in the air. At four o’clock Letty donned her new winter costume
of royal-blue velveteen, her golden fox-furs, and a blue plush
picture-hat; and again with something tightly clasped inside her
muff, almost danced out of the house into the drizzling gloam beyond.
Sebastian was waiting for her where the No. 9 ’buses stop on their way
to Richmond. His plan was to walk across the Park, and have a late tea
at some window overlooking the pale mist-sodden river. Letty would have
preferred a cosier programme; she assented, reluctantly, to the top
of the ’bus, “if you promise to keep the umbrella held over my hat,
Sebastian,”--but cancelled the walk across Richmond Park: “Horrid, in
the dark, with the leaves all messy and slippery, and the trees like
ghosts----”
--“And the world smelling damp, and reeking damp, and dripping damp,
and we the only people warm in it! Why, Letty, you’d enjoy it!”
“But we shouldn’t be warm.”
“We would, if I held you close enough; Letty....”
“But my shoes!” she showed him her footgear, to prove the impossibility
of his proposals. All this under the pallid stream of light from the
lamp-post, at the corner where they lingered for their ’bus.
“Will I never teach you not to wear pneumonia-soles, you little
vanity-child?” sighed Sebastian. But the lifted folds of the skirt
had afforded a pleasant glimpse, nevertheless; and he wished he
could afford the privacy of a taxi, that he might caress her rounded
slenderness at will. It was noble, but inconvenient, to be forever
short of cash. However, they were the only passengers on the outside
of their lurching chariot; and afterwards the only two in the snug
brightly lit tea-room which formed one of a labyrinthine cluster
underground, each holding four rose-tiled tables, and a rose-gowned
waitress. The latter took Sebastian’s order, and vanished.
“Now...” thought Letty--and produced “Silver Chimes.” Without a word of
comment, so fraught was the moment with tense expectation, she pushed
the copy across the table. Sebastian picked it up, wondering, and read
aloud: “‘To Test Her Love,’ by _Sebastian Levi_...? Why, w-w-what on
earth----?” he stammered. His eye fell on the illustration; then in
silent bewilderment he flicked over a few of the pages. Letty watched
him, her fingers curled tightly round the edge of the table. The lines
of his mouth hardened. He spoke harshly:
“Is it a joke? Who put my name to this drivel?”
And the dancing joy in her eyes was quenched in a rush of tears. As
before from anticipation, so now from disappointment, she remained mute.
“Answer me, Letty? Who put my name to this?”
“I did,” almost inaudibly.... But why was he so cross? Was it that his
integrity recoiled from the notion of claiming credit for work not his
own? Yes, it must be that. For the moment, she had forgotten his use of
the term: drivel.
“But it _is_ yours, really and truly, Sebastian. The idea is yours,
all about the Test, and pretending not to be rich, and everything. I’d
never have thought of it. I only did the writing part because--because
you were so busy with your book. But it’s quite, quite fair that your
name should be on the cover.”
“You wrote this?”
“Yes.” A tinge of pride in her assent. Had not the Editress said the
tale was good? “Yes, indeed I did. Are you surprised?”
(Or was he already beginning to think her unwomanly?)
The waitress appeared with the tea-things, which she rattled down on
the table. Sebastian buried himself anew in the histories of Geoffrey
and Mavice, while Letty poured out the tea, and nibbled at a cress
sandwich; furtively gleaming at him from under her eyelashes.
“Aren’t you hungry, Sebastian?”
He made no reply; went on reading. He had as a boy devoured a great
many “penny dreadfuls” of the blood-and-thunder type; but this was
his first experience of girls’ cheap sentimental fiction. It was a
revelation. Now he understood one or two curious ingredients which had
hitherto always puzzled him in the composition of Letty.--But what did
she mean by saying that his was the original idea of Lord Geoffrey
Challoner’s utterly inane proceedings? Then, slowly, that dawned on him
as well. He shoved aside “Silver Chimes,” so that it fell on the dusty
floor.
“Letty, did you think it was by way of a test, a test of you, that I
gave up my income?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“My God, no!”
“Then why----”
“You wouldn’t understand why,” grimly; “it won’t translate into
novelette terms.”
Letty stretched out her hand for a cream-cake, pink and chocolate. It
fell from her shaking fingers on to her skirt. She gazed hopelessly at
the stain. It was all of a piece with this hateful afternoon, to spoil
every one of her illusions, and her new costume into the bargain.
“I expect my hat’s all spotted by the rain, too,” she reflected
dreamily. And he had called her story “drivel.”... With a quick spurt
of anger at his lofty denunciation, Letty cried:
“The Editress said I had the sincere touch, so there!”
He saw how he had hurt her, and was sorry; but felt at the same time
the futility of attempting to explain the cause of his annoyance.
“Oh, well--eat up your cakes, dear; I don’t suppose anyone who matters
will ever buy this particular rag. Lord, though,” half under his
breath, “if Stuart had seen it!”
“I sent him a copy this morning,” Letty threw out defiantly. She was
in the naughty mood of a child, who, seeking to please most, has
somehow only earned a scolding, and is in consequence rightly sore and
resentful.
... In the ghastly silence which followed her announcement, another
party entered the room, and noisily disposed themselves at the
adjoining table. The waitress entered to take their order, and
Sebastian beckoned her to bring him his bill. The homeward journey was
accomplished by train, in a moist overfull compartment, where Sebastian
had to give up his seat to a lady, and Letty sat huddled in a corner,
frightened at the dire effect of her action, and repeating to herself
again and again: “I don’t care; he’s hateful; I don’t care a bit.”
Still without a word, beyond a brief “good night,” he left her at the
gate of Town House, and set out for Carlton House Terrace. He had
little doubt as to what sort of a ribald reception awaited him there.
Not much mercy to be expected from Stuart. All Sebastian’s most
sensitive portions were already screaming and wincing in protest. He
had so desired to present Stuart with a dignified bound volume, setting
forth in fervent but lucid phrasing, an abstract ideal,--and now,
instead, this unspeakable novelette! The incident was grotesque; it had
degraded to farce all his high aspirations. It was no good shirking his
visit; the matter had to be explained. Sebastian walked ever faster,
in mingled exasperation and dread. Arrived at his destination, he was
shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Heron, Stuart, Mr. Arthur
Heron, and a pretty flapper in white, whom he had met once before at
the house, were assembled, before dinner. Stuart was lounging in front
of the fire-place, and evidently engaged in chaffing the child, when
Sebastian was announced.
--“You see, Babs, by your passionate public assertions that I was
your idea of a perfect gentleman, you very definitely proved yourself
no lady. One isn’t passionate, in society. I really don’t know,
after this, what we can do with you! what do you think, mother?...
Hullo, Levi!” he bestowed on the new-comer a slow fiendish smile that
confirmed Sebastian’s worst anticipations. Babs at once enlisted his
sympathies in her cause:
“Mr. Levi, I heard someone, at a party, saying a horrid thing about
Stuart; and of course I stuck up for him. And now he says I’ve
committed a breach of etiquette, and the Queen, when she gets to hear
of it, will strike my name from the presentation lists, the year after
next. _Do_ say it isn’t true!”
“My dear, you really ought to be accustomed by now to your cousin’s
teasing.--You’ll dine with us, of course, Mr. Levi?” Mrs. Heron
extended a thin ringed hand, smiling graciously. She looked very
handsome, in her low-necked black gown, and her single row of wonderful
pearls.
“I’m afraid it’s impossible.” Sebastian longed for these invitations,
but invariably, by some perverse twitch of the nerves, refused them
when they came. He and Stuart went into the latter’s study. Conspicuous
on the table lay a booklet bound in a mauve paper cover, wreathed about
with silver bells.
“I haven’t quite finished your story yet,” said Stuart, caressing it
lovingly; “it has made me a very happy man, Levi!”
“And me a deuced miserable one,” growled Sebastian, flinging himself
into an arm-chair.
“That, my lad, is because you have caused Esmée de Courcy to appear
at noon, in Regent Street, wearing a _décolletée_ toilet of yellow
sequins. Such riotous rollicking literary excesses are bound to result
in your present reaction of soul.”
“Oh, shut up!” miserably. Stuart was sitting on the table, the
novelette on his knees. Leaning forward, Sebastian snatched it away,
and flung it into the fire.
“There are thousands more on the market,” chortled Stuart; “I intend to
forward a copy to Magdalen; for an original exploit of one of Oxford’s
sons, I think it deserves to stand in the College chronicles.”
Sebastian writhed. “Don’t be indecent, Heron,” in a feeble appeal to
the other’s better nature. An appeal totally unfruitful of results.
“Surely, Levi, you didn’t send me your masterpiece in the erroneous
supposition that I would take it up tenderly and treat it with care?”
“I didn’t send it to you at all.”
“No, I guessed you hadn’t sufficient guts for that! Whom have I to
thank, then, for my moments of rich ripe pleasure?”
“Letty.”
“God bless Letty. Did she write it, by the way?”
“You--you _didn’t_ think I wrote it, did you? Heron, you didn’t?”
Sebastian’s dark mournful eyes implored satisfaction on this one point,
at least.
“As a matter of fact, it’s not at all unlike your style.”
“What the Hell do you mean by that?” Sebastian sprang to his feet,
knocking his shins against the brass coal-box. “My book----”
--“Is no book, any more than Letty’s maiden effort is a book. They’re
both--what shall I call ’em?--Gory Exhibitions!” And having his victim
completely down and at his mercy, Stuart proceeded forthwith to pummel
him; showing thereby--despite Babs’ defence--a most lamentable lack of
all gentlemanly instincts. But he had not forgiven his disciple for
butchering his ideas; nor for sickening him with his own creed, as had
been the case ever since Sebastian’s over-enthusiastic conversion.
--“You both write in blood, instead of in ink; upon my word, your
style is like a pirate’s oath. No attempt at restraint or form. Form’s
everything--colour nothing. One should write from the vantage-point of
a god,--at least of a judge; aloof, impersonal, detached. But you take
a bath every time, in what you’re pleased to call your inspiration:
wallow, and splash, and breathe heavily, and yelp in your ecstasies,
and wriggle in your agonies, all over the pages. I even suspect you of
putting things down for the ‘sheer joy’ of unburdening yourself. And
there we have the greatest evil. A book should be thought, crystallized
into truth, hard as rock, stripped of all extraneous fungus, and with
some clear purpose to serve in publication, whether of good or evil.
But if you must have your attacks of luxurious hysteria,--for Heaven’s
sake, man, keep ’em private. Suppress them. Suppress the ‘Sprawls of
Sebastian’--‘Sebastian Spills Himself,’ as the stuff shouts to be
called.”
“You needn’t worry any further,” Sebastian said, with very stiff
lips, and a weary battered bewilderment as to what he had done, that
ever since a certain night of August he should be exposed to these
onslaughts; “because the book’s been refused.”
“Excellent!”
“And it was for you--not at all for the ‘sheer joy of
unburdening,’--just for you....” But Sebastian kept these reflections
to himself. And Stuart continued consolingly:
“But Letty’s story is no better than yours, for all that; it’s equally
highly coloured and shapeless, but in a more marketable key.”
“Thank you.”
“Dear old man, don’t gaze at me as if I had you on the rack. I’m trying
to help you. I suppose you’ve behaved like a brute to the little girl,
over this business?”
“I’m going to break with her, that’s all!” suddenly Sebastian recovered
from the temporary paralysis of speech, and, striding about the room,
vehemently poured forth his determination: “Yes, I am. We’re not made
for each other. She doesn’t understand--anything. And I get hopeless
over stupidity; it numbs me. She shouldn’t have done this thing and
even now she can’t see why. She doesn’t see why I gave up living at
home--nor why the book meant so much to me. It won’t do--it would never
do--it must end now, now!... I’m like you, Heron, I must be free of
everything, especially of love, the warm, clinging, hampering fingers
of love; I’m growing more and more like you----”
“Nonsense; you can’t possibly grow like me, because I’m not there; not
permanently. You can grow like your father, or the Albert Memorial,
anything fixed and solid,--but you can’t grow like the spot where I
stood a minute ago before I began to run.”
“I’m going to break with Letty,” Sebastian repeated doggedly.
“And you think you’re doing a fine thing by it?” Stuart twisted round
on the table, and scornfully eyed his young prototype. “It’s rather
easy, isn’t it, to break off with love because just at this moment
you happen to be fed up with it. There’s no merit in that,--merely
self-indulgence again. But try breaking-off with love when you want
it most, when it’s fairest, most devilishly alive. Try breaking
off, not because you’re annoyed with the girl, childishly pettishly
annoyed,--but for the sake of keeping love unsated, and the memory
of love like a sword-blade. Break off with love, because self-denial
maintaineth the soul lean, and whetteth desire, and--oh, because if
you can do that, and also guard your tongue from overmuch cursing when
directly afterwards a smug couple dog your footsteps wherever you walk,
and perform for your benefit,--then there’s very little else can affect
you, ever. You’re master, then. At the height is the time to break with
any credit, my lad, not half-way down the slope.”
Sebastian broke in: “But that’s cruel--inhuman--as a god might behave.
No man alive would do it.” His heart was beating thickly; he could not
tell why.
“Think not?” Stuart rose, stood against the chimney-piece, dropping the
ash of his cigarette into the fire. And he said slowly: “I never told
you about Peter, did I?”...
* * * * *
Sebastian stormed out of the room, down the stairs, into the hall.
The dinner-gong was drowning the house in sound. The postman had
just thundered at the door. Sebastian wanted to get away--away from
this new brutality of idea which terrified him because he knew it
would ultimately overtake him. It was revolting ... revolting, he
repeated, smashing behind him the iron gates of the drive,--this
deliberate murder of love to which Stuart had just confessed. Revolting
in the same way as would have been the sight of a monk engaged in
self-laceration. There was nothing splendid about it,--no, nothing at
all! between clenched teeth Sebastian thus informed the wet glittering
pavements.
And he was going back to Letty, straight back, driven by the fear of
what he might have been induced to do to her ... if he were not quite
determined to the contrary.
Back to Letty. The Johnsons’ maid, opening the door to him, said: “Miss
Letty’s just going to bed, sir, she’s not very well.”--And there she
was, on the stairs, dragging her feet a little, as if tired out.
“Letty!”
She came down to him then, and laid her arms against his breast; and he
bowed his head on to the soft warm skin of them, murmuring that he was
sorry--so sorry----
“I hoped you’d be pleased, Sebastian. I thought you wanted to get into
print. I did so hope you’d be pleased.”
“I’m a beast, Letty.--No, don’t move, darling--not for a minute--let me
go on telling you--I’m a surly ungrateful brute ... but I love you----”
She raised her lips for his kiss.
* * * * *
Stuart, following Sebastian’s headlong rush from the room, reached the
hall just as the heavy oak doors crashed behind his impetuous young
devot. Shrugging his shoulders, the master of the house turned to enter
the dining-room; the butler waylaid him, offering a letter on a silver
tray:
“The post has just come in, sir.”
It seemed to Stuart that once before he had stood, as he stood now,
with the echoes of the dinner-gong still vibrating through the hall,
and in his hand an envelope, addressed in just this same thin pointed
writing.... He drew forth the white and silver of a wedding invitation:
“Madame Marcel des Essarts requests the pleasure of Mr. Stuart
Heron’s company at the marriage of her granddaughter Merle with Jean
Raoul Théodore, Comte de Cler, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and
afterwards at 63 Lancaster Gate.”
--So Merle was to be married. He had almost forgotten Merle; that
exquisite little lady whom for a while he and Peter had taught to
become a child and a pirate and a romp; whom they had crinkled out of
serene composure into delicious laughter; whom they had dragged from
an atmosphere of hothouse vigilance into the keen airs and fleet sweet
liberty. Stuart speculated as to whether, after this lapse of time,
aught remained in Merle of his influence. One spot rubbed forever bare
of the polish, perhaps; one nerve that would always be restless; one
memory that could just occasionally sting her from content. He would go
to Merle’s wedding, if only to see what sort of a fellow was this Jean
Raoul Théodore, Comte de Cler.--“Sure to be a stumor ...” it was a
queer thing, but Stuart suspected most men to be stumors, who gathered
up his litter of orange-peel.
“I wonder if I did her any good?”...
Mrs. Heron came out of the drawing-room, her hand on Arthur Heron’s
arm; Babs following.
“Just think, Stuart: Merle des Essarts is going to be married.” They
passed into the dining-room. “I’ve just had the invitation. I believe
that Madame des Essarts and I are not on particularly good terms; she
neither came to my last big At Home, nor answered the card, nor called
afterwards. However.... This Comte de Cler is a most distinguished man.
A diplomat. I know him slightly. Much older than the girl, of course;
but such charming manners. Isn’t it suitable?”
She asked the question rather anxiously, not quite sure if the son of
the house of Heron had not once himself deigned to cast an eye towards
la maison des Essarts.
“Merle would be a delightful acquisition in the highest ambassadorial
circles,” Stuart assented warmly.
But he still suspected Jean de Cler of being a stumor.
CHAPTER VII
JOHNSONESE
Luke was with Jinny at the cake-shop.
“Have another?” said Jinny.
He hesitated. It was her birthday, and she had been tipped, and was
treating him. This would have seemed a natural proceeding a year ago,
when he would have crammed himself to the utmost limits of her capital.
But Luke was growing up; and though not sufficient of a man to forbid
the lady to pay, was yet not sufficient of a boy unquestioningly to
accept the fifth cream bun. Therefore he compromised with himself: he
would ask her to state exactly her financial position; if it exceeded
half a crown, he would eat that bun, and be damned to delicate
considerations and social etiquette. But if less--
“How much cash have you got, Jinny?”
“Four and six,” promptly; “half a crown from Uncle Will, and two bob
from old Simmons. But of course you’ve already eaten some of that.”
“Well, and so’ve you.”
“I’ve only had three, three twopennies--that’s sixpence; you’ve had
four.”
“The shortcake’s a penny.”
“Sevenpence, then. And a lemonade each. And two--three sticks of
chocolate cream;” Jinny did rapid mental calculations--she was top of
her form in arithmetic--and announced two and elevenpence as still
remaining from her four and six, after expenses were deducted. Whereat
Luke, much relieved, took his fifth cake, satisfied that he had solved
the difficulty in fashion befitting a man of the world.
“We’re going to invite you to our Christmas dinner,” he remarked, his
mouth full.
“How topping! Who else?”
“The old Baker woman, and Vi. Balaam Atkins,--he’s mashed on Letty, you
know. Granpa and Aunt Lou--Granpa’s good for a present, anyway. Oh, and
your precious Tommy Cox!”
“Hurrah! He’s spiffing fun. Ever heard him imitate turkeys gobbling?”
“No, and I don’t want to. And I don’t suppose he’d find it difficult.
He’s to be lugged in for Vi Baker; she’s supposed to have a broken
heart, or some such tommy-rot----”
“And your mother thinks that _Tommy’s rot_ will cheer her up?” Jinny
exploded into giggles at her own wit; “I say, Luke, did you hear? I
said----”
“Oh, keep your hair on! I don’t want to hear it again.”
“Sour grapes! you wouldn’t have thought of it yourself. But won’t
Letty’s fellow be there?”
“Sebastian? Oh, rather; didn’t I count him? I say,” Luke leant forward
confidentially across the rickety green tin table, “you know how snarky
Pater was about him? Well, two mornings ago he had a letter from old
Levi--I heard him tell Mater about it--and ever since, he’s simply
oiled himself all over Sebastian. And I believe he’s come to see him
this afternoon.”
“Who’s come to see who, stupid?”
“Old Levi. He’s frightfully rich. Come to see Pater.”
“Then why isn’t Sebastian frightfully rich? Has he quarrelled with his
dad?”
“Secret,” said Luke shortly. “Come along, let’s be off.”
“No--wait--tell me, Luke. Do. I won’t tell, honest Injun. You might,
Luke, because it’s my birthday.”
“As if that was a reason,” scorning her femininity. “Besides, you’ll
blab.”
“No, I won’t.” And she added: “You might tell me, Luke,--I’m paying for
your tea.”
Luke was not offended; indeed, he thought she had put forth a fairly
strong argument.
“Well, when he got sort of engaged to Letty, his Guv’nor was going to
make him partner at the Stores, and start him on fifteen hundred quid a
year.” He repeated the sum impressively. And Jinny gasped:
“My hat!”
“He’s chucked it,” finished Luke, still more impressively.
“My _hat_! Whatever for?”
“Because he’s a Socialist.”
“What difference does that make?”
Luke embarked on an explanation of the first principles underlying
the code of equality; threw in a few cutting sentences regarding the
palpable unfairness of “one law for the rich and another for the poor”;
and wound up by reading his companion a column from the current issue
of “Mine and Yours.”
“But that’s all balmy bosh,” was Jinny’s comment.
“_Is_ it?” huffily. “As it happens, I’m a Socialist myself.”
“_You_ are? Crumbs! Why?”
Luke fumbled in vain for words with which to express the queer gleam
which had penetrated the murkiness of his schoolboy soul; soul hitherto
stamped solely with football scores, surliness, and Jinny; with cheap
cigarettes and brandyballs; canings, ink, and the “usual beastliness”
of everything. Thereunto had lately to be added the astounding novelty
of someone who sacrificed material advantages for the sake of an
abstract idea; and the blended beauty and absurdity of the proceeding
had uplifted Luke to a queer sense of gladness that such a miracle
should actually take place within his ken; had even inspired him with
an inarticulate desire to imitate ... somehow. His shyness had never
permitted him to confide in Sebastian; otherwise he might have received
another shock on hearing that in this case Socialism was not the
motive of renunciation. Sebastian, for his part, might have found some
difficulty in translating into Johnsonese the twisted asceticism of
Stuart Heron.
But Luke only dogged in boorish silence his sister’s betrothed. And
Sebastian thought his future brother-in-law rather an uncouth lad, with
whom he could never have anything in common.
In the meantime, Luke realized the impossibility of laying before
Jinny the wonder of a share-and-share-alike community, while she was
very importantly calling for the bill, and clinking her coins on to
the table; especially as he had absently overstepped his self-imposed
limit, and eaten twopence off the half-crown.
“Come on!” cried Jinny, catching up her hockey-stick, and marching out
of the shop. She had played in a match that afternoon, and won it,
three goals to one. And, re-living her victory, she had forgotten all
about Luke’s recent outburst. He followed her into the High Street,
and thence round the corner into the quiet road running at right
angles, and ending abruptly in a high wall which shut off the railway
embankment. Luke slouched past the gate of Town House.
“Hi!” shouted Jinny, who had halted at the boarding establishment next
door; “have you eaten so much as to forget your own address, fathead?”
“No ... walk with me as far as the wall, Jinny?”
“Why ever?”
“Oh, I dunno; needn’t if you don’t want to.”
She yielded. The constant vituperations with which she adorned her
speech, were merely used in defence, as the porcupine shoots its
quills. She laboured under a fifteen-year-old delusion that rudeness is
the equivalent of wit. But she was very fond of Luke. In fact, in spite
of her many assertions to the contrary, her inmost heart preferred him
to the redoubtable Tommy Cox.
“Well, what now?” she demanded, in softer tones than usual, as they
leant up against the wall.
He looked at her; her curls were tumbled about her neck; her face was
a warm blur through the humid mists of a late afternoon in December.
Sebastian had been especially devoted to Letty during the last
fortnight, and the prevailing atmosphere of sentiment and tenderness
had infected Luke. He felt now that he wanted something more of his
girl than repartee.... Suddenly he plunged forward; his lips missed her
mouth, but landed somewhere in the dim hollow of her throat.
... “Jinny!”
A train thundered along the bank overhead, shook the wall, passed
in a rush of light, leaving in its wake a long-drawn-out plaintive
whistle....
Then Jinny pulled herself away: “Oh, crumbs! don’t be sloppy!” she
cried, and ran swiftly down the road, clattering her hockey-stick along
the pavement.
Luke, for very shame, remained rooted to the spot long after he had
heard the door of number twenty-seven bang behind her.
* * * * *
Mr. Johnson saw his guest off at the front door. Then, with the air of
a man completely satisfied, went into the parlour to report to his wife.
“Did you ask him if he wanted tea, Matthew?”
Her husband smiled broadly. “He had a drink and a cigar, my dear.”
“One of your good cigars?”
Mr. Johnson nodded; and she knew therefore that all was well, and that
she might safely ask questions. “What did he say about Sebastian? Did
he tell you the reason----?”
“That he did.”
“Well?”
“Ned Levi told me in confidence, Frances.”
“Well?” brushing aside this trifling objection.
“There is nothing to prevent a public engagement as soon as ever you
like,” said Mr. Johnson with dignity; “and nothing to prevent ’em
getting married as soon as _they_ like. _I_ don’t know what we’ve been
waiting for.”
“We’ve been waiting for your consent, Mat,” gently.
“They have it; oh, they have it.” Mr. Johnson’s voice blessed the
absent pair.
“And what does Sebastian’s father say about Sebastian not taking his
money?” asked Mrs. Johnson, returning to the charge.
And having let five minutes elapse since his promise of secrecy, Mr.
Johnson felt he might now with honour let the cat out of the bag:
“The cub got it into his head, at Oxford or some such place, that
he wouldn’t take money that had been made in trade. It may be that
some other young snob told him that the Stores swindled pence out of
people’s pockets. Comes of sending your son to Oxford. And you wanted
Luke to go there.”
“I believe it’s a good place in its way, Mat,” Mrs. Johnson said,
tolerating Oxford.
“Ned Levi thinks the boy can’t fail to come round all right when he’s
married to a sensible girl. That’s why he’s anxious to hurry on the
wedding.”
“But meanwhile they can’t live on nothing, Mat. They can’t live on
Sebastian’s hundred a year.”
“I’m allowing ’em four hundred a year, just to keep ’em going.”
“But--Matthew----” Mrs. Johnson was completely astounded at her
husband’s sudden magnificent disposal of half his income.
He winked at her; a slow and prodigious wink: “Ned Levi’s money, my
dear; every cent of it. But not a word to Sebastian.”
Thus the plot stood revealed.
“I’m a great one for argerment,” continued Mr. Johnson; “and I said
to him: ‘Levi’ I said, him and me being old pals, ‘Levi’ I said,
‘trade’s as good as any profession if we in trade like to consider any
profession as good as us; and that’s logic. But since your jackanapes
seems set against takin’ trade-money, what’s to prevent him refusing
mine?’ Eh? That’s what I said.”
“And what is, Mat?”
“What is what?”
“To prevent him refusing yours?”
“It won’t be mine. It’ll be Ned Levi’s.”
“Yes, but what’s to prevent Sebastian refusing it, whoever of you it
comes from?”
But Mr. Johnson seemed to think Sebastian was already “coming round.”
“I’ve noticed him different since a couple of weeks. More easy-like and
anxious to please. Only he’s too proud to go galloping straight back to
the Stores and say: ‘Please, sir, I was an ass, give me my partnership
and fifteen hundred per annum.’ He’ll say it by degrees. And half of
the whole boiling is his when Ned dies. Not but that Ned’s as young as
I am, but he looks tired and worn, poor fellow; sort of wistful round
the eyes when he said: ‘Johnson, it isn’t your dowry to your daughter
he’ll object to; it’s only my help he won’t take; so it must reach him
through a back door.’ But Sebastian Levi’s a good match for our girl,
Frances, even if he’s gone temporary mad; now that I know his father’s
not set against him, as I was afraid.”
Mrs. Johnson began: “I was wondering----” and relapsed into silence.
He encouraged her: “Speak up, old lady.”
“Whether we mightn’t announce the wedding officially at our Christmas
dinner. Half the people don’t even know Letty’s engaged.”
“Have it your own way.”
“Yes, but I was wondering----”
“You’ll hurt yourself with wondering so much,” remarked Mr. Johnson
facetiously.
“About inviting Mr. Levi. You see, he’s a Jew.”
“What of it? _I_ don’t mind.”
“Nor do I. But _does_ one, to a Christmas dinner?”
“Why not?... Oh! Ah!...” slowly in Mr. Johnson’s brain, an atmosphere
of holly, plum-pudding, gifts, and jocularity, cleared away, to reveal
for an instant the event for which the festival stood as symbol.
“Ah. Um.”
Mrs. Johnson folded up her work. “I’m going over to consult Millicent
Baker; she knows more about Jews than we. I shouldn’t like to do the
wrong thing about it, and hurt his feelings.”
Mrs. Baker, when the problem was formally laid before her, delivered
judgment against. “He might not be able to eat the food. If it isn’t
cooked Kosher. Of course, if you want to put yourself out----”
“I couldn’t possibly ask that much of Cook. When we’re twelve sitting
down as it is. And I don’t think my father would care about a--what do
you call it?--Kosher plum-pudding. It doesn’t sound convivial, does
it?” doubtfully.
“And yet, Sebastian’s father has a right to be present, hasn’t he? Even
if it makes extra trouble.” Mrs. Baker hovered uncertainly; the rich
Ned Levi, she knew, was a widower; Mr. Baker had been in his grave
since fourteen years.
“What I’m most afraid of,” Mrs. Johnson confessed, “is that he’ll feel
bound to ask us back to one of _his_ religious festivals,--that funny
one where the Jews go up on the roof and eat pineapple.”
“Dear things,” murmured Mrs. Baker.
“I approve highly of all these picturesque customs,” explained the
other lady, painstakingly. “But not for myself. Pineapple in large
quantities disagrees with me. Especially the tinned kind. And I believe
they have to sit cross-legged.”
Then Mrs. Baker, who on questions of etiquette was really invaluable,
suggested the brilliant compromise that Mr. Levi, senior, should be
invited to dine at Town House on Boxing Day.--“Or on the day after
Boxing Day, to make it quite safe.”
“That wouldn’t be Christmas, really Christmas, at all any more, would
it?” Considerably easier in her mind, now that the vexed question was
settled, Mrs. Johnson returned home again; having first arranged that
on the occasion of Mr. Levi’s visit, Mrs. Baker should “just drop in,”
and aid in his entertainment, on the strength of her experience at
Laura Silberstein’s wedding.
* * * * *
Letty stopped in front of a giant notice-board, which signified: “To Be
Let Or Sold.”
“Want to shee inside dat house,” she announced, in coaxing baby
language. “Oo, please, Sebastian, want to shee inside.” She tugged
imperiously at his hand.
Behind the murky strip of garden, black windows glimmered faintly in a
spectral building.
“Darling baby,” Sebastian replied, responding to her whim, “don’t you
know that a big bogey-man lives behind that door, and you’ll hear his
bones rattle through the letter-box?”
But Letty only tugged the harder, up the damp gravel path. “One can
never tell,” stopping and facing him, her blue eyes very serious, her
soft curls clinging to cheek and forehead, in little wet tendrils, “how
soon we may want a house, now that father has grown nice to you.”
She might equally well have said: “Now that you’ve grown nice to
me.” For never had she and Sebastian been so happy together, not
even in their first days of courtship, as since their quarrel and
reconciliation a fortnight ago. He no longer oppressed her with
his moody fits, nor snubbed her when she strove to intrude on his
remoteness; he even let her minister to one of his headaches, to her
great content; moreover, he seemed possessed by a real lover’s craving
for her constant companionship; and the note in his voice when he spoke
her name, filled her with a tremulous wish to cry and laugh, both at
the same time.
--How could she know he was being hounded day and night by an idea,
and that he was striving to place her between the idea and himself?
striving to stifle his eyes and ears with her, to cram himself with
her, to the exclusion of all else. How should she guess that he dared
not love her little, lest her presence should prove too feeble for its
purpose; dared not love her much, because of the hard bite in a man’s
voice saying: “At the height is the time to cut with any credit, my
lad!”... Why, then the more he loaded Letty with his tenderness, the
nearer he brought their passion to the height where----But he dared not
love her less, nor yet more.
Sebastian had not been near Stuart, since the latter had, hornet-wise,
stung his brain to a veritable madness of thought. Stung, and stung
again, and left the sting within. Sebastian hated Stuart,--and Lord!
how one _could_ hate a man who was capable of such ruthless brutality
as to treat love like some luxuriant but dangerous growth; cut it away
for the sake of ... of what? This was where Sebastian always lost the
idea; could sense it, indeed, far-off, taunting him for his lack of
understanding:
“You’re not big enough. Not big enough.”
“He’s not human. Not human,” the boy would shout in reply.
He had perpetual nightmares of killing Stuart; actually hacking at him
with a knife; searching for some vulnerable spot. But the blade would
rebound against a hard invisible resistance.... The nightmare recurred
again and again, tiring Sebastian, wearing him to tatters, with its
frenzied futility.
--“Ooo! light a match, Sebastian; it’s so dark,” cried Letty, as the
front door yielded to her timid pressure.
The blue flicker betrayed the interior of the house as quite new,
smelling strongly of paint, completely devoid of furniture; the walls
unpapered; the floors sonorous to the tramp of feet. Some boards
and pails lying about, and a candle-end stuck into a bottle on the
chimney-piece, betokened that the workmen were still employed there
during the daytime.
“Well?” said Sebastian, watching with considerable amusement, as Letty,
candle in hand, peeped into all the bare echoing apartments, evidently
seeing in them far more than was apparent to the male eye. “Will it do
for us? Which is to be my study?”
Solemnly she led him into what might have been a fair-sized cupboard.
“I protest!” cried Sebastian wrathfully. “You’re just a tyrant. _This_
shall be my study.” And he planted himself firmly in the very largest
room of all.
“The drawing-room, of course,” Letty contradicted, her voice holding
vistas of many ‘At Home days.’ “And I can’t have your dirty boots all
over the pink carpet. Oh, Sebastian, let’s pretend, a bit in each room,
that we’re already living here; just to see what you’re like in a house
of your own.”
They began their game in a phantom-ridden dining-room; at an imaginary
breakfast-table.
“Lettice,” angrily, “this is the fifth bill I’ve had for rose chintz.
You’ve had enough rose chintz to make a canopy for Hampstead Heath.”
“Oh, Sebastian, and I’ve only covered three tiny little cushions for
your study. I do think you’re ungrateful.”
“I’ve told you sixty times I won’t have cushions in my study.”
“I’m only trying to make you comfortable.”
... A Vision, fading into the cold blue frosts that lay beyond comfort
or cushions.... He had chosen. Not for him, the Vision. Another man had
been stronger, pursued it and held it....
“Now you’re working hard at your desk,” commanded Letty, passing into
the room behind. “And I come in and disturb you. I want to test your
temper.”
“Seek not to know what the gods have in their mercy hidden,” laughed
Sebastian, giving her the candle; she went into the passage, and shut
the door on him; for an instant he was alone in the thick blackness.
... But he liked these stark naked rooms with their wide wash of
window. What sort of an appearance would they present when furnished
in a blend of Johnsonese and his own æstheticism? Letty, he knew,
liked cheerful colours and a litter of knick-knacks--hateful word,
knick-knacks--one would fall over them--they stood on rickety tables.
He was beginning also to dislike his own previous notions about schemes
and harmonies of decoration. They spread a cloying smoothness over his
mind, fretting for harsher salter relief.... The idea was catching him
again, here in the draughty dark.... In a panic he stumbled to the
door, calling out her name: “Letty! Letty!”...
She entered with the candle:
“Darling, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but dinner is getting cold on
the table. Sarah rang the gong three times,” reproachfully.
He remembered the game, then; and with an affectation of irritability,
consigned Sarah and the gong both to the devil.
“Sebastian, you really must not use such language, even if you are
busy.” She came up behind him, and put her arms round his neck. “Say
you’re sorry!”
“You’ve smudged the page.”
“Say you’re sorry!”
--The game led them upstairs, to the bedrooms.
“Now it’s my turn to be inside,” suggested Letty. “You’ve come home
late, oh, horribly late; and I’ve been waiting up for you.”
“I seem to have a pretty rotten character altogether in this show,”
Sebastian objected. “What about you coming home late?”
“Wives don’t,” said Letty and a lovely colour flooded her face at the
word she had unwittingly let slip.
He smiled. “Don’t they? All right, then we’ll both be coming home
late; I refuse to be a prodigal, for you to bully me. We’ve been out
together, Letty darling, and you’re dead tired; I think I have to
carry you upstairs.” He strode ahead, and placed the candle on the
window-sill of the front first-floor room. Then, his hands free,
returned for his burden.
“Sebastian, you’re crushing me....”
“Let me undress you, you sleepy baby. Sit down while I pull the combs
out of your hair ... what soft light masses ... like burying one’s
hands in a snow-drift only it’s warm ... warm. Did you enjoy yourself,
dancing with me to-night?”
“It was glorious; I’d rather waltz with you than anyone, Sebastian.”
“Even though I’m only your husband?”
A hush. While the spearhead of flame spun fantastic humped shadows over
the ceiling.
... “What are you doing?” her voice was low as a lullaby.
“Taking off your absurd shoes, sweet. No, you’re not to do a thing for
yourself; what am I here for?”
“To love me,” she murmured.
“To love you, Letty? Oh, Letty, it’s good to come home like this, to
our own house. Drowsy little girl, you can shut your eyes now--now----”
--And now the room had miraculously furnished itself; long mirrors
reflecting the silver on the toilet-table; great dark flowers patterned
on the walls; in a recess, the shadowy blue gleam of a satin quilt, the
twinkle of brass knobs.... The whole drear abode seemed suddenly astir
with movement, as though their duet had quickened to life each chamber
as they passed through. Somebody was singing overhead--empty hearths
had burst into a glow--footsteps ran up and down the lit stairs--
“Letty!”
... Gone, that bleak vision which had tormented him. Vision which
sometimes took the shape of a lean figure running, always running,
against the wind. Triumphantly Sebastian recognized that it had lost
its power with him; he had succeeded in shutting it out--shutting it
out, please God, for always....
“Letty! Letty!”
Her name was the talisman; and her fragrance....
--“Sebastian dear, it’s time to go home, isn’t it? I’m just a wee bit
cold.”
So they left behind them the empty house; and very close together,
walked back to Turnham Green. As they drew near the gate of Town House,
a familiar figure loomed in sight from the opposite direction.
“Hullo, Luke; been climbing the railway bank again?”
“No,” disgustedly; he had forsworn these childish pastimes fully two
years ago. “I was just hanging about. Mater’s gone over to the Baker
woman; I saw her cross the road.”
“Here she is,” cried Letty, as Mrs. Johnson joined them, with a cheery:
“Well, children, had a nice afternoon, all of you? Coming in to have a
bit of supper with us, Sebastian?”
He hesitated. “Mr. Johnson----”
“He’ll be delighted,” his wife promised. And indeed, Mr. Johnson’s
amiability over the roast mutton was a thing to be remembered. The
visit of Mr. Levi, senior, was not mentioned; but the marvelling lovers
were informed they might fix their wedding-day for the near future, and
formally announce the date at dinner on Christmas Day.
“Four o’clock,” Mrs. Johnson reminded Sebastian. “We always start
dinner at four on Christmas day, and go on just as long as ever we
like.”
“And don’t you take much breakfast, my boy,” put in Mr. Johnson; “just
nibble at a bit o’ dry toast. For I warn you, you’ll need every bit of
your appetite later on.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE DISCIPLE
“Christmas comes but once a year,
When it comes it brings good cheer!”
Granpa Cubitt’s sally was received with hearty cheers. And Luke
whispered to Jinny: “He’s only starting now; you don’t know Granpa. He
can make verses about anybody, jump up and make ’em. You’ll see.”
“_Does_ it, though?” questioned Tommy Cox, à propos of Christmas and
good cheer. The invited guests, complete in number, had been waiting
in the drawing-room since five minutes to four,--and now it was eight
minutes past, and no dinner had as yet been announced. “I tell you
what,” continued Tommy disconsolately; “I believe Mrs. J. has humbugged
us over turkey and plum-pudding; and brought us all here to starve us
to death, just to show there’s no ill-feeling. Oooo! Muvver! Don’t want
to be a skelington!” And he plumped himself down on the sofa, and with
knuckles screwed into his eyes, pretended to floods of bitter weeping.
Granpa whispered to Letty: “What is that young man’s name, my dear?”
“Tommy Cox, Granpa.”
Rising to his feet, Granpa pointed with one finger towards the
blubbering youth; and, lifting the other hand to enjoin silence,
delivered himself of his first impromptu of the evening:
“Little Tommy Cox-o
Crying for his Oxo!
What shall we give him?
A Xmas box-o!”
“Now then, you young ladies, there’s a chance for you!”
Amid shouts of laughter, and “Bravo, Granpa!” Jinny ran forward, and
with all her strength, smote Tommy upon the ear.
“A Xmas box-o!” she chanted triumphantly. And was only delivered from
Tommy’s vengeance, by the timely appearance of Mrs. Johnson in the
doorway. With quiet exaltation, she trumpeted forth the single word:
“Dinner.”
At once a hush fell upon the company. A hush of relief and expectation
and a sense of the solemn rite unto which they were summoned. Mr.
Johnson led the way to the dining-room, Aunt Lou panting upon his arm.
Granpa followed with Mrs. Baker; and there ensued a real difficulty in
getting them past the threshold, above which dangled a large bunch of
mistletoe. Mrs. Johnson had purposely thrown the two together, as Milly
Baker never took offence at a bit of fun, “and really, with father, you
never know what he’ll be up to!” The next pair, Tommy Cox and Vi Baker,
were a carefully-thought-out blend of merriment and sorrow; Vi had
taken to drooping her head and refusing comfort, since she had given
Ernie the chuck, and--“If Tommy can’t cheer her up, I don’t know who
can!” reflected the hostess of the occasion. Sebastian and Letty were
coupled as a matter of course; and Luke and Jinny. Mrs. Johnson herself
brought up the rear with Balaam Atkins, who under a neatly dressed and
well-bred exterior, concealed a heart that still beat faithfully for
Letty. He did not know yet that she was formally betrothed to another;
and Mrs. Johnson was sorry for him, aware that the blow would descend
within the hour; she determined to make it her business that he should
eat a good meal, believing that trouble always falls hardest on an
empty stomach.
A thrill and a gasp ran round the assembly at first sight of the
festive board, decorated profusely with holly and evergreens, and
connected with the chandelier by trails of smilax. Red and blue and
green crackers glittered in upright threes, like small bivouac fires;
or lay scattered flat between the plentiful dishes of almonds and
raisins and chocolates. On every lady’s name-card, Letty had tastefully
painted a spray of holly, with a suitable sentiment attached; and on
every gentleman’s, a robin redbreast. The glistening napkins were
folded into boat-shapes, each beside a formidable array of glasses and
tumblers, expressive of much conviviality to come. A miniature fir tree
occupied the proud position of centre-piece, gaily bedecked with flags.
Mrs. Johnson had spent much care and time on the arrangement of her
table, and wore an expression of majestic geniality while her guests
applauded, and, still with that touch of awe upon them, slid into their
appointed places.
The soup was brought in, and doled out. Then arose a squeal from Jinny:
“Oo-er! my shoe!” she had been attempting to attract the attention
of Luke, who, through some shuffling of seats, sat opposite instead
of beside her. In an instant, Tommy Cox was underneath the table,
disporting himself mightily among the slippers easily detachable, and
continually bringing one up in his mouth, for Jinny’s inspection--“No,
Tommy, no; mine’s a bronze one; that’s Vi’s!” And giggles from a
rapidly brightening Violet Baker: “Well, I never! You have a sauce! Put
it back where you found it, this very minute.”
Granpa cleared his throat impressively:
“Young man, you are much too bold,
You’ll have the lady catching cold!”
“How you do it, all of a sudden like that, beats me,” said Mrs. Baker
admiringly. “Why, you’re quite a poet.”
Bang! went the first cracker, between Aunt Lou and her brother-in-law
Mr. Johnson. And “Hooray!” cried Luke and Jinny in unison, taking this
for permission to demolish the bivouacs, and start pulling across the
table.
“Not till dessert, Luke. Put those crackers back at once. Matthew, I’m
ashamed of you, setting such an example.”
“I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” bellowed Tommy the Humorist, holding a
cracker to each eye, and squinting through, to find out what was inside.
“There’s beef for whoever wants it,” announced the carver, flourishing
the knife over a prime large turkey.
Half-way through his portion of the bird--and a well-heaped-up portion
too,--Granpa thought it about time that Sebastian and Letty should be
brought into prominence. Enjoining silence, as he always did before
casting his pearls, he sipped his claret, coughed and choked several
times, waggled an arch and shining head, and spouted:
“I can see a red-haired lover
Who’s squeezing his best girl’s hand under the table cover.
I do not think I’ve need to name him,
And all I can say is: I don’t blame him.”
“Granpa! how can you?” cried Letty, confused and blushing; “I
wasn’t,--I mean, he wasn’t.”
“Bless them ... dear innocent things ...” murmured Mrs. Baker,
smoothing down the front of her prune-coloured silk wrappings and
excrescences and fermentations. She was fearfully and wonderfully clad,
this Xmas Day. Aunt Lou eyed her with suspicion. Aunt Lou considered
Granpa not too old to make an old fool of himself. She was the only
spinster daughter, a rosy bouncing lady, who wasn’t likely to stand a
stepmother being put over _her_.
Sebastian laughed hilariously at Granpa’s joke; and continued laughing,
even after the general mirth had died down. Letty thought she’d never
seen him so lively; no, nor yet so handsome, dark eyes flaming in a
dead-white face, lips wine-red and feverish, hair a ruffled auburn
halo. “He’s like a god; he’s glorious,” thought Letty; and turned,
girl-like, to Balaam Atkins on her other side, that she might compare
him disparagingly with Sebastian.
Mr. Atkins murmured: “I don’t blame him either, Miss Letty,”--and
suddenly she felt sorry for her discarded swain, who really was just
the sort of man to have made her happy, with his neat normal ideas, and
neat clothes, and neat bank-balance, and neat fair features. Sebastian
might have resembled a god, but Balaam Atkins was simply a cut-out
model of a good husband ... and did not contrast so very unfavourably
after all.
With the entrance of the lit plum pudding, flanked on one side by the
mince-pies, on the other by a very yellow trifle (not free from a faint
suspicion of Bird’s custard powder), the last traces of restraint
disappeared from the party. Jinny, quite forgetting such everyday
things as manners, quite forgetting she wore her best pink dress
with the Irish lace collar, sprang on to her chair, waved her spoon,
and clamoured to be served first, before the leaping fires went out.
Indulgently, because she was the youngest present, her wish was granted.
“Greedy pig!” cried Luke. And: “Jea-lous!” sang back Jinny, emulating
the fire-eater’s celebrated act.
A few minutes later: “Mrs. Baker’s got the _twins_!” shrieked Tommy
Cox, in an ecstasy of delight, snatching from that lady’s plate the
linked china dolls, and dangling them aloft for the world to see.
“I believe she did it on purpose,” muttered Aunt Lou disgustedly.
While Granpa chanted amorously to his giggling wriggling neighbour:
“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, Baker’s twins!
It ain’t no use tryin’ to gobble up your sins!
We all can spot ’em,
And wonder how you got ’em!”
“Father!!!” Mrs. Johnson had overheard, and was shocked beyond measure
at her wicked old parent.
Jinny had the wedding-ring; and would much have preferred the
threepenny-bit, which fell to Mr. Johnson’s share; wiping and pocketing
the coin, he remarked waggishly that it would help pay for this
dinner, which, as it was, had left him a Ruined Man. And then Aunt Lou
took offence, and said there were plenty of invitations just as good
that she and her father might have accepted if they’d known Matthew
grudged them a morsel of bird and a fragment of pudding; and even if
he only said it in fun, it wasn’t at all funny to make one’s guests
feel uncomfortable, especially at Yuletide, which ought to be a season
of peace-on-earth goodwill-to-men. Then Mr. Johnson apologized; and
Aunt Lou, softened, wept a little, was pressed to a second helping of
plum-pudding, and all was harmony again.
Violet Baker had found the old maid’s thimble under her spoon, but
managed to conceal it; Tommy Cox was being very attentive, and there
was no sense in putting him off from the start, so to speak.
At last, when the pudding-plates were removed, and replaced by mounds
of oranges and figs and dates; when port gleamed duskily in every
glass, and the nut-crackers were freely circulating, Mrs. Johnson
gave the anxiously awaited signal for the crackers to be pulled. Then
indeed, pandemonium reached its height; then indeed, every head, old
and young, was drunkenly crowned by paper cap or bonnet; and: bang!
bang! bang! the squibs exploded up and down the table. The cloth was
one glittering litter of green and red transparency, all mixed up with
the orange-peel and silver paper. Luke and Jinny had each a musical
instrument at their lips, and squeaked and squawked ceaselessly, their
cheeks blown out and purple with the exertion. Vi Baker and Tommy
Cox had their heads very close together over a finger-bowl, in which
they were experimenting with those Japanese puzzles that open out in
water; his arm was around her waist; and she, transported by the hectic
screaming excitement of Xmas, was content to leave it there. Granpa,
who had donned a rakish gilt crown, between whose spikes one could
glimpse the gas-light reflected in the naked polish of his cranium,
was busy making a collection of mottoes, riddles and sentimental
verse, from the crackers, and reading them aloud. From the kitchen
below, quavered the third repetition of “Good King Wenceslas.” Balaam
Atkins whispered to Letty, in a tone pregnant of mournful meaning:
“I wonder--if I might venture--to ask you--to pull with me, Miss
Letty?”--Then, utterly abashed, realized what construction might
have been put upon his innocent demand; and dropped the cracker, and
went down after it, and remained obliterated for quite a period of
time. And Mrs. Baker, wearing a washer-woman’s bonnet, which had an
air strangely and horribly appropriate, was dancing,--yes, actually
dancing, with Aunt Lou Cubitt; all enmity forgotten in the sudden
discovery that forty years ago they had met at the same terpsichorean
school, where little girls in frilled pantaloons learnt to jig and reel
and polka.--And: “Do you remember the Bluebell Schottische?” cried
Aunt Lou; which led to the pleasing exhibition just mentioned, of two
middle-aged ladies gathering up their skirts, and prancing and twirling
down the narrow space of the room between the wall and the row of
chairs.
“I used to be light as a fairy,” panted Mrs. Baker, regaining her seat.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson exchanged a mute dialogue of glances, which might
be curtly translated as: “When?” “Now.” And Mr. Johnson, glass in hand,
rose to his feet.
“Speech! Speech!” cried Tommy Cox, thumping on the table.
“Ladies and gentlemen--and friends,” began Mr. Johnson, making a fine
distinction. “I must hurry up with what I’m going to say, because
I can see the gas is goin’ down, and I haven’t got a penny for the
metre--leave alone for the meat!” Here he made a great show of being
terrified of Aunt Lou’s disapproval; but she, mellowed by port, merely
smiled benignly; and he went on: “And I wouldn’t like to talk to you in
the dark, my friends, and lose sight of your beaming faces wreathed in
happy smiles, as my pal Will Shakespeare once said,--or was it Granpa
Cubitt? ’Pon my word, I’m getting mixed with all these poets.”
Whereat there was great applause, and Granpa was patted vigorously on
the back.
“Who has added so richly to the evening’s entertainment,” said Mr.
Johnson, in an inspired sentence all by itself. Then he recommenced:
“I think I can say, in which my wife joins me,” (cheers) “that nowhere
in England, no, nor yet anywhere else, has a merrier party sat round
any table, nor had a merrier Xmas.” (Chorus of assent.) “So may you all
enjoy the best of luck till we meet over our next plum-pudding.”
--A groan from Jinny, to whom the thought was agony. And, amid the
cheering and tattoo of feet which followed the host’s oratory, Balaam
Atkins, suddenly coming to the fore, begged to propose a toast to The
Ladies. Leave being vociferously given, he gave utterance, in precise,
rather lugubrious tones, to the following rollicking bit of sentiment:
“Your eyes!
My eyes!
Your lips!
My lips!
Our eyes have met!
Our lip--not yet!
Here’s hoping!”
Then he sat down again.
“Here’s hoping!” cried Tommy Cox, clinking glasses with Vi Baker, and
then with every other lady present. The rest of the gentlemen gallantly
followed suit.
Mr. Johnson had remained on his feet, to intimate that he had not yet
finished what he had to say. A meaning smile signified that something
of importance lay behind his silence. So, by unanimous consent, voices
were hushed to allow him to proceed.
“I am profiting of the festive occasion,” spoke Mr. Johnson, “and may
I be propheting truly” (interval for laughter; and for the pun to be
explained to Aunt Lou, who was almost asleep), “to make an announcement
that to some of you will be a surprise, and to some won’t. It’s this:
Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to fill your glasses and drink to the
engagement of my only daughter with Mr. Sebastian Levi, here present.”
The enthusiasm was tremendous. Vi Baker came round the table to embrace
her friend; Aunt Lou collapsed from sheer astonishment, and was heard
vociferating that she had never dreamt of such a thing. Granpa composed
an appropriate rhyme--threw it off with no trouble at all--which was
forever lost to the world, because Jinny and Tommy Cox were relieving
their overcharged feelings in a prolonged bout of hip-pip-pip-hurrahs!
And Balaam Atkins took the news like the gentleman he was, and with a
terrific effort, managed to ejaculate: “I hope you will be very, very
happy, Miss Letty.” But Letty unfortunately did not hear him, in the
general hubbub surrounding her.
“Before calling on my future son-in-law for a reply,” shouted Mr.
Johnson, over the tumult, “I want to make him a little Christmas-box.
I want to make it here, in front of you all. It’s the custom of the
country, and I speak of the best country in the world, which is
England” (“Rule Britannia!” yelled Tommy), “that the lady shall name
the day. Well, I’m going to reverse that process. I’m a bold man, and
I’m going to give Mrs. Grundy a rouser. Me and my wife and my daughter
are going to sit mum, while the bridegroom now fixes the date of
the wedding. It may be that he’ll say in a month; or it may be that
he’ll get scared of the noose of matrimony--or shall I call it the
noose-ance?” (loud laughter) “and plead for six months’ extension of
liberty. Or it may be he’ll say to-morrow,--one never can tell with
these fiery-headed young chaps how much delay they can stand!” (more
laughter) “I just hope he’ll remember that young ladies need a little
time to get together their frillies,--at least, so I’ve been told.”
(“Go on! as if you didn’t know!” from Mrs. Baker, rather over-excited.)
“Sebastian, my boy, it’s up to you.” Mr. Johnson sat down.
Amid acclamation, Sebastian was hauled to his feet. Letty gave his hand
an encouraging squeeze.
“For he’s a jolly good fel-low!”
started Tommy Cox; in a burst of gruff enthusiasm, Luke joined in; and
then the rest of the company.
“--And so say all of us!”
... They were silent now, waiting for Sebastian.
* * * * *
Past the heat and the uproar and the odour of food, past the coarse
laughter and good-humoured jokes, the grinning capped faces, and the
disorderly table, Sebastian glimpsed it clearly, his Vision ... never
before as clearly: a lean stripped figure, striving, battling, forcing
itself against the rushing winds of earth; hands clenched, jaw pushed
forward ... yes, surely it was Stuart’s face he saw!
--These others should share the vision with him. He was about to
sacrifice to it--these others should understand why. He knew now to
what point he had been goaded through all the sweetness of the past
weeks, through all the gabble and gobble of the past hour. He knew. He
wasn’t going to flinch. Boring a hole in the wind with the thrust of
one’s own body.... If Stuart could do it, he could.
* * * * *
The first notes of his voice startled his hearers; it seemed pitched
somehow in the wrong key; neither jocular nor embarrassed:
“I can’t fix a day for the wedding, as Mr. Johnson has asked me to.
I--there won’t be a wedding. My engagement with Letty is broken off.”
* * * * *
--Suddenly he wanted to laugh. Granpa’s face, just opposite, looked so
funny in its dropped amazement, the gilt crown at a crooked angle on
the shining poll.... Everyone’s face was funny--staring--staring--round
eyes and open mouths wherever he looked--like waxworks. Letty ... well,
Letty was beside him. He need not see her unless he turned his head....
* * * * *
“You all think me quite mad,” Sebastian went on, after a pause. “Well,
and I think you mad, all of you. I’ve been thinking so all through
dinner. Because you can’t see anything beyond the dining-room table,
and what’s on it. If I married Letty, I should have to sit for the
rest of my life at a dining-room table, looking at the food. It would
be warm and comfortable and satisfying, and in time I should grow as
mad as you. I very nearly did. But I’m sane now--and I’m bitten with
the horror of getting all one wants, and going on getting it, and not
wanting any more. Giving up Letty now, I shall want her my whole life
long ... for I love her--do you understand that? Of course, you think
one shouldn’t speak of love except to be funny about it--but you’ve got
to realize that I love her, every bit of her; that I love her, and I’m
giving her up--and oh, God! how it hurts.... How good that it should
hurt....”
He bowed his face on to his hands, unable for an instant to grapple
with the swift salt cruelty of self-torment. From beside him, came
the sound of soft weeping. There was to be no splendid help from
Letty, in his renunciation; quite simply, she laid her head down on
her arms and sobbed, because she didn’t know what was the matter with
Sebastian,--oh, what was the matter with him, that he should be so
unkind?
Luke was gazing, wide-eyed, mouth gaping; he had not understood a
single word of Sebastian’s discourse, but, nevertheless, his soul
was one flame of admiration. A half-fearful hope of happiness was
stiffening the limp spirit of Balaam Atkins. But Mr. Johnson, on whose
brow a ponderous wrath had gathered, burst out, almost apoplectic with
rage:
“Let me tell you, sir, that if you’re not a lunatic, you’re a
blackguard. You’re behaving like a blackguard!”
Sebastian raised his head: “I’ve told you that I want her,” he cried
fiercely; “is that behaving like a blackguard, not to take what
you want?--But you’re thick, every one of you; thick with food and
drink. Can’t you get clear of your flesh for a moment, and get a grip
of--of---- Look here, this is neither my creed nor my credit: it’s
another man’s ... he’s _done_ it, I tell you--stripped himself of
love, because it’s better to desire than to possess. If you’re strong
enough.... If you’re strong enough. I gave up my solid income, and my
solid position in the world,--didn’t that show you I must have had
some keener leaner ideal than just welfare? Or did you merely think me
possessed?... But it’s splendid, I tell you, to be possessed; possessed
by the truth; driven by it--hounded--tortured--till you cast away all
goods, all ties,--run a race against your own luck--outstrip your own
luck--just for the fun of it--throw off the bondage ... bondage of
great deeds....”
He was repeating Stuart’s catch-phrases now; flinging them out
mechanically, hoping they would sting some blind understanding, where
his own eloquence had failed.
And then his mood changed, as he discovered it didn’t matter if these
people understood or not; he had done his part; done what Stuart Heron
had done before him: cut away love....
--“That the memory of love shall be like a sword-blade,” he muttered
half-aloud; but the words meant nothing--they tasted dry. Letty’s sobs
were each a separate pang in his heart. The Vision, having spurred him
to the culminating burst of exaltation, now deserted him altogether.
He did not know any more for what strange reasons he had performed
this strange act. But since the master knew, that was sufficient; the
disciple was content to follow blindly. He would go now and lay his
shattered world as a tribute at Stuart’s feet ... where he had already
laid his father’s disappointment ... his own ambitions. His shattered
world at Stuart’s feet.
He pushed back his chair, and stumbled to the door. Nobody tried to
stop him. He had paralysed the happy Christmas party, so that no
sound broke through the leaden silence ... even Letty was quiet now.
Sebastian groped among the overcoats hanging from the hall rack--so
many overcoats--he was quite incapable of recognizing his own. Did it
matter, after all? But still he took down first one and then another
from their pegs, and replaced them, stifled by the musty folds. A
wreath of holly, which encircled the mirror set in the rack, tumbled
to the ground. Sebastian picked it up, stood in a dazed fashion, the
thorns pricking his fingers: was there no end to the damage he was
doing these people’s Yule?
Mrs. Johnson led her weeping daughter from the dining-room, and up the
stairs. They passed Sebastian as if he did not exist.
... “Oh, mother, how could he, in front of them all, say that he didn’t
love me any more?”...
So much for Letty’s comprehension of motive. Sebastian laughed
hysterically, and banged the hall door behind him. Half-way up the
road, he looked back, and saw Luke signalling to him from the gate. He
went on. Could not be bothered with the boy. Stuart--he was going to
Stuart.
* * * * *
Disappointedly, Luke turned back into the house. On the threshold he
was met by Jinny:
“Everybody’s so horrid. Wasn’t he a beast to spoil all our fun? Luke,
do let’s get away from everybody for a bit, till they’ve calmed down.
I’ve bagged some chocs from the table.” She displayed them, moist and
brown, clenched in her hot hands. She looked very pretty, in her bright
pink dress and coral beads. Luke surveyed her a moment. Then he said:
“I don’t want any chocs. And I’m not ever going to see you again,
Jinny, old girl. At least, not if I can help it”; he remembered the
proximity of her dwelling.
Jinny dropped her spoils; and, crimson with anger and surprise, gasped
out:
“Well I never! You potty _too_!”
“No,” retorted Luke, kicking with his foot against the top step, “I’m
not potty, and nor’s he. You girls don’t understand, that’s all. There
are things we can do better without you. Things!” he repeated darkly,
wondering the while what they were. “Girls are soft----”
“We’re not soft. Soft yourself!”
“I don’t mean that sort of soft. And the more we care for you, the
finer it is of us to break with you.” He had grasped this much from
Sebastian’s outburst. “So you see, Jinny----”
But Jinny was neither as submissive as Letty, nor as responsive as
Peter, under similar treatment.
“Break with me, indeed!” tossing her curls indignantly, while the
big pink satin bow at the nape of her neck, perked out in aggressive
sympathy; “well, you _have_ got a cheek on you, Luke Johnson. Got to
be on with a girl before you’re off with her, _I_’ve always heard. And
you were never on with me, that I’m jolly well sure. No, nor likely to
be,--a great gawky lumpy-faced boy!”
She picked up her coat, which was lying in a crumpled heap at the foot
of the hall-stand, and flouncing past her stricken sweetheart, marched
down the four steps of Town House, and up the four steps of Arcadia,
next door.
--Luke made a sudden forward dive over the stone parapet that divided
them, and caught Jinny awkwardly by her skirt:
“Let me go!” she twisted round, that he might not see the tears which
scalded her eyes.
“Jinny,” his voice was low; “it’s--I was only joking, y’know. It’s all
right about the panto to-morrow, isn’t it?”
“Not so sure.”
“Jinny!”
“Oh,--I suppose so!” she detached herself from his grasp, and vanished
indoors.
* * * * *
Luke had not been able to pull it off, after all. Not quite.
CHAPTER IX
THE MASTER
“Mr. Heron is dressing, sir.” The butler at Careton House Terrace
looked with some disfavour at the dishevelled wild-eyed young man, who
at 7 p.m. on Christmas Day, rang such frenzied peals at the bell, and
asked for the son of the house, in such strange husky tones. It wasn’t
usual; and the butler’s reply contained a tinge of severity mingled
with its formal respect.
“I’ll go up to him.” Brushing past the astonished retainer, Sebastian
rushed up the two flights of stairs; and, without knocking, entered
Stuart’s bedroom.
Stuart, in evening-dress, was standing before the mirror, and polishing
his eyeglass. “You, Levi? Why, what’s the matter?”
Sebastian stood just within the door, limbs and tongue alike paralysed
of movement. There was so much--so much he had need to say to Stuart:
the words buzzed and beat in his brain like swarms of hornets. All
through his headlong passage through the deserted streets, he had been
working up and up to this moment. He wanted to shout what he had done,
and how he had done it; he wanted to assure Stuart over and over again
that he regretted nothing, no, not even Letty; that he was grateful to
the master for rescuing him from happiness, pointing out to him the
cold path among the stars.... Stars? but they weren’t cold; they were
throbbing hot--green and blue and red--like the glistening paper that
was wrapped around a cracker ... and they were jigging and squibbing
and somersaulting in front of his eyes--tumbling wheeling stars ... or
were they sobs? Ridiculous! one couldn’t see sobs.... Somebody had been
sobbing lately, he knew....
He took an uncertain step forward, held out his hands towards
Stuart,--then reeled over into a chair, head dropped on to his arms....
He had to thank Stuart--was thanking him now--heard his own voice
babbling the phrase over and over again.... “Curse you.... Curse
you....”
He had not meant to say it. He had meant to say exactly the contrary:
“I’ve done what you once did; you showed me the way; you----” But
things were happening to him now totally beyond his own volition. The
exultation of his deed accomplished transported him, maddened him, to
strange contortions of speech, outside all reason:
“Curse you.... Curse you....”
* * * * *
In silence Stuart stood looking down upon the boy. He guessed what
had happened; had anticipated, ever since their last conversation,
that Sebastian would come bursting in upon him, to relate that he
had smashed with Letty. It was better so; the two would never have
understood each other rightly. And yet--wasn’t it a pity, after all,
to have destroyed an idyll? A sudden remorse swept over Stuart; and
with it, an awful desolation of uncertainty: What had he been doing
with other people’s lives?... His metaphysics dropped away from under
his feet, leaving him treading upon a void. For one wont to be so
quietly sanely self-confident, the sensation was horrible. He could
not remain any longer where he was, in the same room with ... with the
wreckage. Stuart left Sebastian; went slowly down, and into his study.
He was entertaining a large party of family and friends that evening
at the Carlton; was already due at the Restaurant; felt disinclined
to start. He strolled to the window, and looked out; the street wore
that blank forlorn look which falls upon chimney-top and pavement on
Christmas Day. Only once before had Stuart been so utterly miserable,
so incomplete in himself, clutching for some outside reassurance that
he existed at all; he had gone to Merle then, and laid his head in her
lap, and she had asked no questions. But now Merle was on her honeymoon
in France. And, besides, it was not Merle he wanted....
He crossed the room to the telephone. Was there any reason why he
should not get what he wanted most? Only his theory--slippery ball on
the summit of which he had insecurely balanced himself. It would be
rather fun to jump off his own theory, and kick it away, hear it go
bounding and bouncing on its course! Great fun! argued leprechaun.
--“Trunk. 904 Thatch Lane.”
It took some time before the connection was established. Stuart sat on
the arm of a chair, and looked hard at the receiver. Presently the whir
of the bell shrilled in his ear. It startled him, even though he was
waiting for it so intently.
“Hello!”
... “Hello!” Evidently the maid at Bloemfontein.
“Can I speak to Miss Kyndersley, please?”
It never struck him that she might be out. She would not be out. That
sort of thing had always happened right for him and Peter.
“Yes, sir. What name?”
“No name.”
After a pause, Peter’s voice:
“Hello!”
“Hello--Peter!”
She knew at once. He could tell that by the silence. That was like
Peter; she would not reply till in control of her tumbled feelings.
At last: “A Merry Christmas to you, Stuart!”
Her mocking accent, in a vivid flash of memory, brought her image to
his mind, as he had first seen her: Cavalier poise of the head; boyish
figure wrapped close in a bronze cloak, shimmering gold where the light
caught it, umber in its shadowy folds; a tingle about her movements, as
of some hazardous quest in the air. His master-maid!... And what had he
to do with loneliness now?
--“Peter, I want to take you home from Euston to Thatch
Lane--to-night--at once. May I?”
A low gurgle of laughter:
“But, dear, I’m due in ten minutes at the Lorrimers’. They have a
party.”
“And I’m due since half an hour at the Carlton. I have a party. Peter
... will you come?”
“To your party?”
“No. My God, no. Baldwin will look after all that. To Euston?” Silence
again.... He was sure she had gone away from the receiver:
“Peter! Peter! Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come?”
“Yes, Stuart.”
* * * * *
Quarter of an hour later, and his car was whirling him through the
grim portals of Euston Station. The grey fogs clung thicker than ever
about the great outer hall. The porters moved about like hobgoblins in
a dream. Speechless and voiceless they all seemed, and yet the vaulted
roof echoed and re-echoed with ceaseless hollow shouts. By dint of
enquiries, Stuart found out that the 5.17 from Leaford, four stations
further down the line than Thatch Lane, due at Euston since 6.20, had
probably not yet started on its languid career, and need certainly
not be expected at Euston till somewhere in the environment of nine
o’clock. The giant clock pointed with its hands to three minutes past
eight.
“That ull be the next h’in from Thatch Lane, sir. We’re bound to be a
bit h’unpunctual Christmas-time. There’s the mails, sir. And people
leavin’ their ’omes. An’ it’s a bit thick on the line further down,
maybe. Thank you, sir.”
Throughout his life, Stuart vowed he did ample penance for his crowded
sins, by this interminable period of waiting. He had forgotten now
all about Sebastian; all about his remorse; the blanket of desolation
had lifted from his spirit. He was merely one concentrated throb of
impatience. Occasionally he dogged station-masters or signals, in the
hope that these might be induced to render up their prey. Their prey
was the 5.17 from Leaford. But they were immutable. Once he worked,
feverishly, at an automatic machine, inducing it to yield box after box
of matches, in order to feel that he could, of his own accord, make
something _move_, even clockwork. Ghostly trucks clanked up and down
the platforms; drifting wraiths asked him if he knew when and where
impossible trains started for impossible places; he strove to give them
all the help in his power, in order to placate the dark gods of Euston.
At twenty-five minutes past nine, the red eye of an engine glimmered
far down the stretching parallels of steel; and Stuart was informed
that this, in all probability, was the Leaford 5.17. Not even now would
the porter commit himself to a certainty; this was the season when
freakish spirits controlled the great terminus.
The linked cubes of light drew up beside the platform; doors opened,
and people tumbled forth, an ever thickening crowd.
--Then Stuart saw Peter. She was walking swiftly in his direction. He
moved forward to meet her. Silently, side by side, they went on to the
barrier.
“We must see at once about your train to Thatch Lane,” said Stuart at
last, in strictly matter-of-fact tones.
She replied gravely: “Yes, we mustn’t miss it on any account.” But her
lips twitched a little at the corners.
Stuart’s star, evidently again in working order, manœuvred that the
7.41 to Leaford, stopping at Thatch Lane, should be girding its loins
for departure, just as the pair strolled on to number four platform.
They found an empty first-class compartment. The train still lingered;
the guard seemed loth to wave his green flag; toyed with it, instead,
and exchanged light badinage with the stoker. Stuart felt incapable
of uttering a word till they were actually moving. Only the gathering
speed could put an end to this intolerable strain. He examined the
coloured photographs above the seats. The engine breathed heavily,
crawled a couple of inches.... Stuart’s nerves jumped with relief!...
then the 7.41 settled again into comfortable lethargy. It was only
twenty to ten.
“Are you most interested in cathedrals or waterfalls?” came Peter’s
cool voice, from the corner where she had ensconced herself. Stuart
continued a dogged interest in the photographs. Cool?--he knew she was
aflame, even as he. But they could both maintain their imperturbability
... for a few moments still.
After a little more coy reluctance, the engine decided firmly that this
really wouldn’t do! and with a jolt and a shiver, tore headlong from
the temptations of Euston, into the spectral beyond.
Stuart turned and looked at Peter.... She held out her hand:
“Give me a cigarette.”
Grimly he obeyed; and even shielded the match for her. Twice,
deliberately, she inhaled, and puffed out the smoke. Then their eyes
met again.... She rose, and through the partially open window, tossed
the remainder of her cigarette. It fell away in a shower of sparks. Her
action snapped the invisible rod which was holding them apart.... He
crushed her against him. They rocked slightly with the motion of the
train. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip. Her head fell back, so that
her eyes were half-veiled by their lids. And he stammered:
“Your throat is as white as foam ... and curved ... like the curve of a
wave!” From some dim memory the phrase had leapt into his mind, and he
spoke it.
“Peter, I love you.”
“The love of a leprechaun?”
“No. The love of a man. A quite ordinary man.... Will you marry me,
Peter?” he knelt crouching beside her, where she bent down to him from
her seat.
“Peter, I shall always love you ... now and for ever and for all time.
I want you near me, in my house, close up to me, bearing my name. My
wife ... damn you, don’t laugh! I’m not pretending--I _am_ an ordinary
man. I refuse to be treated any longer as a freak. I want to go on a
honeymoon with you, Peter, to Paris and Italy, where all nice people
go. I want to be just happy. No; I want you to be happy. I’ll buy you a
ring, and introduce you to my mother, and furnish a house with you, and
give dinner-parties, and----”
“Stuart, are you mad?” she cried, aghast. For Stuart to behave so
sanely was indeed a most alarming sign of madness in him.
“Will you marry me, Peter?”
“I might as well put on a hair-shirt for the rest of my existence.”
Then she looked down at the round dark head tilted back on to her lap;
met his elfish, yet strangely tender smile; and, with a tightening
of love which was almost painful in its intensity, tried to fix the
moment--this moment within sight and sound of him--to stand for the
blank moment which she knew lay inevitably ahead of her. The girl had
no illusions as to the fate of those who link their happiness with
something not quite human. The last six months had taught her. The
memory of them was like black seas rolling foamless on to a dark shore.
When the next theory seized him....
Politely she enquired after the last.
“I’ve rolled it down the hill,” Stuart confessed. “But I’ve had
enormous fun with it. I’ve sacrificed to it, and I’ve argued
against it--that was with Aureole and Ber----” he stopped just in
time, and hastily covered his blunder: “and I’ve dangled it in front
of a disciple, and I’ve treated it like a football. Really, a theory
is a most excellent occupation!” And then he told her about Letty
and Sebastian.
Peter listened thoughtfully:
“So they’ve broken away from each other, just as we did?”
“Something like that. I don’t expect they accomplished it as cleanly.
Sebastian’s methods are inclined to be messy or theatrical. In fact,
it was he who managed to put me off my ideas; he overdid them so
disgracefully. And I doubt if he ever took a firm and logical grasp of
them.”
“Then why--oh, Stuart, why didn’t you leave him alone?”
Stuart knitted his brows. “It was a _good_ theory,” he said, in much
the same tone as the Mad Hatter once pleaded: “It was the _best_
butter!”
“But you’ve doubled back on it now.”
“Exactly. So somebody’s got to prove it, if I don’t. Hang it! one can’t
leave theories lying loose about the world.”
“I’m thinking of Letty,” said Peter softly, flooded by pity for the
girl now groping helplessly after her mate, not understanding why she
had been deprived of him. She, Peter, had understood at the time--it
hadn’t been so hard for her. “Oh, poor Letty ... poor little lovers....”
Stuart interrupted, rather uneasily: “She’ll marry a bank clerk, and be
grateful to me for the rest of her life. Really and truly, Peter, I was
trying to help them. They’d have been so miserable together. People who
are blind, _must_ be helped.”
--The train drew up with a jerk at a station. Bewildered by this abrupt
cessation to the speed at which they had been hurled through streaming
space, Stuart scrambled to his feet. Grey fretting ghost-figures
hurried past their window. He watched them, himself dreamily calm;
it was inconceivable that anything from the outer world could break
through the enchantment which held their compartment aloof and
inviolate from all intrusion. Nevertheless, an intrepid hand suddenly
clutched at the door-handle, turned it sharply, called to someone
behind: “Plenty of room in here!”--And, before any preventive measures
could be taken, two large women collapsed on the seat opposite Stuart
and Peter.... And the train rushed on.
Stuart’s lips moved. If it were in prayer, then it was prayer of a very
perverted form.
And Peter wondered, despairingly, if these were real females, or
grotesque fiends sent by the night to torment them. They seemed to her
fancy, preternaturally enormous. As never before, she craved now the
bruise of Stuart’s lips, hard as iron; the lean, strong grip of his
hands; tangible reassurance that he had indeed come back to her. If
she could hold him as though he were a child, his head in the crook of
her arm, if she could soothe those restless quick-moving limbs of his
to a lulled content.... She glanced hopelessly at the two large women
eating belated mince-pies from a paper bag. Then, in a low voice, asked
Stuart if he had been present at Merle’s wedding. She had read accounts
of it in the papers; it had been a magnificent function.
“Yes, I was there; so was the whole diplomatic world, ministerial,
ambassadorial----”
“Never mind. Tell me about Jean de Cler.”
“He’s the right sort, I think,” Stuart granted handsomely. “Grey at the
temples, distinguished, chivalrous; with that inborn ease of manner
which marks the blue blood of the ‘ancien régime’--or something of the
kind. He evidently adores Merle, and will spend his life cherishing
her.”
“And she? Does she want to be cherished?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “She can’t help liking him--very much,
I should say. And she’ll be in the _milieu_ which suits her best.
Probably she’ll think of us sometimes, and be tormented--but she
was never quite a pirate, you know; she only wore the costume. The
wedding-dress suited her better; I’ve never seen anyone look so
beautiful.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“For one second I pressed near enough to offer my congratulations.”
“In what form?”
“I said: ‘There was once a pig, Merle, who lived in a sty in Cornwall.’
And she smiled.--‘There were once two girls, Stuart, who sat in a
trough that belonged to a pig who lived in a sty in Cornwall.’ Then
Madame des Essarts wafted me out of the way; I believe she regards me
as an unhealthy influence.”
... “There were once two girls, Stuart----” Peter understood why Merle
had made no sign, had not invited her to the wedding. The jewel had
definitely accepted her casket lined with pink; dared not risk the
raising of the lid....
The large women had been listening with absorbed interest to the
account of the wedding. Now, as the train slowed up again at the
station before Thatch Lane, they gathered together their belongings,
and departed.
* * * * *
For the two in their cramped galloping space of light, the circle of
enchantment joined again as though it had never been snapped. The humid
night whirled past their window. Stuart bent towards the girl; took her
in his arms: “Lie still, dear,” ... and for the second time Peter lay
still; mind and body and soul, still.
And, sighing, she wished this journey were already over--that already
she were lying in bed--already asleep--and already waking at dawn to
the knowledge of a world which again held Stuart.
There had been another dawn....
* * * * *
--“Because he did it ...” murmured the disciple.
THE END
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Transcriber's Note
p. vii "VI MERLE" changed to "VI. MERLE"
p. 13 "experiments." changed to "experiments.”"
p. 35 "already,”" changed to "already,"
p. 42 "“Oh," changed to "‘Oh,"
p. 83 "châtelaine," changed to "châtelaine"
p. 83 "Hellenes" changed to "Hellenes’"
p. 122 "“Did" changed to "Did"
p. 190 "‘Tyke’?" changed to "‘Tyke’?”"
p. 241 "Bounemouth" changed to "Bournemouth"
p. 258 "you!" changed to "you!”"
p. 308 ".,.." changed to "...."
p. 357 "be brought" changed to "he brought"
p. 383 "Silenty" changed to "Silently"
The following possible errors have been left as printed:
p. 159 our own exists
p. 242 adversity?
p. 345 devot
The following are used inconsistently in the text:
afterthought and after-thought
astir and a-stir
ballroom and ball-room
bedspread and bed-spread
bonbon and bon-bon
cloakroom and cloak-room
eyeglass and eye-glass
firelight and fire-light
fireplace and fire-place
hothouse and hot-house
injun and Injun
midstream and mid-stream
tiptoeing and tip-toeing
underworld and under-world
waterfowl and water-fowl