CONFESSIONAL--MASCULINE AND FEMININE
I
"WELL, I have one thing to be thankful for; there might have been
another man in the background. Now we must get back to work. _Labor
omnia vincit_, my son."
Thus Philip to himself.
Then he continued, less philosophically:--
"I suppose I had better keep right away from her. I simply couldn't
stand any half-a-loaf sort of friendship. All the same, I'll keep in the
offing, in case I am wanted."
Then he went back to Oxford Street, and told himself that work was the
salt of life.
But the spell was broken. _Labor omnia vincit_ proved to be exactly what
Julius Mablethorpe had said it was--only half a truth; and Dumps's
conclusion that Love and Work are interdependent terms was borne out to
the letter. Philip worked as hard as ever--harder, in fact: never had
the business in Oxford Street been more efficiently conducted--but the
zest of it all was gone. Without Peggy--or prospective Peggy--the day's
work, which had been a series of absorbingly interesting enterprises,
was now a monotonous round. The whirr of machinery had been music; now
it was merely an unpleasant noise. To overcome difficulties and grapple
with emergencies had been a sheer joy; to do so now was a weariness to
the flesh. Philip could not but recall, as he slogged on, Uncle Joseph's
description of his beloved regiment after the episode of Vivien:--_The
only difference was that whereas the regiment had formerly been
commanded by a Damascus blade, it was now commanded by a broomstick._
Family history appeared to be walking in a circle.
But he had no blame for Peggy. She had never encouraged him, never led
him on, never deliberately appropriated his services. She had been
infinitely kind to him--and that was all. If this hitherto unsuspected
hardness in her nature was a permanent thing; if she was determined to
live her own life and be independent--well, here was a unique
opportunity for a knight to prove his metal--to justify his boast that
he could serve without ulterior motives or hope of reward. If his Lady
had selected another knight in preference to him, matters would have
been different: proper pride would have driven Philip away. But so long
as Peggy walked alone and unprotected, his vocation in life was clear
and unmistakable.
But it was an uphill business; until by a fortunate chance it occurred
to those in authority at Coventry that Philip's abilities were being
wasted upon the mechanical routine of the London Office. Straightway he
was transferred to headquarters, where he was put in charge of the
Design and Construction Department of the Company--at liberty to invent
and experiment to his heart's content.
Here he felt better. He was relieved of the constant fear of
encountering Peggy, and of the exasperating effervescence of Tim. He
also felt absolved from any further obligation to cultivate social
graces. So he reverted whole-heartedly to the realm of Things,
determined to eliminate People from his scheme of life for good and all.
Machinery, as Mr. Mablethorpe had said, might break your arms and legs,
but it left your heart alone.
Still, it was a black winter. Extreme tragedy is the privilege of the
very young--those of riper years do not hug tragedy to their bosoms;
they know too much about it; and in this respect Philip, for all his
twenty-eight years, was youthful, indeed. But no human experience is
without ultimate profit. Most of us have to live some portion of our
lives under circumstances which make it necessary to keep our eyes
resolutely averted from the future; and once we have acquired the
courage which this performance demands,--and it demands a great
deal,--we have acquired the most valuable asset that experience can give
us. Any one can be happy who has no doubts about the future; that is why
children laugh and sing all day; but the man who can keep a stiff upper
lip when there is no confidence in his heart can fairly count himself
one of those who have graduated with honours in the school of adversity.
During those months Philip acquired the priceless art of taking life as
it came, and, abandoning the pernicious habit of drawing upon the bank
of the Future,--his account was sadly overdrawn there already,--of
living within the income that the Present supplied to him. True, it was
a mere pittance, but he learned to live on it. Upon such foundations is
character built up.
Mr. Mablethorpe summed up the whole situation in his own fashion, when
Philip, in the course of a week-end visit, had unburdened his soul over
the last whiskey-and-soda on Saturday night.
"Philip, my son, you are learning: your education is proceeding apace.
But it hurts, and you are puzzled and indignant. But never mind! Hold
on, and things will right themselves. Your sense of proportion will come
to the rescue and pull you through. I know, old man, I know! I have been
through it all. I wasn't always a dull British householder with an
expanding waistcoat. I have been young and now I am old--or perhaps
middle-aged--and I know! Middle age has its compensations. When we are
young, we alternate between periods when we feel that there is nothing
on earth that we cannot do and periods when we feel that there is
nothing on earth that we can. Advancing years bring us a comfortable
knowledge of our own limitations. Though we may not have so many moments
of sheer sublimity--moments when we touch the stars--as the young man,
we have fewer hours of blackness. So carry on, Philip. Steer by dead
reckoning, if necessary: you will get your bearings in time. This
experience will do you no harm, provided you face it between the eyes. I
know nothing of your little lady friend, but she does not sound to me
like a member of the third sex. On the contrary, she appears to be
gratifyingly feminine. Her present attitude is probably a pose of the
moment. They can't help being made as they are, you know. I fully expect
to find my beloved Dumps suffering from the effects of some germ or
other when she comes home from abroad next month. That reminds me. In
the spring Dumps is to come out--not of gaol, but of the schoolroom,
which at eighteen is very much the same thing--for ever. The festivities
will include what she calls a Joy-Week in Town. You had better come and
stay with us during that period, and join me in contracting dyspepsia.
In fact, I have a ukase from my daughter to that effect. Will you come?"
Philip assented, listlessly. Joy-Weeks were not for him.
II
Miss Jean Leslie lived in a roomy flat high up in a tall block of
buildings that overlooked the Thames at Chelsea. The larger of the two
rooms was her studio. Hither fat, sweet-scented, and rebellious little
boys and girls in expensive laces and ribbons were brought by mothers or
nurses; and after they had been coaxed into smiles by the arts and
blandishments of their hostess,--and for all her spinsterhood she
excelled in that accomplishment,--Jean Leslie painted miniatures of
them, for which their doting and opulent parents paid fancy prices.
"My dear, you must be very rich," observed Peggy one afternoon,
inspecting three portraits of cherubic innocents, recently completed and
awaiting despatch.
Jean Leslie poured out the tea complacently.
"Thank you," she said; "I scrape a living. Sit down and eat something. I
have some of your favourite Valencia buns."
But Peggy seemed restless. She wandered round the little sitting-room,
minutely examining photographs and pictures which she already knew by
heart.
"Peggy Falconer," enquired Miss Leslie at last, "will you come and sit
down in that chair, or will I take you by the shoulders and put you
there?"
"Sorry, dear," said Peggy; "I have the fidgets."
She dropped rather listlessly into a chair, and then, for no apparent
reason, got up and sat in another.
"Why is my best chair not good enough for you?" enquired Miss Leslie
sternly. "At your age, you ought not to be manoeuvring to get your
back to the window."
"It wasn't that, really," protested Peggy.
"It just was," replied Miss Leslie.
She rose from her seat, and taking the girl by the elbows, turned her
toward the light. Peggy submitted, smiling.
"And now," resumed Jean Leslie, sitting down again, "what is the
trouble?"
"You really are very Early-Victorian, Jean," said Peggy severely. "You
yearn for sentimental confidences and heart-to-heart talks. But it's
simply not done now: hearts went out with chignons. Give me a large and
heavy piece of that muffin, please, and I will pander to your tastes by
talking about Prince Adolphus."
Prince Adolphus was the exalted title of a purely hypothetical Fairy
Personage who was one day to lead Miss Leslie to the altar. He had been
invented by Miss Leslie herself, and formed a stock subject of humorous
conversation with her younger friends.
Miss Leslie said no more, but passed the muffins.
"How is that boy Timothy?" she enquired. The mention of Prince Adolphus
had brought Timothy into her thoughts: Timothy had always expressed
profound jealousy of His Royal Highness.
Peggy laughed.
"Very careworn," she said. "Since Philip was sent to Coventry he has
been in sole charge at Oxford Street. By the way, he wants us to lunch
with him on Sunday. Can you manage it?"
"I don't know. I am half-expecting a visit from a fellow countrywoman of
mine."
"Do I know her?"
"I doubt it. Her husband is second engineer on a liner that plies
between London and Melbourne. She has a good deal of leisure on her
hands, poor soul."
Peggy asked the question that a woman always asks another in this
connection.
"No," replied Miss Leslie; "neither chick nor child; so when her man has
been away for a month or so, and drinking tea with the wives of other
second engineers in Gravesend begins to pall, she likes to come round
here and crack with me. I knew her in the old days: her father was head
forester to us. She would be disappointed if she found me from home. She
never tells me when she is coming: she would regard such a proceeding as
presumptuous. So"--Miss Leslie sighed resignedly--"I just have to stay
in for her. Her husband sailed four weeks ago, and there has been a
hurricane in the Indian Ocean this week; so I fancy she is about due."
"Everybody seems to bring their troubles to you, Jean," said Peggy.
Miss Leslie looked up.
"Troubles? Oh, no! I assure you, when Eliza Dishart and I drink tea
together, there is no talk of troubles. We are very grand. We talk about
the Court, and freights, and the possibility of Union between the
Established Kirk and the Free. But trouble--oh, dear, no! Once only did
we consent to be informal. That was one wild night in December two years
ago. Half the chimney-pots in London were flying about in the air, and
she knew that his ship was in the Channel, homeward bound. She came
chapping at my door about ten o'clock, just as I was going to bed, and
asked me if I would let her sit here for the night. Indeed, I was very
glad of her company. I remember I managed to pick out the tune of the
'Hymn for Those at Sea' for her on my piano, and we sang it together.
Very ridiculous we must have looked. We have never mentioned the
occurrence since."
During this narrative Peggy sat silent and preoccupied. Finally she
said:--
"It must be a great relief to be able to unload your worries on to some
one else. A girl has just been unloading hers on to me."
Jean regarded her friend's averted face curiously.
"Indeed?" she replied.
"Yes. A man--"
Miss Leslie nodded.
"Quite so," she remarked drily. "She has presumed too far, and he won't
come back."
Peggy looked up.
"Now you are getting romantic again," she said reprovingly. "No, it is
nothing of the kind. My friend has had to be rather brutal to a man, and
she feels sorry for him, and she is afraid he must think rather badly of
her--that's all."
"Has she been flirting with the poor creature?" demanded Jean Leslie, in
a voice of thunder.
"No. She is not that sort of girl."
"Then where does the brutality come in? There is no brutality in putting
a man in his place, provided you do it in time. As soon as a woman sees
that a man is preparing to fall in love with her--and she can usually
tell about five minutes after she has made his acquaintance--and she
doesn't feel like wanting him, she should get him at arm's length at
_once_! Have--has your friend not been overlong in adopting that
precaution?"
"She couldn't do it before," explained Peggy, rather eagerly. "They were
thrown together in a very unusual way. She saw it coming, but could not
do anything to prevent it. And now the man has gone away; and I'm--she
is sure he thinks--"
Jean Leslie handed her guest a fresh cup of tea.
"Are you certain," she enquired, "that this friend of yours _wanted_ to
keep the young man at arm's length?"
Peggy twisted her long fingers together.
"I rather fancy, from what she said, that she cared for him a bit," she
admitted.
"Then why send him away?" demanded Miss Leslie.
Peggy summoned up a troubled smile.
"Dear old Jean," she said, "you are so practical!"
"Practical? Aye!" replied Jean Leslie grimly. "If women were a little
more practical and a little less finicky about what they are pleased to
call their hearts, this world would be a more understandable place to
live in. Listen! I had a girl friend once--as intimate a friend as
yours, I dare say--and when the man she wanted asked her to marry him,
she said 'No.' She meant 'Yes,' of course,--she merely wanted him to ask
her another half-dozen times or so more,--but the stupid man did not
understand. He went away, and married some other body whom he did not
love, just to be quit of thinking about her. Men are made that way. They
will do any daft thing--take to drinking or marry another woman--to
drown the pain of remembrance. But this friend of mine, being a woman,
could not do that. She just stayed single, and in course of time became
an old maid--and a practical one, I promise you! But let us get back to
the other girl. Why did she send her lad away?"
"Because there was some one else whom she could not leave."
"A relative?"
"Yes."
Jean Leslie nodded her head slowly and comprehendingly.
"I see," she said at length. "That is different. You mean that the
relative would have been helpless without her?"
"Helpless and--friendless," said Peggy gravely.
"Did she tell the young man that that was the reason?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because--because I fancy he was the kind of man who, if he had known
the real reason, would have persisted in staying single on her account."
"And why not? Men like that are rare."
"Well, he--she told me that he was the sort of man who had no idea of
looking after himself, or making himself comfortable--the sort of man
who really _needed_ a wife. It would have been cruel not to let him go.
She might have had to keep him waiting twenty years, and she couldn't
bear to think of him living in discomfort and loneliness all that time;
so--"
"So she gave him another reason?"
"Yes."
"What reason?"
"Oh, the reason a girl usually gives nowadays. Other interests--freedom
to live one's own life--and so on. You know."
"Yes, I know," said Jean Leslie bitterly. "You need not tell me. I
should like to have just five minutes' talk, in here, with the man that
invented the higher education of women! However, that is a digression.
Your friend's case, as I have said, is different. Evidently she is not
_that_ sort of girl. I don't know what advice to give her, poor soul.
She is in deep waters. But you can tell her from me--"
"Yes?" said Peggy eagerly.
"That she is doing the wrong thing"--Peggy caught her breath--"for the
right reason. You can also tell her that she is a brave lass. Perhaps it
may help her a little to be told that."
"I know it will," said Peggy getting up. "Goodbye, Jean, dearest! I
think I will go and tell her now."
* * * * *
Jean Leslie sat long over the teacups, deep in thought. Mechanically,
she found and lit a cigarette, and smoked it to the end. Then she lit
another. Darkness had fallen by this time, but still she sat on, gazing
into the glowing fire.
At last she rose, and turned up the electric lights. Having done this,
she surveyed herself intently in the mirror over the mantelpiece. For
all her forty-three years she was a youthful woman. She possessed the
white teeth and fair complexion that Scandinavian ancestry has
bequeathed to the northeastern Highlands of Scotland. Her hair was
abundant, and with a little better dressing would have looked more
abundant still.
She turned from the mirror with a quaint little _moue_, and her eyes
fell upon a framed photograph which stood upon her writing-table. It was
a portrait of Peggy's mother. She picked it up, and regarded it long and
thoughtfully.
"Thank God, Death cannot always close the account," she said softly.
Then, with a resigned sigh and a downward glance at her comfortable but
unfashionable attire, she seated herself abruptly at the bureau and
wrote a letter to her dressmaker.