ENGAGED
Daphne and Cyril sat in the garden together. The conditions seemed
ideal. It was a lovely afternoon; the sun was hot, but a gay
irresponsible little west wind stirred the trees; bees hummed
industriously, butterflies darted casually about among the few flowers,
and even the reticent doves cooed from time to time, condescendingly.
Peeping through the blind Mrs. Foster thought the two young people made
a perfect picture, and was reminded of the Golden Age. Indeed, they had
very much the charming, almost improbable air of the figures in a Summer
Number of an illustrated paper. Perhaps the conditions were too perfect:
the lovers had, of course, nothing to sit on but a rustic seat--Mrs.
Foster would have thought it a crime to have anything else in a garden,
and rustic seats are, no doubt, picturesque, but they are very
uncomfortable; they seem to consist of nothing but points and knobs,
gnarls and corners.
When Daphne was alone with Cyril like this she felt contented and
peaceful at first, and then she began to wonder why she wasn't happier
still--why she didn't feel ecstatic. She was proud of Cyril; he looked
very handsome in flannels, his regular features, smooth fair hair, small
head and small feet all added to his resemblance to the hero in the
holiday number.
Cyril said--
"Dear little girl!" and took her hand.
She laughed and answered--
"Dear old boy!"
Then he said--
"By Jove! you do look ripping, Daphne."
She smiled.
"Jolly being here like this, isn't it?" said Cyril.
"Isn't it?" she answered.
"Jolly day, too."
"Yes."
"Wasn't it lucky I was able to get away?"
"Rather."
"It was a fearful rush."
"It must have been."
"Jove, it is hot!"
There was a pause.
"Darling!"
"Dear boy!"
"May I smoke a cigarette, dear?"
"Yes, do."
He lit a cigarette, and then put his arm round her waist.
"Don't, Cyril."
"Why not?" he asked, removing it.
"Oh, I don't know. Henry or some one might see."
"What's Henry?"
"A sort of gardener boy--the boy whose sort of sister makes kind of
blouses in the village."
"Oh, does he matter?"
Cyril was wondering if he could ask for a drink.
When they were left entirely alone, on purpose to be free, he always
felt rather shy and awkward, and intensely thirsty.
Daphne began to think about what time it was, and about her train
back--subjects that never occurred to her when she was alone with Mrs.
Foster.
"I'm afraid I shall soon have to be going," she said.
"Oh, I say! What, the moment I've arrived?"
He tried not to feel a little relieved. He wondered why he hadn't more
to say to her. He had been desperate to get consent to their engagement,
and was always extremely anxious and counting the minutes till they met,
and when they were together, alone after much elaborate scheming, he
felt a little embarrassed, and, like his fiancée, was surprised he
wasn't happier.
"I say, Daphne!"
"Yes, dear."
"You do look sweet."
"Do you really think so?"
"Simply ripping! I say!"
"Yes."
"Won't it be jolly when we're married?"
"Yes; lovely."
"It will be all the time just like this, you see--only nicer ... I say!
Isn't it hot?"
They sat holding hands, he looking at her admiringly, she feeling mildly
pleased that such a dear, handsome boy should be so fond of her. In the
minds of both was another sensation, which they did not recognise, or,
at all events, would not admit to themselves. They both, especially
Cyril, counted the minutes to these _tête-à-têtes_, and immediately
afterwards looked back on them with regret, feeling they had missed
something. They wrote to each other frequent, short, but intensely
affectionate letters about the happiness these interviews had given
them. Yet, while they actually lasted, both Cyril and Daphne, had they
only known it, were really rather bored. The next day, or the same
evening, Cyril would write to her:--
"My own Darling,--How jolly it was having you a little to myself
to-day! And to think that you really care for me!" and so on.
And she would enjoy writing back:--
"Dearest,--Didn't we have a heavenly time in the garden yesterday?" and
so forth.
* * * * *
As a matter of fact, they had not had a heavenly time at all; when he
kissed her, which he sometimes did, she did not really like it, though
she knew she ought, and it gave her a sort of mental gratification to
think that he _had_ given this manifestation of love, as she knew it was
considered the right thing.
He did not really regard her as a woman at all, but more as a lovely
doll, or sweet companion, and it pleased his vanity immensely to think
he should be allowed this privilege, which at the same time seemed to
him a little unnecessary, and even derogatory to her, though he enjoyed
it very much too, in a somewhat uncomfortable way.
The fact that their engagement was so indefinite, that they had hardly
any hope of being married for at least two years, perhaps added a little
to the _gêne_ of these meetings. The instant they were separated he
began to long to see her alone again. Daphne felt sure she must be
really in love because she took comparatively little interest in
anything that was not more or less connected with the idea of Cyril.
Perhaps she enjoyed the things she associated with him more than his
actual presence. Talking about him to Valentia, or hearing about him
from his mother, seemed more amusing and exciting than sitting with him
alone and holding his hand. She would have liked best never to see him
except in evening dress at a party, only to hear about him or think
about him all day.
Cyril was sure that his feeling was real love, because he did not care
two straws how hard up they should be when they were married, and
because if he heard any one sing a sentimental song, however badly, he
immediately thought of her with the greatest tenderness. He believed he
missed her every moment of the day, and he took great trouble to see
her, especially when there was a chance of their being alone. But, as a
matter of fact, he was rather glad when Mrs. Foster came out into the
garden; and when he had seen Daphne off at the station, although it was
a pang to see her go away without him, it was perhaps also a slight
relief.
When Val came to meet her at the station, full of news about the
extraordinary number of exciting things that had happened in the day,
and they dashed back to dress for a dinner Harry was giving before going
to a dance, Daphne felt a tinge of sentiment and regret for the idyllic
happiness in the garden, and began to count the hours until they should
meet alone again. The glamour always returned an hour or so after they
had been separated.