I
It was at Lavinia's wedding that Geoffrey was introduced to a tall
girl wearing a green frock and a green hat fitting her head so
closely that only two small curves of bright hair were visible on her
cheeks.
She looked moody and impatient, and when he asked if she had seen the
presents she said: "No thanks, I don't want to."
Slightly repelled by her manner but attracted by her lime green frock
and her copper-beech hair, Geoffrey tried again.
"Shall we get out of the crowd and find a peaceful corner somewhere?"
She shook her head.
"No, I don't really think it's worth while," she said. "I'm going
home now. I wouldn't have come at all if I hadn't been afraid
Martin's parents would be piqued, but now they've both seen me so I
can justifiably escape."
Geoffrey noticed that her eyes were a clear, cool grey that
contradicted the warmth of her hair, and he liked the wide smile that
lightened her face as she explained her presence at the wedding, so
there was a trace of eagerness in his voice as he asked:
"Are you a Peile relation then? I'm sorry I didn't hear your name
when we were introduced."
"Yes, I'm a sort of cousin of Martin. My name's Helen Guest. I
didn't hear your name either, but you're a Greene, of course."
"I'm Lavinia's brother."
"Yes, I thought you were. You're rather like her. She's extremely
pretty, isn't she, but not at all paintable."
"Do you paint then?" asked Geoffrey diffidently, conscious of
ignorance and anxious to avoid a snub.
She frowned. "Well, yes I do; off and on, and not very well. But
there it is, I do. I'm going now. Good-bye."
Her smile followed quickly on her frown, she nodded to him, and
merged into the crowd, leaving Geoffrey bewildered and a little
depressed and solitary.
Three months later when he met her at dinner at Lavinia and Martin's
house, he went up to her with the pleasant sensation of renewing an
interrupted friendship.
"How do you do, Miss Guest," he began. "I've been hoping to meet you
again in some place not so crowded as the last time."
Helen looked at him coldly and directly.
"Was there a last time?" she queried.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I merely said, 'Was there a last time?'" she repeated in a
nonchalant voice.
Geoffrey flushed.
"Yes," he said very distinctly, and his look matched hers in
coldness. "We met before at Lavinia's wedding which you were not
enjoying very much. You said I was very like my sister who was
pretty but not paintable, and you were wearing a green frock, very
much the colour of the one you've got on now. Have I produced
sufficient evidence to prove that I am not trying the old familiar
gambit of 'where have we met before?'"
He noticed that her cheeks were scarlet and that she was obviously
discomfited, and it surprised him that anyone so aggressive should be
so easily routed. She stood silent for a moment, and then laughed
suddenly.
"We're obviously going to quarrel," she said. "Let's do it nicely;
we'll preserve a state of armed neutrality as long as we can, and
when we have to abandon it we'll keep to all the rules of pretty
fighting, and to begin with I'll admit that I remember you quite well
at the wedding. I was only being contrary."
Geoffrey's heart leapt. There was something fresh and vital about
this girl. She provoked him, but she attracted him far more. He
found it immensely stimulating to be repelled by her at one moment,
and in the next, subjugated by her candid charm.
He sat opposite her at dinner, and though she talked animatedly to
the man on her left, her colour remained high and he knew that she
was conscious of him.
He speculated hazily on the nature of her attraction for him and
decided that it was partly due to her looks, partly to her brusque
inconsistency, and that undoubtedly in this strange duel which had
started between them, hers was the next move. It was his role to
wait and lurk, hers to make the attack or the appeal.
After dinner two tables for bridge were arranged, with Geoffrey at
one, Helen at the other, and he did not speak to her again until,
after saying good-night to Lavinia, she half-turned to him, bringing
into play the suave clear line of chin and throat.
"I'll take you home if you like," she offered casually. "I've got my
car here."
As Geoffrey thanked her formally he felt that again she had put him
at a disadvantage. He should have had a car to take her home in, but
for her to take him, dropping him like a small boy at his mother's
front door, was humiliating. It irked him to sit idle while she
slipped into the driver's seat and pressed a green slipper ruthlessly
on the starter knob. There was a moment of rending noise, then,
"Better let me turn her over once or twice," Geoffrey suggested.
"The engine's bound to be cold if it's been standing out here all
that long time with no rug on.
"I never do put a rug on," Helen looked at him sidelong. "If you
once begin pampering your car there's no end to it."
Geoffrey burst out laughing. It re-established his superiority to
find that she could be silly, petulant and peevish.
"I simply don't believe you," he said through the agonising noise of
the self-starter. "You forgot I expect, and now you won't admit it."
At that minute the engine suddenly jumped to life, and Helen started
the car with a grinding of gears and a jerk.
There was good ground for criticism but Geoffrey held his peace, and
in a moment he heard her saying: "Do you want to go straight home or
would you like to come to my studio for a bit?"
Surprised, he answered promptly.
"The studio most certainly, please."
"It's a queer untidy sort of hovel. Only a bedroom and a kitchen and
a lovely big studio. I don't live there all the time you see. In
fact my family kick against my living there at all, and I have to go
home at frequent intervals. But when they get too much for me I come
and live in the studio for a few weeks."
"Is the family atmosphere particularly trying then, and is it in
London?"
"No, and yes. It is in London, in Lowndes Square, and it isn't
really trying at all. They're darlings, but I'm very difficult, you
know."
"So I should imagine," said Geoffrey softly, to which Helen only
replied:
"Do you mind not talking? I can't cope with the traffic if I have to
concentrate on you."
As they drove along the Embankment, Geoffrey twisted his body into
the corner of the car, to watch her face as she drove. Even in the
cold yellow light that struck over her as they approached each
lamp-post, and faded so quickly as they passed it, her colouring
disturbed and troubled him.
He wondered if she still had a trace of summer sunburn, or if all
through the winter she kept that orange glow under her skin, so that
it seemed to be lit from underneath. Concealed lighting, he thought
vaguely; and very subtle too. Much more attractive than pink laid
on, or even pink that looks as if it were the top surface; this is
really orange and pink mixed, and a layer of skin over it all.
He was conscious of his hurried heart-beats and his thick, hurried
breathing when he looked at the dark-red hair lying so flat on her
glowing cheeks, and when for a second she turned to him, he found
himself completely disconcerted.
"We're nearly there," she said. "It's painfully conventional to have
a studio in Chelsea, but I couldn't find another that I liked."
She ran the car into a garage; they got out, walked along the road,
and turned up a narrow little alley at the end of which they were
confronted by a blue door.
Helen fumbled with her key; the lock was stiff; impatiently she flung
back her dark shawl and stooped, green-frocked and red-haired,
against the bright blue background.
Geoffrey took a step forward. The juxtaposition of the three colours
was intolerable to his nerves, already jangled and overstrained. His
chest was aching, his ears drumming, and just as the lock yielded he
caught Helen in his arms and kissed her violently and repeatedly.
Suddenly he released her and stood on the threshold feeling cold and
sick.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I've been unpardonable."
"You have," she said. "Entirely. I can't imagine what happened.
Anyhow I think you'd better go now; everything's sordid and
abominable."
There was a small red mark at the side of her mouth. Geoffrey stared
at it stupidly and could not find anything to say that would not
sound either meaningless or offensive. Suddenly he was filled with
immense pity for himself and her, and words came easily.
"I've hurt you a little," he said, "I'm sorry, my dear, but I'm
afraid we're bound to hurt each other, you and I. I never meant to
kiss you; it was entirely because of the blue door and the way you
stood against it. It really was too much, all that blazing blue and
green, and your red hair."
"What do you mean?" she asked curiously. "You can come in for a
minute if you like. I want to know what you mean when you say it was
the blue door."
Geoffrey followed her into the small hall and through to a big room
at the back whose long windows looked on to a paved garden. She put
on the light, drew the curtains of some heavy, dark blue stuff, and
knelt down by the fire with a pair of bellows which she used
energetically till a small flame wavered up from the sullen coal.
"There," she said triumphantly. "That's all right. Now, please,
talk to me about everything."
Geoffrey had stood looking at her as she coaxed the fire, but he was
suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. He sat down.
"I feel completely dull and stupid," he said heavily. "I can't
explain myself at all. I'm sorry I offended you."
"You needn't be," Helen's voice was light. "It's all right. It
didn't occur to me that a mere colour effect would unnerve you."
"I'm not temperamental as a rule," Geoffrey said sombrely. "But I'm
conscious of a painful and lovely tie between us. It wasn't only the
colour effect; it was dinner and the whole evening, and driving with
you, a frightful strain the whole time. Listen, Helen," he leaned
forward. "I've only known you for an hour or two, but do you think
you could marry me sometime. It seems idiotic to say I love you, but
I do. I want to marry you desperately, and do you realise that for
all I know you may be engaged to someone else."
Geoffrey broke off abruptly. He no longer felt tired, a deep
exhilaration was creeping over him, and he experienced an almost
savage foretaste of triumph as he said urgently: "Helen, you will
marry me, won't you?"
Helen shook her head. All the colour had drained slowly from her
cheeks, and the little mark beside her mouth stood out hot and
scarlet. She put a finger up to it and felt it gently.
"No," she answered, "I won't marry you, Geoffrey. There is a queer
link between us. I felt it the first minute we met, but I won't
marry you; at least not now. I might in ten years if my work fails
me, but not now. You see it is important to me; I love it, and I
feel I'm going to do something good, and whatever anyone may say I'm
certain it's impossible to work decently and be married as well."
"I don't believe it is," said Geoffrey strongly. "Frankly I've never
thought about it, but I'm perfectly sure we could do it."
"No we couldn't; no one can."
"Helen, you must marry me. It seems to me utterly impossible that
you should refuse to. And that's not conceit, it's simply that I
know we ought to be together, you and I."
Helen smiled a little wanly.
"I didn't think it was conceit, and if I could marry anyone it would
be you, but I can't, don't you see. It would be like walking into a
cage, and with my eyes open too. The minute I got in and heard the
doors shut on me I'd go mad with terror till I got out again."
"You're wrong. It wouldn't be like that, not with us, Helen."
"It would. Look at us now, Geoffrey. A minute ago you were nearly
dead with weariness and I was bursting with vitality and now I'm
nearly dead, and you're alive again."
"My love, that only shows. Of course now as things are we fight each
other and exhaust each other, but if we were married, it wouldn't be
like this, we'd both be quite admirably stimulated all the time."
"No, we shouldn't," Helen shook her head again. "One of us would be
completely on top, and the other would have to give up everything,
and I might easily be the other!"
"That's not fair. I don't want you to give up anything; I only want
you to marry me."
"That's just it, and it's no good," Helen looked at him levelly.
"I'll be your mistress, Geoffrey, at least I think I will; not now I
mean,"--she looked fearfully round the room as if the shadows might
hear and bear witness against her--"but sometime I think I will be.
Anyhow I won't marry anyone but you ever, and you must leave it at
that."
"My sweet," Geoffrey knelt by her chair and held her against him, "I
don't want a mistress, and certainly not you. I want you to marry
me, and you will some day, won't you. I can wait."
Helen freed herself and sat bolt upright.
"I love you in a way, Geoffrey, but don't begin being good to me. I
have people who are good to me. If you stop fighting me altogether,
I'll simply trample on you. I'd hate you to try and bully me, but
I'd hate you still more to be kind to me."
"I'm not a very kind person," said Geoffrey soberly. "At home I'm
supposed to be moody and difficult--like you I suppose--and Hugh is
much more charming and likeable."
"That'll do very well then. I like this feeling of half loving you
and with the other half being antipathetic to you."
"I don't like it. It's hell unless you'll marry me. Listen Helen;
if we made a treaty with conditions so that your work was protected,
don't you think you could bring yourself to it then?"
"I might; I don't want to; it's against my better judgment and I'd be
a bad wife, but I might. Tell me what conditions you'd suggest. For
one thing there's children."
"I don't see that that matters. Don't have them if you don't want
them."
"Wouldn't you mind?"
"No, not a bit now anyhow. And if I wanted one in ten years or so
perhaps you might consider it."
"Geoffrey, I almost think we might manage," Helen said eagerly.
"I've always ruled out marriage, and I won't do it at once anyhow,
but if we did really make a sort of treaty that would safeguard my
painting, then perhaps in two or three years I'd marry you."
"I'll work out the clauses. You'll have to be protected against me,
and against children, and against my relations, and heaps of other
things."
"Then why do you want me at all?" Helen asked in a small voice.
"I do. I want you most painfully. I hate your work in a way because
it comes between us, but it's part of you too, and I don't know you
well enough to disassociate bits of you from other bits."
"Don't hate it, Geoffrey. It's the most important part of me. I've
not done anything to matter yet, but I'll show you my last thing if
you like. I had an idea that all this talk about schools and styles
was nonsense and that one could paint in two distinct styles in one
picture and still keep the unity."
She went over and lifted a canvas that was turned against the wall.
"It's not framed," she said. "So I'll hold it up against these
curtains; they're a good background."
She held it at arm's length standing very straight and tall, the
outstretched arm and hand trembling a little with its weight.
Two white ponies were coming through a wood, with a violent sun
striking between the trees. Each tree was painted as a solemn dark
column with four twisting branches on each of which hung four formal
emerald leaves. But the ponies were round and fat, with flowing
manes and tails and little hooves uplifted. There was a classical
rotundity about their haunches; their necks were thick and curved.
Geoffrey looked at them and thought how much happier they would have
been frolicking in some flowery glade, or prancing round a little
copse with a white temple in the centre. Against these stark
blue-brown trees they became fantastic: the wood seemed real and
permanent, the ponies--ironically robust--were creatures of an hour,
a fashion, a convention.
"It's unkind to the ponies," he said, turning to Helen. "They're
wretched in that wood. They want to caper in a nice little meadow
full of daisies and buttercups."
"Daisies and buttercups," repeated Helen broodingly. "Yes, I suppose
they do. Anyhow, it's no good at all. I thought I had discovered
something when I began, but half-way through I lost my idea. That's
why I haven't finished it. Perhaps after all I'll marry you and have
a red plush dining-room and hang that over the mantelpiece."
Her voice was sullen, her face pinched and plain. Geoffrey was
conscious of a profound and weary melancholy settling on his spirits.
He looked at Helen who returned his look suspiciously, like a
stranger. Their marriage seemed remote and improbable.
Vaguely he contemplated kissing her, but the effort was too great in
his dazed and empty state.
"I'll ring up," he said disjointedly. "I must go now. Or I'll come
and see you; perhaps Sunday would do, would it? Anyhow I must go
now; I'm so tired I don't know what I'm saying."
"Yes, come on Sunday. I'll give you some supper. And don't even
mention my name to anyone. I don't know yet what I'm going to do
about you."
Her tone was withdrawn and hostile; it matched her suspicious glance.
"Good-night, Helen," said Geoffrey wearily, and the blue door shut
behind him as she said, "Good-night, Geoffrey Greene."