1
They all rose early the next day. Ninian had been out of the house
before any of them had reached the breakfast room, and when he returned,
his arms were full of newspapers.
"What's Walkley say?" said Gilbert. "That's all I want to know!"
They opened the _Times_, and then, when they had read the criticism of
"The Magic Casement," they murmured, "Charming! Splendid! Oh, ripping!"
while Gilbert, sitting back in his chair, smiled beatifically and said,
"Read it again, coves. Read it aloud and slowly!"
While they were reading the notices, Henry went off to a post office,
and sent his letter to Lady Cecily by express messenger. "That's
settled," he said, as he returned home, for he had been afraid that he
might change his mind. As he was shaving that morning, he had faltered
in his resolution. "I'd better go," he had said to himself, and then had
added weakly, "No, I'm damned if I will!" Well, it was settled now. The
letter was on its way to her. She would probably be angry with him, but
not as angry as he was with her, and perhaps they would not meet again
for a long while. So much the better. Now he could get on with his book
in peace. Gilbert was right. Women _do_ upset things. Well, this
particular woman would not upset him again....
They had read all the notices when Henry returned, and were now at
breakfast. Roger was relating the latest legal jest about Mr. Justice
Kirkcubbin, a poor old man who persisted in clinging to the Bench in
spite of the broadest hints from the _Law Journal_, and Ninian was
making mysterious movements with his hands.
"What's the matter, Ninian?" Henry asked, as he sat down at the table.
Ninian, while searching for the notices of Gilbert's play, had seen a
sentence in a serial story in one of the newspapers.... "_Her hands
fluttered helplessly over his breast_" ... and he was trying to discover
exactly what the lady had done with her hands. "She seems to have just
flopped them about," he said, and he turned to Gilbert. "Look here,
Gilbert," he said, "you try it. I'll clasp you in my arms as the hero
clasped this female, and you'll let your hands flutter helplessly over
my breast!"
"I'll let my fist flutter helplessly over your jaw, young Ninian!..."
"I don't believe she let her hands do anything of the sort," Ninian went
on. "She couldn't have done it. An engineer couldn't do it, and I don't
believe a female can do what an engineer can't do!"
"I suppose," he added, getting up from the table, "Tom Arthurs is half
way across now. I wish I could have gone with him. What a holiday!"
"Talking of holidays," Gilbert said, "I'm going to take one, and as you
don't seem in a fit state to do any work, Quinny, you'd better take one
too, and come with me!"
"Where are you going?" Roger asked. "Anglesey?"
"No. I thought of going there, but I've changed my mind. I shall go to
Ireland with Quinny."
"Ireland!" Henry exclaimed, looking across at Gilbert.
"Yes. Dublin. We can go to-night. I've never been there, and I'd like to
know what these chaps, Marsh and Galway, are up to. That whatdoyoucallit
movement you were telling me about?... you know, the thing that means 'a
stitch in time saves nine' or something of the sort!"
"Oh, the Sinn Fein movement!"
"Yes. That's the thing. The Improved Tories ought to know about
that...."
"That reminds me," said Roger, "of an idea I had in the middle of the
night about the Improved Tories. We ought to publish our views on
problems. The Fabians do that kind of thing rather well. We ought to
imitate them. We ought to study some subject hard, argue all round it,
and then tell the world just how we think it ought to be solved. I
thought we might begin on the problem of unemployment...."
"Good Lord, do you think we can solve that!" Ninian exclaimed.
"No, but we might find a means of palliating it. My own notion...."
"I thought you had some scheme in your skull, Roger!" said Gilbert.
"Let's have it!"
"Well, it's rather raw in my mind at present, but my idea is that the
way to mitigate the problem of unemployment, perhaps solve it, is to
join it on to the problem of defence. Supposing we decided to create a
big army ... and we shall need one sooner or later with all these
ententes and alliances we're forming ... the problem would be to form it
without dislocating the industrial system. My idea is to make it
compulsory for every man to undergo military training, about a couple of
months every year, and call the men up to the camp in times of trade
depression. You wouldn't have to call them all up at once ... trades
aren't all slack at the same time ... and you'd arrange the period of
training as far as possible to fit in with the slack time in each job. I
mean, people who are employed in gasworks could easily be trained in the
summer without dislocating the gas industry ... colliers, too, and
people like that ... and men who are slack in the winter, like builders'
men, could be trained in the winter. That's my idea roughly. There'd be
training going on all the year round, and of course you could vary the
duration of the period of training ... never less than two months, but
longer if trade were badly depressed. You'd save a lot of misery that
way ... you'd keep your men fit and fed and their homes going ... and
you'd have the nucleus of a large army. I don't see why we shouldn't
bring the Board of Education in. If we were to raise the school age to
sixteen, and then make it compulsory for every boy to go into a cadet
corps or something of the sort for a couple of years, you'd relieve the
pressure on the labour market at that end enormously, and you'd make the
job of getting the army ready much easier in case of emergency. A couple
of years' training to begin with, followed by a couple of months'
further training every year, would make all the difference in the world
to us militarily, and it would do away, largely, with the unemployed!"
"How about apprentices?" said Gilbert. "If you raise the school age to
sixteen and then make all the boys go into training until they are
eighteen, you're going to make a big difficulty in the way of getting
skilled labour!"
"I don't think so. As far as I can make out the period of apprenticeship
is much too long. Five or six years is a ridiculous time to ask a boy to
spend in learning his job, and any trade unionist will tell you that
every apprentice spends the first year or two in acting as a sort of
messenger: fetching beer and cleaning up things. I suppose the real
reason why the period of indenture is so long is because the Unions
don't want to swamp the labour market with skilled workers. Well, why
shouldn't we reduce the period of apprenticeship by giving the boy a
military training? You see, don't you, what a problem this is? I thought
of talking about it to the Improved Tories, and when we'd argued it over
a bit, we'd put our proposals into print and circulate them among
informed people, and invite them to come and tell us what they think of
the notion from their point of view ... Trade Union secretaries and
military men and employers and people like that ... and then, we might
publish a book on it. Jaures wrote a book on the French Army ... a very
good book, too ... so there isn't anything remarkably novel about the
notion, except, perhaps, my idea of linking the military problem on to
the unemployment problem. You and Quinny could write the book, Gilbert,
because you've got style and we want the book to be written so that
people will read it without getting tied up. Of course, if you must go
to Ireland, you must, but it seems a little needless, doesn't it?"
"This business will take time," Gilbert replied. "Tons of time. I don't
think our visit to Ireland will affect it much. You'll come with me,
won't you, Quinny?"
Henry nodded his head. "At once, if you like," he answered, hoping
indeed that Gilbert would suggest an immediate departure. If Lady Cecily
were to hear that he had left London....
"To-night will do," said Gilbert.
2
"Are you going to work?" Gilbert said to Henry, when the others had
gone.
"I think so," Henry replied. "I haven't written a word for days. You?"
"I'll go and have a squint at the Pall Mall ... just to make sure that
last night wasn't a dream. I'll come back to lunch. It 'ud be rather
jolly to go on from Dublin and see your father, Quinny?"
"Yes ... that's a notion. I'll write and tell him we're coming. Bring
back the afternoon papers when you come, Gilbert, I'd like to see what
they say about the play!"
"Righto!" said Gilbert.
Henry sat on in the breakfast room, after Gilbert had gone, reading the
criticisms of "The Magic Casement," and then, when he had finished, he
went up to his room and began to work on "Turbulence." He wrote steadily
for an hour, and then read over what he had done.
"This is better," he murmured to himself, pleased with what he had
written, and he prepared to go on, but before he could start again,
there was a knock on the door, and Magnolia came in.
"You're wanted on the telephone, sir!" she said.
"Who is it?"
"I don't know, sir. They didn't say!"
He went downstairs and took up the receiver. "Hilloa!" he said.
"Is that you, Paddy?" was the response.
"Cecily!"
"Yes. I've just had your letter. Are you very cross, Paddy?"
He felt perturbed, but he tried to make his voice sound as if he were
indifferent to her.
"No," he replied, "I'm not cross at all...."
"Oh, yes, you are, Paddy. You're very cross, and you're going to teach
me a lesson, aren't you?"
He could hear her light laugh as she spoke.
"I can't _make_ you believe that I'm not cross at all," he said.
"No, you can't. Paddy!" Her voice had a coaxing note as she said his
name.
"Yes."
"Come to lunch with me. Jimphy's gone off for the day somewhere...."
"I'm sorry!..."
"Do come, Paddy. I want you to come. I do, really!"
He paused for a second or two before he replied. After all why should he
not go?...
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I really can't lunch with you. I'm going to
Ireland!..."
"Going where?"
"Ireland. To-night! I'm going with Gilbert!"
"But you can't go this minute. Paddy, you _are_ cross, and you're
spiteful, too. If you aren't cross, you'll come and lunch with me. You
ought to come and say 'good-bye' to me before you go to Ireland...."
"I've got a lot to do ... packing and things!"
"You can do that afterwards!" Her voice became more insistent. "Paddy, I
want you to come. You must come!..."
He hesitated, and she said, "Do, Paddy!" very appealingly.
It would be weak, he told himself, to yield to her now ... she would
think she had only to be a little gracious and he would be at her feet
immediately; and then he thought it would be weak not to yield to her.
"It'll look as if I were afraid to meet her ... running away like this.
Or that I'm sulking ... just petulant!"
"All right," he said to her, "I'll come!"
"Come now!"
He nodded his head, forgetting that she could not see him, and she
called to him again, "You'll come now, won't you?"
"Yes," he replied. "I'll come at once!"
He put up the receiver and reached for his hat. "I wonder what she
wants," he thought, "perhaps she really does love me and my letter's
frightened her!" His spirits rose at the thought and he went jauntily to
the door and opened it, and as he did so, Ninian, pale and miserable,
panted up the steps.
"My God, Quinny!" he exclaimed, almost sobbing, "the _Gigantic's_ gone
down!"
"The what?"
"The _Gigantic's_ gone down! It's in the paper. Look, look!" He was
unbalanced by grief as he thrust the _Westminster Gazette_ and the
_Globe_ into Henry's hands.
"But, damn it, she can't have gone down," Henry said, "she's a Belfast
boat ... she can't have gone down!"
"She has, I tell you, and Tom Arthurs ... oh, my God, Quinny, he's gone
down too! The decentest chap on earth and ... and he's been drowned!"
Henry led him into the house. "I went out to get the evening papers to
see about Gilbert's play," he went on, "and that's what I saw. I saw her
at Southampton going off as proud as a queen ... and now she's at the
bottom of the Atlantic. And Tom waved his hand to me. He was going to
show me over her properly when he came back. Isn't it horrible, Quinny?
What's the sense of it ... what the hell's the sense of it?"
"She can't have gone down ..." Henry said, as if that would comfort
Ninian.
"She has, I tell you...."
Henry went to the sideboard and took out the whisky.
"Here, Ninian," he said, pouring out some of it, "drink that. You're
upset!..."
"No, I don't want any whisky. God damn it, what's the sense of a thing
like this! A man like Tom Arthurs!..."
There was a noise like the sound of a taxi-cab drawing up in front of
the house, and presently the bell rang, and then, after a moment or two,
the door opened, and Mrs. Graham came hurrying into the room.
"Ninian! Where's Ninian?" she said wildly to Henry.
"He's here, Mrs. Graham!"
She went to him and clutched him tightly to her. "Oh, my dear, my dear,"
she said.
"What is it, mother?" he asked, calming himself and looking at her.
"I telephoned to your office, but you weren't there, so I came here to
find you. I couldn't rest content till I'd seen you!"
"What is it, mother?"
"That ship, Ninian. If you'd been on it ... you wanted to go, and I said
why didn't you ... oh, my dear, if you'd been on it, and I'd lost you!"
He put his arms about her and drew her on to his shoulder. "I'm all
right, mother!" he said.
Henry left the room hurriedly. He went to the kitchen and called to Mrs.
Clutters. "I won't be in to lunch," he said. "Don't let any one disturb
Mrs. Graham and Mr. Graham for a while. They ... they've had bad news!"
Then he went out of the house. The taxi-cab in which Mrs. Graham had
come was still standing outside the door.
"I ain't 'ad me fare yet," said the driver.
"All right!" said Henry. "I'll pay it."
He gave Cecily's address to the man, and then he got into the cab.
3
He could hear the newspaper boys crying out the news of the disaster as
he was driven swiftly to Cecily's house. The sinking of the great ship
had stunned men's minds and humiliated their pride. This beautiful
vessel, skilfully built, the greatest ship afloat, had seemed
imperishable, the most powerful weapon that man had yet forged to subdue
the sea, and in a little while, recoiling from the hidden iceberg, she
had foundered, broken as easily as a child's toy, carrying all her
vanity and strength to the bottom....
"It isn't true," he kept on saying to himself as if he were trying to
contradict the cries of the newsvendors. "She's a Belfast boat and
Belfast boats don't go down...."
He felt it oddly, this loss. The drowning of many men and women and
children affected him merely as a vague, impersonal thing. "Yes, it's
dreadful," he would say when he thought of it, but he was not moved by
it. When he remembered Tom Arthurs he was stirred, but less than Ninian
had been. He could see him now, just as he had stood in the shipyard
that day when John Marsh and Henry had been with him, and he had watched
the workmen pouring through the gates. "Those are my pals!" he had
said.... Poor Tom Arthurs! Destroyed with the thing that he had
conceived and his "pals" had built! But perhaps that was as he would
have wished. It would have hurt Tom Arthurs to have lived on after the
_Gigantic_ had gone down.... It was not the drowning of a crowd of
people or the drowning of Tom Arthurs that most affected Henry. It was
the fact that a boat built by Belfast men had foundered on her maiden
trip, on a clear, cold night of stars, reeling from the iceberg's blow
like a flimsy yacht. He had the Ulsterman's pride in the Ulsterman's
power, and he liked to boast that the best ships in the world were built
on the Lagan....
"By God," he said to himself, "this'll break their hearts in Belfast!"
The cab drew up before the door of Cecily's house, and in a little while
he was with her.
"Have you heard about the _Gigantic_?" he said, as he walked across the
room to her.
"Oh, yes," she answered, "isn't it dreadful? Come and sit down here!"
He had not greeted her otherwise than by his question about the
_Gigantic_, and she frowned a little as she made room for him beside her
on the sofa.
"That great boat!..." he began, but she interrupted him.
"I suppose you're still cross," she said.
"Cross?"
"Yes. You haven't even shaken hands with me!"
He remembered now. "Oh!" he said in confusion, but could say no more.
"Are you really going to Ireland?" she asked, putting her hand on his
arm.
"Yes," he answered, feeling his resolution weakening just because she
had touched him.
"But why?"
"You know why!" he said.
Her hand dropped from his arm. "I don't know why," she exclaimed
pettishly, and he saw and disliked the way her lips turned downwards as
she said it.
"I can't bear it, Cecily," he exclaimed. "I must have you to myself or
... or not have you at all!"
"Perfectly absurd!" she murmured.
"It isn't absurd. How can you expect me to feel happy when I see you
going off with Jimphy? Can't you understand, Cecily? Here I am with you
now, but if Jimphy were to come into the room, I should have to ... to
give way, to pretend that I'm not in love with you!"
"I can't see what difference it makes," she said. "Jimphy and I don't
interfere with each other. It's ridiculous to make all this fuss. I
don't see any necessity to go about telling everybody!..."
"I didn't propose that," he interrupted.
"Yes, you did, Paddy, dear! You asked me to run away with you, and
what's that but telling everybody?"
He felt angry with her for what seemed to him to be flippancy. "I'm in
earnest, Cecily!" he said. "I'm not joking!"
"I'm in earnest, too. I don't want to run away with you ... not because
I don't love you ... I do love you, Paddy, very much ... but it's so
absurd to run away and make a ... a mountain out of a molehill. We
should be awfully miserable if we were to elope. We'd have to go to some
horrid place where we shouldn't know anybody and there'd be nothing to
do. Really, it's much pleasanter to go on as we are now, Paddy. You can
come here and take me to lunch sometimes and go to the theatre with me
when Jimphy wants to go to a music-hall, and ... and so on!"
He could not rid himself of the notion that she was "chattering" in the
Lensley style.
"It would be decenter to go away together," he said.
She moved away from him angrily. "You're a prig, Paddy!" she exclaimed.
"You can go to Ireland. I don't care!"
He got up as if to go, but did not move away. He stood beside her
irresolutely, wishing to go and wishing to stay, and then he bent over
her and touched her. "Cecily," he said, "come with me!"
"No!" she answered, keeping her back to him.
"Very well," he said, and he walked across the room towards the door.
His hand was on the handle when she called to him.
"Aren't you going to stay to lunch?" she said.
"You told me to go!..."
"Yes, but I didn't mean immediately. I shall be all alone."
He went back to her very quickly, and sat down beside her and folded her
in his arms.
"I loathe you," he cried, with his lips pressed against her cheek. "I
loathe you because you're so selfish and brutal. You don't really care
for me...."
"Oh, I do, Paddy I ..."
"No, you don't. You were making love to Ninian last night!..."
"So that's it, is it?..."
"No, it isn't. Ninian doesn't care about you or about any woman. He's
not like me, a soft, sloppy fool. You don't love me. If I were to leave
you now, you'd find some one to take my place quite easily. Lensley or
Boltt!..."
"They're too middle-aged, Paddy!"
He pushed her away from him. "Damn it, can't you be serious!" he shouted
at her.
"You're very rude," she replied.
"I'd like to beat you! I'd like to hurt you!..."
She smiled at him and then she put her arms about his neck and drew him
towards her. "You don't loathe me, Paddy," she said softly, soothing him
with her voice, "you love me, don't you?"
"Will you come away with me? Now?"
"No!" She kissed him and got up. "Let's go to lunch," she said.
He felt that he ought to leave her then, but he followed her meekly
enough.
"I don't think I'll stay to lunch," he said weakly.
"Yes, you will!" she replied. "You can take me to a picture gallery
afterwards!..."
4
They did not go to a picture gallery. The spring air was so fresh that
she declared she must go for a drive.
"Let's go to Hampstead!" he said, signalling to a taxi-driver. "Well
have tea at Jack Straw's Castle!"
"Yes, let's!" she exclaimed.
She had tried to persuade him not to return to Ireland, but he had
insisted that he must go because of his promise to Gilbert.
"Do you care for Gilbert more than you care for me?" she had asked,
making him wonder at the casual way in which she spoke Gilbert's name.
It seemed incredible, listening to her, that Gilbert had been her
lover....
"It's hardly the same thing," he replied.
Then, after more pleading and anger, she had given in.
"Very well," she said, "I won't ask you again, and don't let's talk
about it any more. Well enjoy to-day anyhow!"
The taxi-cab carried them swiftly to Hampstead.
"Well get out at the Spaniards' Road," he said, "and walk across the
Heath. It's beautiful now!"
"All right," she answered.
They did as he said, and walked about the Heath for nearly an hour. The
fresh smell of spring exhilarated them, and they sat for a little while
on a seat which was perched on rising ground so that they were able to
see far beyond the common. Young bracken fronds were thrusting their
curled heads upwards through the old brown growth; and the buds on the
blackened boughs were bursting from their cases and offering delicate
green leaves to the sunlight; and the yellow whins shone like little
golden stars on their spiky stems. Henry's capacity for sensuous
enjoyment was fully employed, and he would willingly have sat there
until dusk, drawing his breath in with as much luxurious feeling as a
woman has when she puts new linen on her limbs. He would have liked to
strip and bathe his naked body in the Highgate Ponds or run with bare
feet over the wet grass ... but Cecily was tired of the Heath.
"Isn't it time we got some tea?" she said, getting up and looking about
her as if she were searching for a tea-shop.
"I suppose it is," he answered reluctantly, and he rose too. "We go this
way," he said, moving in the direction of Jack Straw's Castle. "Let's
come back to the Heath," he added, "after we've had tea!"
"But why?" she asked.
"Oh, because it's so beautiful."
"I thought it was getting chilly," she objected.
5
"I don't see why you want to go to Ireland," she exclaimed, as she
handed a cup of tea to him.
"I've told you why," he said.
"Oh, but that isn't a reason. And why does Gilbert want to go? He isn't
Irish."
"I suppose!..."
"It's so absurd to go rushing about like this. I should have thought
Gilbert would want to stay in town now that his play is on. Is it a
success? I haven't looked at the papers, but then I never do. I can't
read newspapers ... they're so dull. This tea is nice. And it's much
nicer in town now than it can possibly be in Ireland. Besides, I don't
want you to go!"
He let her chatter on, hoping that she would exhaust her interest in his
visit to Ireland and begin to talk of something else, but he did not
know that Cecily had greater tenacity than might appear from the
incoherence of her conversation. She held on to a subject until it was
settled irrevocably. She looked very charming as she sat opposite to
him, and he wondered how Jimphy could be so careless of her loveliness.
The sunlight shining through the window above her head kindled her hair
so that the ripples of it shone like gold, and the delicate sunburnt
flush of her cheeks deepened in the soft glow. He put out his hand and
touched her fingers. "Beautiful Cecily!" he said, and she smiled because
she liked to be told how beautiful she was.
"But you're going to Ireland," she said.
He did not answer.
"You say you'd do anything for me," she proceeded, "but when I ask you
not to go to Ireland, you refuse. If you really love me!..."
"I do love you, Cecily!"
"Well, why don't you stay in town! It's so queer to go away the moment
you get to know me!" She began to laugh.
"What's the joke?" he asked.
"Oh, I've just remembered how little we know of each other. You kissed
me the first time you came to my house!"
"I loved you the moment I saw you ... that day in the Park when I was
with Gilbert ... I loved you then. I didn't know who you were, but I
loved you. I couldn't help it, Cecily. You were looking at Gilbert and
then your eyes shifted and you looked at me, and I loved you, dear. I
worried Gilbert to tell me about you!..."
"What did he say?" she interrupted eagerly, leaning her elbows on the
table and resting her chin in the cup of her hands.
"He told me who you were," Henry answered awkwardly.
"But didn't he say anything else?... didn't he?..."
"I've forgotten what he said.... Then I saw you at the St. James's ...
he told me you often went to first-nights, and I went specially, hoping
to see you!..."
"Dear Paddy," she said, "and you were so shy!"
"And so jealous and angry because you talked all the time to Gilbert,
and ignored me. You made me go out of the box with Jimphy, and as I
went, I saw you putting your hand out to touch Gilbert, and I heard you
calling him, 'Gilbert, darling.' ..."
She laughed, but did not speak.
"And I was frightfully jealous. Gilbert's my best friend, Cecily, but I
hated him that night. I suppose ... oh, I don't know!"
"What were you going to say!" she asked.
He looked at her intently for a few moments. Her grey eyes were full of
laughter, and he wondered whether she would answer his question
seriously.
"Well?" she said.
"Do you still love Gilbert, Cecily! Am I ... just some one to fill in
the time ... until Gilbert!..."
She sat back in her seat, and the laughter left her eyes.
"Let's go!" she said.
But he did not move. "You do love him," he persisted, "and you don't
love me...."
"Are you going to Ireland with him?" she demanded.
"Yes!"
"Very well, then!" The tightened tone of her voice indicated that there
was no more to be said, but he would not heed the warning, and persisted
in demanding explanations.
"If you go to Ireland with Gilbert," she said, "I'll never speak to you
again!"
She closed her lips firmly, and he saw the downward curve of them again,
and while he pondered on what she had said, the thought shot across his
mind that that downward curve would deepen as she grew older. "She'll
get very bad-tempered!..."
"I mean it," she said, interrupting his thought and compelling him to
pay heed to her. "I'll never speak to you again if you go away now."
"But I've promised, Cecily!" he protested.
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't see what that's got to do with it,"
she answered.
6
They came out of the inn, and stood for a few moments before the door.
"Shall we go back to the Heath?" he said.
"No," she replied. "Let's go home."
"Very well!"
He felt broken and crushed and tongueless. Cecily did not speak to him
as they walked towards the Spaniards' Road, nor did he speak to her. The
angry look on her face deterred him.
He hailed a taxi, and they got into it and were driven down Fitzjohn's
Avenue and homewards. Once she turned to him and said again, "Are you
going to Ireland with him?" but when he answered, "I must, Cecily, I
said I would!" she turned away again and did not speak until the taxi
drew up before her door.
"Perhaps you'd rather I didn't come in?" he said, expecting that she
would dismiss him, but she did not do so.
"Jimphy may be at home," she said, "and probably he'd like to see you!"
"I thought he'd gone away for the day!"
"He may have returned."
She went up the steps of the house while he paid the driver of the
taxi-cab, and spoke to the servant who had opened the door.
"He's not in," she said to Henry when he joined her.
"Then I won't ..."
"Come in," she interrupted. "I want to say something to you!"
He followed her into the hall and up the stairs to the drawing-room,
where she left him while she went to her room to take off her outdoor
garments. He moved aimlessly about until she returned. She had changed
her clothes, and was wearing a loose golden silk teagown with a girdle
round it, and the gold in her hair seemed to be enriched by the gold in
her dress. She went up to him quickly, putting her hands on his
shoulders and drawing him close to her.
"Paddy!" she said, and her voice was very tense.
"Yes?" he answered.
"I've never asked you to do anything for me, have I?" She put her arms
round his neck and kissed him. He tried to answer her, but could not
because her lips were tightly pressed on his.
"You won't go, will you?" she murmured, closing her eyes and tightening
her hold on him.
He struggled a little.... "Why don't you want me to go with Gilbert?" he
said.
But she did not answer his question. She drew him back to her again,
whispering, "I love you, Paddy, I love you. I don't love any one else
but you!"
He threw his arms about her, and they stood there forgetful of
everything....
She moved a little, and he led her to the sofa where they sat down
together. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he put his arms around
her and drew her warm, yielding body close to his. He could feel the
beating of her heart....
"You won't go, will you, Paddy?" she whispered.
"No," he answered, bending over her and kissing her.
She drew herself closer to him. "Dear Paddy!" she said.
7
He went up to Gilbert's room immediately after he returned home. All the
way back from Lady Cecily's, he had told himself that he must tell
Gilbert at once that he was not going to Ireland because he was in love
with Cecily "and because she's in love with me!" and he had repeated his
resolution many times to himself in the hope that by thinking
exclusively of it, there would be no opportunity for other thoughts to
come into his head. He shrank from the meeting with Gilbert, for his
conscience hurt him because of his betrayal of Gilbert's love and
friendship. He had palliated his conduct by saying to himself that
Gilbert had given Cecily up, but the excuse would not serve to absolve
him from the sense of unfriendly behaviour.
"I'm making excuses for myself," he murmured.
"That's all I'm doing. The decent thing is to go to Gilbert and tell him
everything ... or ... or I could write it. I could write a long letter
to him and get Magnolia to give it to him.... Perhaps that 'ud be better
than telling him. It'll be difficult to get a chance to say anything to
him with Roger and Ninian about...."
He broke off his thoughts and spoke out loud. "You're funking it," he
said. "Damn you, you're funking it!"
"I must tell him myself," he went on. "I must stand up to some one. I
can't go on funking things forever...."
It was odd, he thought, that he had no feeling for Jimphy. He had not
any sense of shame because he had made love to Jimphy's wife. Jimphy
appeared to him only in a comic light. Yet Jimphy had professed
friendship for him. "Of course," he said, "they don't love each other!"
but in this mood of self-confession which held him, he admitted that he
would have felt no contrition even if Jimphy had been devoted to Cecily.
"He's a born cuckold!" he went on. "I might be afraid to take his wife
from him, but I wouldn't be ashamed to do it. No one would...."
He had opened the door and gone quickly up the stairs, hoping that he
would not meet any of the others. Gilbert would probably be in his study
or in his bedroom, and so he could talk to him at once and get the thing
over. He knocked on the study door, and then, receiving no answer,
opened it and looked in. Gilbert was not there. He went to the bedroom
and called "Are you in, Gilbert?" but there was no response. "I suppose
he's downstairs," he said to himself, and he walked part of the way down
to the dining-room, stopping midway when he saw Magnolia.
"Tell Mr. Farlow I want to speak to him," he called to her. "Up in my
study!"
He went to his room, and stood staring out of the window until Gilbert
came.
"Hilloa, Quinny, what's up?" Gilbert said, as he entered the study.
Henry turned to him. He could _feel_ the pallor of his cheeks, so
nervous was he.
"Gilbert," he said desperately, "I want to talk to you!"
"Yes?..."
"I'm not going to Ireland with you!"
"Not going!... Why?"
He moved mechanically towards Gilbert and stopped at the table where he
wrote. He stood for a few moments, fingering things, turning over pieces
of foolscap and tapping the table with a paper knife.
"What is it, Quinny?" Gilbert said again, and as he spoke, he came up to
Henry and touched him. "Is it ... is it anything about Cecily?" Henry
nodded his head. "I thought so," Gilbert continued. He moved away and
sat down. "Well, tell me about it," he said.
"I'm in love with her, Gilbert!"
"Yes."
"I ... I asked her to run away with me!..."
Gilbert laughed. "You have hustled, Quinny," he said. "And she wouldn't,
eh?"
"No!" Gilbert's laughter stimulated him, and he spoke more fluently.
"But she's in love with me. She told me so. I've just come from her. And
she wants me to stay in town."
"To be near her?"
"Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I had to tell you. I felt that I must tell you.
Gilbert, I'm ashamed, but I can't help it. I love her so much that I'd
... I'd do anything for her."
Gilbert did not move nor did he speak. He sat in his chair, looking very
intently at Henry.
"I can't understand myself," Henry went on. "My feelings are hopelessly
mixed up. I want to do decent things and I loathe cads, but all the same
I do caddish things myself. I want to be straight, but I'm not straight.
... It's awfully hard to explain what I mean, but there's something in
me that seems to keep pulling me out of line, and I haven't enough force
in me to beat it. I suppose it's the mill in my blood. My grandfather
was a mill-owner."
Gilbert shook his head and smiled. "I don't think your notions of
heredity are sound, Quinny. Is that all you have to confess?"
"All?"
"Yes. There isn't anything else?"
"No. I wanted to tell you that I'm ashamed, but I must tell you, too,
that although I'm ashamed, I shan't stop loving Cecily. I can't...."
Gilbert got up and went over to him. He sat on the edge of the table so
that Henry, when he looked up, had to gaze straight at him.
"You're a rum bloke, Quinny," he said. "I'm always telling you that,
aren't I? But you were never so rum as you are now. It's no good
pretending that I don't feel ... feel anything about Cecily. I do. But
I've known about you and her for some while. I knew you'd fall in love
with her that day in the Park when you were excited about her beauty and
were so anxious that I should introduce you to her. Of course, I knew
you'd fall in love with her. I'm not a dramatist for nothing. So what
you say isn't news. I mean, it doesn't surprise me. Quinny, I'm awfully
fond of you, old chap, much more than I am of Ninian or Roger. I expect
it's because you're such a blooming baby. I'm not really upset about
your being in love with Cecily. That had to be. But I'm awfully upset
about you!"
"Me, Gilbert?" Henry said, looking up in astonishment.
"Yes. You haven't got much resolution, have you? Cecily has only got to
blub a little or kiss you a few times, and you're done for ... she can
do what she likes with you. You haven't got the courage to run away from
her, and you haven't the power to stand up to her and say 'Be-damned to
you'!"
"No, I know that!"
"So, I think I'll just kidnap you, Quinny. I think I'll make you come to
Ireland with me...."
"You can't do that, Gilbert!"
"Can't I, by God!" Gilbert's voice had changed from its bantering note
to a note of resolve. "Do you think I'm going to let my best friend make
an ass of himself, and do nothing to prevent him? Quinny, you're an ass!
You're too fond of running about saying you can't help this and you
can't help that ... and spilling over! And what do you think's going to
be the end of this business? I suppose you imagine that Cecily'll change
her mind some day, and run away with you? Do you think she'll run away
with _you_ when she wouldn't run away with me? Damn you, you've got a
nerve to think a thing like that...."
"I don't think that, Gilbert," Henry interjected.
"Oh, yes, you do! Of course, you do! That's natural enough. I wouldn't
mind so much if I thought there were a chance that she would run away
with you, but she won't!"
"You wouldn't mind!..."
"No. Why should I? If she won't run away with me, she couldn't do better
than run away with you. And there'd be a chance then that you'd get on
with your job. You'd soon shake down into some sort of balance if you
were together, but you'll never get level if you go on in the way you're
going now. You'll run up into one emotional crisis and down into
another, and you'll spend the time between them in ... in recovering.
That's all. And your work will go to blazes. I _know_, Quinny. You see,
I was your predecessor...."
"But Cecily's proud of my work...."
"She was proud of mine. So she said. Look here, Quinny, _buck up_! How
much of your new novel have you written since you knew her!"
"Not very much, of course, but!..."
"Exactly. I couldn't work either when ... when I was your predecessor.
Cecily's greedy, Quinny! She wants _all_ of you ... and she has the
power to make you give the whole of yourself to her. If you think that
'all for love and the world well lost' is the right motto for a man ...
then Cecily's your woman. But is it? Hang it all, Quinny, you haven't
done your work yet ... you've only begun to do it!"
He got off the table and began to search among Henry's papers.
"What are you looking for?" Henry asked.
"I want the manuscript of 'Turbulence.' Where is it?"
"I'll get it. What do you want it for?"
He opened a drawer and took out the few sheets of the novel that were
written.
"Is that all?" said Gilbert.
"Yes," Henry answered.
"Cecily doesn't seem to inspire you, Quinny, does she, any more than she
inspired me? You haven't written a whole chapter yet.... Do you remember
what we swore at Rumpell's?"
"We swore a whole lot of things!..."
"Yes, but the most important thing? We swore we'd become Great. I don't
know that any of us ever will be Great.... I get the sensation now and
then that we're frightfully crude, even Roger, but we can become
something better than one of Cecily's lovers, can't we?"
"I don't know that I want to be anything else...."
"For shame, Quinny!"
Gilbert put the manuscript back into the drawer from which Henry had
taken it.
"You'll come to Ireland with me?" he said.
"No, Gilbert, I won't!"
"You will. I'll break your jaw if you don't come. I'll knock the
stuffing out of you if you don't come. We can catch the night train and
be in Dublin to-morrow morning!..."
"I promised Cecily I wouldn't go...."
"And you promised me you would go. I've packed all the things I want,
and it oughtn't to take you long to pack a trunk. I'll come and help you
after dinner ... there's the gong ... well just have time if you hop
round quickly. Ninian can telephone for a taxi to take us to Euston!"
"It's no good, Gilbert...."
"Come on. I can smell onions, and I'd risk my immortal soul for onions.
Boiled, fried, stewed or roasted, Quinny, there's no vegetable to beat
them...."
8
"I'm not going, Gilbert!..."
"You are going!"
They had finished dinner and were now in Henry's bedroom. Gilbert had
instructed Ninian to telephone for a taxi. Then, shoving Henry before
him, he had climbed the stairs to Henry's room and started to pack his
trunk.
"You can't make me go!..."
Gilbert took an armful of shirts from the chest of drawers and dropped
them into the trunk. "Once, when I was wandering in Walworth," he said,
"I heard a costermonger threatening to give another costermonger a thick
ear, a bunged-up eye and a mouth full of blood. That's what you'll get
if you don't hop round. What suits do you want!"
Henry did not answer. He walked to the window and stood there, peering
out at the trees in the garden. A taxi-cab drove up to the door and
presently Ninian came bounding up the stairs to tell them of its
arrival.
"Tell him to wait," said Gilbert, and Ninian hurried back to do so. "If
you won't choose your suits yourself," he went on to Henry, "I shall
have to do it for you. Socks, socks, where the hell do you keep your
socks?..."
It seemed to Henry that he could see Cecily's face shining out of the
darkness. He could feel her arms about him and hear her beautiful voice
telling him that she loved him. "I won't go," he said to himself. "I
won't go!..."
"If you'd only help to pack, we'd save heaps of money," Gilbert
grumbled. "It's sickening to think of that taxi sitting out there
totting up tuppences. Come and sit on the lid of this trunk, will you?"
Henry did not move from the window. Gilbert straightened himself. For a
moment or two he could not see clearly because he was giddy with
stooping. Then he crossed the room and took hold of Henry's arm.
"Come on, Quinny," he said, pulling him towards the trunk.
"What's the good of fussing like this, Gilbert, when I've told you I
won't go...."
"Well, sit on the trunk anyhow. I may as well close the thing now I've
filled it...."
9
He called Ninian, and between them they carried the luggage downstairs
to the cab.
"Now then, Quinny!" said Gilbert.
"I'm not going, I tell you...."
"Get into the cab, damn you. Go on!"
He shoved him forward so that he almost fell against the step of the
taxi, and Ninian caught hold of him, and they lifted him and heaved him
into the taxi.
"Get in, Ninian," said Gilbert. He turned and shouted up the hall to
Roger. "Come on, Roger! You'd better come and see us off!"
None of them spoke during the short drive to Euston. Henry sulked in a
corner of the cab, telling himself that it was monstrous of Gilbert to
treat him in this fashion, and vowing that nothing would induce him to
get into the train ... and then, his mind veering again, telling himself
that perhaps it would be a good thing to go to Ireland for a while.
Cecily had chopped and changed with him. Why should he not chop and
change with her?... Neither Ninian nor Roger made any remark on the
peculiarity of the journey to Ireland. They had known in the morning
that Gilbert and Henry were going away that night, but it was clear that
something had happened since then, that Gilbert was more intent on the
journey than Henry.... No doubt, they would know in good time. Probably,
Ninian thought to himself, that woman Jayne is mixed up in it....
"You get the tickets, Ninian," Gilbert said when they reached Euston.
"Firsts. Democracy's all right in theory, but I don't like it in a
railway carriage!"
"Where's the money?" said Ninian.
"Money! What do you want money for? All right! Here you are! You can pay
me afterwards, Quinny!"
They had only a few minutes in which to get into the train, and Gilbert,
putting his arm in Henry's and hurrying him towards the Irish mail, was
glad that the wait would not be long.
"It's ridiculous to behave like this," said Henry, as they shoved him
into a carriage.
"I know it is," Gilbert answered. He turned to Roger. "We may want grub
during the night. Get some, will you! Sandwiches will do and hard-boiled
eggs, if you can get 'em...."
He turned to Henry. "You're my friend, Quinny," he said, "I can't let
you make a mucker of everything, can I?"
Henry did not answer.
"I know exactly how you feel," Gilbert went on. "I should feel like it
myself if I were in your place, but if I were, Quinny, I'd be damned
glad if you'd do the same for me!"
10
"Good Lord!" Gilbert exclaimed, as the train drove out of London, "I
forgot to pack your toothpaste...."