton was a sufficient object of speculation. Did it veil the blue
sky that adds so much to the charm of cricket, or a gray, sodden expanse
of windy, low-flying clouds? It was the last Saturday of the cricket
season. Roland was, naturally, bound for Hogstead, and there is no day
in the whole year on which the cricketer watches the sky with more
anxiety. In May he is impatient for his first innings, but as he walks
up and down the pavilion in his spiked boots and hears the rain patter
on the corrugated iron roof he can comfort himself with the knowledge
that sooner or later the sun will shine, if not this week, then the
next, and that in a long season he is bound to have many opportunities
of employing that late cut he has been practicing so assiduously at the
nets. In the middle of the season he is a hardened warrior; he takes the
bad with the good; he has outgrown his first eagerness; he has become,
in fact, a philosopher. Last week he made seventy-two against the Stoics
and was missed in the slips before he had scored. Such fortune is bound
to be followed by a few disappointments. But at the end of the season a
wet day is a dire misfortune. As he sits in the pavilion and watches the
rain sweep across the pitch he remembers that only that morning he
observed the erection of goal posts on the village green, that the
winter is long and slow to pass, that for eight months he will not hold
a bat in his hands, that this, his last forlorn opportunity of making a
century, is even now fast slipping from him.
The depression of such a day is an abiding memory through the gray
months of January and December, and, though Roland had had a fairly
successful season, he was naturally anxious to end it well. He was
prepared to distrust that mist. He had seen many mists break into heavy
Sunshine. He had also seen many mists dissolve into heavy rain. He knew
no peace of mind till the sky began to lighten just before the train
reached Hogstead, and he did not feel secure till he had changed into
flannels and was walking down to the field on Gerald’s arm, their
shadows flung hard and black upon the grass in front of them.
It was a delightful morning; the grass was fresh with the dew which a
slight breeze was drying; there was hardly a worn spot on the green
surface, against which the white creases and yellow stumps stood in
vivid contrast. An occasional cloud cut the sunlight, sending its shadow
in long ripples of smoke across the field.
“And to think,” said Gerald, “that this is our last game this season.”
But for Roland this certainly marred the enjoyment of the blue sky and
the bright sunshine. “This is the last time,” he repeated to himself.
For eight months the green field, so gay now with the white figures
moving in the sunlight, would be desolate. Leaves would be blown on to
it from the trees; rain would fall on them. The windows of the pavilion
would be barred, the white screens stacked in the shelter of a wall.
After his innings he sat beside Muriel in the deck-chair on the shaded,
northern terrace. But he felt too sad to talk to her and she complained
of his silence.
“I don’t think much of you as a companion,” she said. “I’ve timed you.
You haven’t said a word for ten minutes.”
He laughed, apologized and endeavored to revert to the simple badinage
that had amused them when Muriel was a little girl in short frocks, with
her hair blowing about her neck, but it was not particularly successful,
and it was a relief when Gerald placed his chair on the other side of
Muriel and commenced a running commentary on the game. Roland wanted to
be alone with his thoughts. Occasionally a stray phrase or sentence of
their conversation percolated through his reverie.
“What a glorious afternoon it’s going to be,” he heard Muriel say. “It
seems quite absurd that this should be your last game. One can’t believe
that the summer’s over. On a day like this it looks as though it would
last forever!”
The words beat themselves into his brain. It was over and it was absurd
to dream. The autumn sunshine that had lured her into disbelief of the
approach of winter had made him forget that this day at Hogstead was his
last. By next year he would be married; the delightful interlude would
be finished. He would have passed from the life of Hogstead, at any rate
in his present position. If he returned it would be different. The
continuity would have been broken.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Muriel’s profile;
how pretty she was; quite a woman now; and he turned his chair a little
so that he could observe her without moving his head. Yes, she was
really pretty in her delicate porcelain fashion; she was not beautiful.
But, then, beauty was too austere. Charm was preferable. And she had
that charm that depends almost entirely on its setting, on a dress that
is in keeping with small dainty features. The least little thing wrong
and she would have been quite ordinary.
What would happen to her? She would marry, of course; she would find no
lack of suitors. Already, perhaps, there was one whom she had begun
slightly to favor. What would he be like? To what sort of a man would
she be attracted? Whoever he was he would be a lucky fellow; and Roland
paused to wonder whether, if things had been different, if he had been
free when he had met her first, she could have come to care for him. She
had always liked him. He remembered many little occasions on which she
had said things that he might have construed into a meaning favorable to
himself. There had been that evening on the stairs when they had felt
suddenly frightened of each other, and since then, more than once, he
had fancied that they had stumbled in their anxiety to make impersonal
conversation.
How happy they would have been together. They would have lived together
at Hogstead all their lives, a part of the Marston family. Hammerton
would have ceased to exist for him. They would have built themselves a
cottage on the edge of the estate; their children would have passed
their infancy among green fields, within sound of cricket balls.
At the far end of the field, on the southern terrace, Beatrice was
sitting alone, watching Rosemary play a few yards away from her. She
must have been there during the greater part of the morning, but Roland
had not noticed her till she waved a hand to attract his attention. He
rose at once and walked across to her. He felt that a talk with her
would do him good.
They had seen a good deal of each other intermittently during the past
three years, and each talk with her had been for Roland a step farther
into the heart of a mystery. Gradually they had come to talk in
shorthand, to read each other’s thoughts without need of the accepted
medium of words, so that when in reply to a complimentary remark about
the fascination of her hat she made a quiet shrug of her shoulders, he
knew that it was prompted by the wound of her wasted beauty. And on that
late summer morning, with its solemn warning of decay, Roland felt brave
enough to put to her the question that he had long wished to ask.
“Why did you marry him?” he said.
His question necessitated no break in the rhythm of her reverie. She
answered him without pausing.
“I didn’t know my own mind,” she said. “I was very young. I wasn’t in
love with anyone else. My mother was keen on it. I gave way.”
Beatrice spoke the truth. Her mother had honestly believed the match to
be to her daughter’s advantage. Her own life had been made difficult
through lack of money. She had always been worried by it, and she had
naturally come to regard money as more important than the brief
fluttering of emotion that had been the prelude to the long, bitter
struggle. It had seemed to her a wonderful thing that her daughter
should marry this rich man. Herself had only been unhappy because she
had been poor; her daughter would be always rich.
“How did you meet him?” Roland asked.
“I was his secretary. Romantic, isn’t it? The poor girl marries the rich
employer. Quite like the story books.” And her hands fluttered at her
sides.
Roland sought for some word of sympathy, but he was too appalled by the
cruel waste of this young woman’s beauty, of her enormous potentialities
flung away on an ageing, withered man, who could not appreciate them.
Her next sentence held for him the force of a prophetic utterance.
“When you marry, Roland,” she said, “choose your own wife. Don’t let
your parents dictate to you. It’s your affair.”
As their eyes met it seemed to him that they were victims of the same
conspiracy.