A RACE WITH SPINSTERHOOD
Before she had been at Eastbourne twenty-four hours Patricia was
convinced that she had made a mistake in going there. With no claims
upon her time, the restlessness that had developed in London increased
until it became almost unbearable. The hotel at which she was staying
was little more than a glorified boarding-house, full of "the most
jungly of jungle-people," as she expressed it to herself. Their
well-meant and kindly efforts to engage her in their pursuits and
pleasures she received with apathetic negation. At length her
fellow-guests, seeing that she was determined not to respond to their
overtures, left her severely alone. The men were the last to desist.
She came to dislike the pleasure-seekers about her and grew critical of
everything she saw, the redness of the women's faces, the assumed
youthfulness of the elderly men, the shapelessness of matrons who
seemed to delight in bright open-work blouses and juvenile hats. She
remembered Elton's remark that Fashion uncovers a multitude of shins.
The shins exposed at Eastbourne were she decided, sufficient to
undermine one's belief in the early chapters of Genesis.
At one time she would have been amused at the types around her, and
their various conceptions of "one crowded hour of glorious life." As
it was, everything seemed sordid and trivial. Why should people lose
all sense of dignity and proportion at a set period of the year? It
was, she decided, almost as bad as being a hare.
All she wanted was to be alone, she told herself; yet as soon as she
had discovered some secluded spot and had settled herself down to read,
the old restlessness attacked her, and fight against it as she might,
she was forced back again to the haunts of men.
For the first few days she watched eagerly for letters. None came.
She would return to the hotel several times a day, look at the
letter-rack, then, to hide her disappointment, make a pretence of
having returned for some other purpose. "Why had not Bowen written?"
she asked herself, then a moment after she strove to convince herself
that he had forgotten, or at least that she was only an episode in his
life.
His sudden change from eagerness to indifference caused her to flush
with humiliation; yet he had gone to Galvin House during the raid to
assure himself of her safety. Why had he not written after what had
occurred? Perhaps Aunt Adelaide was right about men after all.
Patricia wrote to Lady Tanagra, Mrs. Hamilton, Lady Peggy, Mr. Triggs,
even to Miss Sikkum. In due course answers arrived; but in only Miss
Sikkum's letter was there any reference to Bowen, a gush of sentiment
about "how happy you must be, dear Miss Brent, with Lord Bowen running
down to see you every other day. I know!" she added with maidenly
prescience. Patricia laughed.
Mr. Triggs committed himself to nothing more than two and three-quarter
pages, mainly about his daughter and "A. B.," Mr. Triggs was not at his
best as a correspondent. Lady Tanagra ran to four pages; but as her
handwriting was large, five lines filling a page, her letter was
disappointing.
Lady Peggy was the most productive. In the course of twelve pages of
spontaneity she told Patricia that the Duke and the Cabinet Minister
had almost quarrelled about her, Patricia. "Peter has been to lunch
with us and Daddy has told him how lucky he is, and how wonderful you
are. If Peter is not very careful, I shall have you presented to me as
a stepmother. Wouldn't it be priceless!" she wrote. "Oh! What am I
writing?" She ended with the Duke's love, and an insistence that
Patricia should lunch at Curzon Street the first Sunday after her
return.
Patricia found Lady Peggy's letter charming. She was pleased to know
that she had made a good impression and was admired--by the right
people. Twenty-four hours, however, found her once more thrown back
into the trough of her own despondency. Instinctively she began to
count the days until this "dire compulsion of infertile days" should
end. She could not very well return to London and say that she was
tired of holiday-making. Galvin House would put its own construction
upon her action and words, and whatever that construction might be, it
was safe to assume that it would be an unpleasant one.
There were moments when a slight uplifting of the veil enabled her to
see herself as she must appear to others.
"Patricia!" she exclaimed one morning to her reflection in a rather
dubious mirror. "You're a cumberer of the earth and, furthermore,
you've got a beastly temper," and she jabbed a pin through her hat and
partly into her head.
As the days passed she found herself wondering what was the earliest
day she could return. If she made it the Friday night, would it arouse
suspicion? She decided that it would, and settled to leave Eastbourne
on the Saturday afternoon.
As the train steamed out of the station she made a grimace in the
direction of the town, just as an inoffensive and prematurely bald
little man opposite looked up from his paper. He gave Patricia one
startled look through his gold-rimmed spectacles and, for the rest of
the journey, buried himself behind his paper, fearful lest Patricia
should "make another face at him," as he explained to his mother that
evening.
"She's come home in a nice temper!" was Miss Wangle's diagnosis of the
mood in which Patricia reached Galvin House.
Gustave regarded her with anxious concern.
The first dinner drove her almost mad. The raid, as a topic of
conversation, was on the wane, although Mr. Bolton worked at it nobly,
and Patricia found herself looked upon to supply the necessary material
for the evening's amusement. What had she done? Where had she been?
Had she bathed? Were the dresses pretty? How many times had Bowen
been down? Had she met any nice people? Was it true that the costumes
of the women were disgraceful?
At last, with a forced laugh, Patricia told them that she must have
"notice" of such questions, and everybody had looked at her in
surprise, until Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out, and he explained the
parliamentary allusion.
When at last, under pretence of being tired, she was able to escape to
her room, she felt that another five minutes would have turned her
brain.
Sunday dawned, and with it the old panorama of iterations unfolded
itself: Mr. Bolton's velvet coat and fez, Mr. Cordal's carpet slippers
with the fur tops, Mrs. Barnes' indecision, Mr. Sefton's genial and
romantic optimism, Miss Sikkum's sumptuary excesses; all presented
themselves in due sequence just as they had done for--"was it
centuries?" Patricia asked herself. To crown all it was a roast-pork
Sunday, and the reek of onions preparing for the seasoning filled the
house.
Patricia felt that the fates were fighting against her. In nerving
herself for the usual human Sunday ordeal, she had forgotten the
vegetable menace, in other words that it was "pork Sunday." Mr. Bolton
was always more than usually trying on Sundays; but reinforced by
onions he was almost unbearable. Patricia fled.
It was the Sunday before August Bank Holiday. Patricia shuddered at
the remembrance. It meant that people were away. She did not pause to
think that her world was at home, pursuing its various paths whereby to
cultivate an appetite worthy of the pork that was even then sizzling in
the Galvin House kitchen under the eagle eye of the cook, who prided
herself on her "crackling," which Galvin House crunched with noisy
gusto.
Patricia sank down upon a chair far back under the trees opposite the
Stanhope Gate. Here she remained in a vague way watching the people,
yet unconscious of their presence. From time to time some snatch of
meaningless conversation would reach her. "You know Betty's such a
sport?" one man said to another. Patricia found herself wondering what
Betty was like and what, to the speaker's mind, constituted being a
sport. Was Betty pretty? She must be, Patricia decided; no one cared
whether or no a plain girl were a sport. She found herself wanting to
know Betty. What were the lives of all these people, these shadows,
that were moving to and fro in front of her, each intent upon something
that seemed of vital importance? Were they----?
"I doubt if Cassandra could have looked more gloomily prophetic."
She turned with a start and saw Geoffrey Elton smiling down upon her.
"Did I look as bad as that?" she enquired, as he took a seat beside her.
"You looked as if you were gratuitously settling the destinies of the
world," he replied.
"In a way I suppose I was," she said musingly. "You see they all mean
something," indicating the paraders with a nod of her head, "tragedy,
comedy, farce, sometimes all three. If you only stop to think about
life, it all seems so hopeless. I feel sometimes that I could run away
from it all."
"That in the Middle Ages would have been diagnosed as the monastic
spirit," said Elton. "It arose, and no doubt continues in most cases
to arise from a sluggish liver."
"How dreadful!" laughed Patricia. "The inference is obvious."
"The world's greatest achievements and greatest tragedies could no
doubt be traced directly to rebellious livers: Waterloo and 'Hamlet'
are instances."
"Are you serious?" enquired Patricia. She was never quite certain of
Elton.
"In a way I suppose I am," he replied. "If I were a pathologist I
should write a book upon _The Influence of Disease upon the Destinies
of the World_. The supreme monarch is the microbe. The Germans have
shown that they recognise this."
"Ugh!" Patricia shuddered.
"Of course you have to make some personal sacrifice in the matter of
self-respect first," continued Elton, "but after that the rest becomes
easy."
"I suppose that is what a German victory would mean," said Patricia.
"Yes; we should give up lead and nickel and T.N.T., and invent germ
distributors. Essen would become a great centre of germ-culture,
and----"
"Oh! please let us talk about something else," cried Patricia. "It's
horrible!"
"Well!" said Elton with a smile, "shall we continue our talk over
lunch, if you have no engagement?"
"Lady Peggy asked me----" began Patricia.
"They're away in Somerset," said Elton, "so now I claim you as my
victim. It is your destiny to save me from my own thoughts."
"And yours to save me from roast pork and apple sauce," said Patricia,
rising. As they walked towards Hyde Park Corner she explained the
Galvin House cuisine.
They lunched at the Ritz and, to her surprise Patricia found herself
eating with enjoyment, a thing she had not done for weeks past. She
decided that it must be a revulsion of feeling after the menace of
roast pork. Elton was a good talker, with a large experience of life
and a considerable fund of general information.
"I should like to travel," said Patricia as she sipped her coffee in
the lounge.
"Why?" Elton held a match to her cigarette.
"Oh! I suppose because it is enjoyable," replied Patricia; "besides,
it educates," she added.
"That is too conventional to be worthy of you," said Elton.
"How?" queried Patricia.
"Most of the dull people I know ascribe their dullness to lack of
opportunities for travel. They seem to think that a voyage round the
world will make brilliant talkers of the toughest bores."
"Am I as tedious as that?" enquired Patricia, looking up with a smile.
"Your friend, Mr. Triggs, for instance," continued Elton, passing over
Patricia's remark. "He has not travelled, and he is always
interesting. Why?"
"I suppose because he is Mr. Triggs," said Patricia half to herself.
"Exactly," said Elton. "If you were really yourself you would not
be----"
"So dull," broke in Patricia with a laugh.
"So lonely," continued Elton, ignoring the interruption.
"Why do you say that?" demanded Patricia. "It's not exactly a
compliment."
"Intellectual loneliness may be the lot of the greatest social success."
"But why do you think I am lonely?" persisted Patricia.
"Let us take Mr. Triggs as an illustration. He is direct, unversed in
diplomacy, golden-hearted, with a great capacity for friendship and
sentiment. When he is hurt he shows it as plainly as a child,
therefore we none of us hurt him."
"He's a dear!" murmured Patricia half to herself.
"If he were in love he would never permit pride to disguise it."
Patricia glanced up at Elton: but he was engaged in examining the end
of his cigarette.
"He would credit the other person with the same sincerity as himself,"
continued Elton. "The biggest rogue respects an honest man, that is
why we, who are always trying to disguise our emotions, admire Mr.
Triggs, who would just as soon wear a red beard and false eyebrows as
seek to convey a false impression."
Patricia found herself wondering why Elton had selected this topic.
She was conscious that it was not due to chance.
"Is it worth it?" Elton's remark, half command, half question, seemed
to stab through her thoughts.
She looked up at him, her eyes a little widened with surprise.
"Is what worth what?" she enquired.
"I was just wondering," said Elton, "if the Triggses are not very wise
in eating onions and not bothering about what the world will think."
"Eating onions!" cried Patricia.
"My medical board is on Tuesday up North," said Elton, "and I shall
hope to get back to France. You see things in a truer perspective when
you're leaving town under such conditions."
Patricia was silent for some time. Elton's remarks sometimes wanted
thinking out.
"You think we should take happiness where we can find it?" she asked.
"Well! I think we are too much inclined to render unto Caesar the
things which are God's," he replied gravely.
"Do you appreciate that you are talking in parables?" said Patricia.
"That is because I do not possess Mr. Triggs's golden gift of
directness."
Suddenly Patricia glanced at her watch. "Why, it's five minutes to
three!" she cried. "I had no idea it was so late."
"I promised to run round to say good-bye to Peter at three," Elton
remarked casually, as he passed through the lounge.
"Good-bye!" cried Patricia in surprise.
"He is throwing up his staff appointment, and has applied to rejoin his
regiment in France."
For a moment Patricia stopped dead, then with a great effort she passed
through the revolving door into the sunlight. Her knees seemed
strangely shaky, and she felt thankful when she saw the porter hail a
taxi. Elton handed her in and closed the door.
"Galvin House?" he interrogated.
"When does he go?" asked Patricia in a voice that she could not keep
even in tone.
"As soon as the War Office approves," said Elton.
"Does Lady Tanagra know?" she asked.
"No, Peter will not tell her until everything is settled," he replied.
As the taxi sped westwards Patricia was conscious that some strange
change had come over her. She had the feeling that follows a long bout
of weeping. Peter was going away! Suddenly everything was changed!
Everything was explained! She must see him! Prevent him from going
back to France! He was going because of her! He would be killed and
it would be her fault!
Arrived at Galvin House she went straight to her room. For two hours
she lay on her bed, her mind in a turmoil, her head feeling as if it
were being compressed into a mould too small for it. No matter how she
strove to control them, her thoughts inevitably returned to the phrase,
"Peter is going to France."
Unknown to herself, she was fighting a great fight with her pride. She
must see him, but how? If she telephoned it would be an unconditional
surrender. She could never respect herself again. "When you are in
love you take pleasure in trampling your pride underfoot." The phrase
persisted in obtruding itself. Where had she heard it? What was
pride? she asked herself. One might be very lonely with pride as one's
sole companion. What would Mr. Triggs say? She could see his forehead
corrugated with trying to understand what pride had to do with love.
Even Elton, self-restrained, almost self-sufficient, admitted that Mr.
Triggs was right.
If she let Peter go? A year hence, a month perhaps, she might have
lost him. Of what use would her pride be then? She had not known
before; but now she knew how much Peter meant to her. Since he had
come into her life everything had changed, and she had grown
discontented with the things that, hitherto, she had tacitly accepted
as her portion.
"You're fretting, me dear!" Mr. Triggs's remark came back to her. She
recalled how indignant she had been. Why? Because it was true. She
had been cross. She remembered the old man's anxiety lest he had
offended her. She almost smiled as she recalled his clumsy effort to
explain away his remark.
She had heard someone knock gently at her door, once, twice, three
times. She made no response. Then Gustave's voice whispered, "Tea is
served in the looaunge, mees." She heard him creep away with clumsy
stealth. There was a sweet-natured creature. He could never disguise
an emotion. He had come upstairs during the raid, though in obvious
terror, in order to save her. Mr. Triggs, Gustave, Elton, all were
against her. She knew that in some subtle way they were working to
fight _her_ pride.
For some time longer she lay, then suddenly she sprang up. First she
bathed her face, then undid her hair, finally she changed her frock and
powdered her nose.
"Hurry up, Patricia! or you may think better of it," she cried to her
reflection in the glass. "This is a race with spinsterhood."
Going downstairs quietly she went to the telephone.
"Gerrard 60000," she called, conscious that both her voice and her
knees were unsteady.
After what seemed an age there came the reply, "Quadrant Hotel."
"Is Lord Peter Bowen in?" she enquired. "Thank you," she added in
response to the clerk's promise to enquire.
Her hand was shaking. She almost dropped the receiver. He must be
out, she told herself, after what seemed to her an age of waiting. If
he were in they would have found him. Perhaps he had already started
for----
"Who is that?" It was Bowen's voice.
Patricia felt she could sing. So he had not gone! Would her knees
play her false and cheat her?
"It's--it's me," she said, regardless of grammar.
"That's delightful; but who is me?" came the response.
No wonder woman liked him if he spoke like that to them, she decided.
Suddenly she realised that even she herself could not recognise as her
own the voice with which she was speaking.
"Patricia," she said.
"Patricia!" There was astonishment, almost incredulity in his voice.
So Elton had said nothing. "Where are you? Can I see you?"
Patricia felt her cheeks burn at the eagerness of his tone.
"I'm--I'm going out. I--I'll call for you if you like," she stammered.
"I say, how ripping of you. Come in a taxi or shall I come and fetch
you?"
"No, I--I'm coming now, I'm----" then she put up the receiver. What
was she going to do or say? For a moment she swayed. Was she going to
faint? A momentary deadly sickness seemed to overcome her. She fought
it back fiercely. She must get to the Quadrant. "I shall have to be a
sort of reincarnation of Mrs. Triggs, I think," she murmured as she
staggered past the astonished Gustave, who was just coming from the
lounge, and out of the front door, where she secured a taxi.