I PLAY PROVIDENCE
Well, I've always heard that when one is very upset oneself, the best
cure is to force oneself to take an interest in somebody else's
troubles.
Of course, I'm not exactly "upset" about Mr. Lascelles having been
kidnapped out of this house before I could hear what he wanted. I'm
sorry for him, that's all.
But I'm sorrier still for my poor crossed-in-love sister Evelyn.
I really must devote some attention to her and her rejected suitor.
It makes me perfectly miserable to see somebody I am fond of taking
love as Evelyn takes it. Her smile is a most half-hearted affair,
and she takes absolutely no interest in her food, though she eats
pretty well. At dinner-time she tried to make a meal of vegetables
and gravy and one grain of rice pudding; but immediately Aunt
Victoria looked up and said: "Evelyn, my dear child, is that all you
are going to have? Aren't you feeling well? What is the matter with
you?"
Of course, it is the last thing that poor old Evelyn wants for
anybody to think that there is anything the matter with her, so she
had to pretend that she had got rather a headache again through the
stuffiness of the room where they have their bandaging class, and
that that was why she didn't feel like eating.
And then next day she took to roast mutton and two helpings again as
if nothing had happened.
However, of course I knew that concealment was gnawing away like a
worm in the bud, like that girl in Shakespeare, and that Evelyn was
feeling as if all the champagne had gone out of her life, as I once
heard Mr. Lascelles express it. We do so miss him and his
expressions!
It is--really, it is too beastly to be in a house full of women once
more.
It is nearly as bad as before the troops came to Mud Flats.
At least, now I suppose one can't very well say it is as bad as that,
because, after all, we do have men coming and going. Our
brother-in-law, Harry, is in and out quite a lot, and he brings
various of the men with him to have tea and to play the piano in the
Lair.
And then, of course, we have occasionally the evidently quite
homeless Mr. Curtis. Evidently Evelyn cares as much for the creature
as if he were every inch a soldier, and, goodness knows! there are
plenty of inches of him to be!
So since that is her ideal I do think she ought to be allowed to have
it instead of grizzling and moping about it all day and half the
night, and to think that it's only her obstinate idealism or whatever
she likes to call it that is standing in the way of her being
perfectly happy with the creature forever! You see, he won't be
having to go out to the front like Nancy's Harry, because he (Mr.
Curtis) has got a permanent job as instructor here.
And I am sure Aunt Victoria could be got round, considering how
surprisingly kind and sympathetic she was about Nancy's war marriage.
Evelyn really is like the old song, "If she dies an old maid she will
have only herself to blame."
This afternoon I told her so in the Lair, where she was sitting
looking like the absolute incarnation of The Pip. We had a long,
fruitless, and exhausting argument about it, which I won't go into
again, because it was just like the last one we had, which you read
all about before the German spy night.
Arguments are like history, having a way of repeating themselves.
And this one had a sort of constant refrain from Evelyn of, "It is
all very well, Rattle, but _you don't understand_. You might be able
to go to Edwin--I mean Mr. Curtis--and say to him, 'Look here, I have
thought better of it. I will marry you, I thought I minded too much
about Nancy at the party, and all that sort of thing, but I don't.
All that I mind would be not being able to be with you any more'--I
couldn't do that, Rattle; you don't understand."
I got so very tired of what one can't help considering as a parrot
cry!
It is no earthly use ever arguing, especially when you are the
youngest.
And all you can say is, "Yes, I do understand," and then the other
person says, "No, you don't, you can't," and there you are!
What can be done?
Nothing!
So I resigned myself, and merely said, "No, perhaps I _don't_
understand. Of course, I am the youngest, and, of course, I
_haven't_ ever been in love, so, of course, I haven't any right to an
opinion; but look here, Evelyn, can't you talk it over with somebody
else, and see what they think about it?"
Evelyn, holding her face in both hands, said gloomily, "What sort of
person is there that I could possibly talk it over with?"
"Well," I said, "somebody married, who knew all about love and that!"
"Aunt Victoria, I suppose you mean," said Evelyn, with bitter irony.
"No, of course, not Aunt Victoria," I said patiently. "But what
about Nancy?"
Evelyn gave a little furious jump out of her chair.
"Nancy!" she exclaimed indignantly. "But Nancy is the one that all
the trouble is about--Nancy is the very last person that I should
ever breathe a word to!"
"Is she?" I said, staring at Evelyn across the good old ink-spattered
tablecloth of the Lair. "Now, that's funny, because, if I had been
you, Nancy would have been the very first person to whom I should
have turned! Just because she was at the bottom of the trouble, as
you call it. I call it a storm in a teacup and a mountain and a
molehill," I said, getting mixed up rather in my metaphors because I
was really serious.
I said: "If I were in your place, Evelyn, I should go straight away
to Nancy and get her to tell me exactly what had happened that time
on the staircase. I should say: 'Look here, I do so want to marry
Edwin, but I don't feel I can unless I know exactly how much he liked
you first. Do you think he would have asked you to marry him if you
hadn't got engaged to Harry Masters? Do you think he is only making
love to you because he is one of those young men who marry the family
rather more than the girl? They get a type that they admire and they
stick to it. If the Nancy of the family won't have them they take
the Evelyn. That is what I am afraid of,' I should say to Nancy, in
your place, 'and I really don't know how to stand it; please tell me
exactly everything that happened by the staircase.' I should make
her give me a full descrip----"
"Stop, Rattle, stop! You really do say such dreadful things,"
complained Evelyn, putting her hands over her ears to shut out
anything else I might have been able to say. "You really are what
Mr. Curtis once said you were----"
"Oh? What?" I asked. For one can't help always being interested in
what people have said of one, even if the people don't exactly thrill
one. "What did Mr. Curtis call me?"
"An artless and opinionated kid," said Evelyn, so listlessly that,
disgusted as I was, I hadn't the heart to tell her what I thought of
her precious Mr. Curtis; a pompous mile of measuring-tape! "You
really can't enter into one's feelings yet. I'd much rather die or
go into Miss Gates's Nursing Home for life than say a single word of
all that to Nancy! And promise, Rattle!" she added, suddenly,
"promise that you will never say a word of it either. Promise,
Honour Bright, that you will never breathe a single syllable of it to
her. Oh, if you did----"
"All right, old thing, I won't; don't get so fearfully excited. I've
promised now. I always do what I say I will, don't I? I've never
broken my word yet," I said, drawing myself up to my full height,
which unfortunately made me bump the gas-bracket, hard. Rubbing my
head, I said, "You're simply spoiling two lives, that's all."
"Oh, no; I expect he'll get over it, as you said yourself," was
Evelyn's dreary answer, "and as for me, I shall go away and be a
V.A.D. as soon as the time's up and I needn't be under Aunt
Victoria's wing any more. I've got all my Red Cross certificates,
and I ought to do some useful war-work."
"But, my goodness, d'you expect this war will still be going on,
Evelyn, when you're twenty-five?"
"Captain Masters says it'll last till the youngest of our politicians
die, so I expect it'll be going on when I'm seventy," said Evelyn.
You see the kind of mood she was in!
In fact, I was feeling rather pessimistic and ruffled myself as I
strolled out of the Lair again.
For, you know, Evelyn dragging that promise out of me has just
scotched a nice little plan that I had been making on my own.
I thought, "Well, if that silly Evelyn won't go and have it out with
Nancy, I will go myself; I will tell her the whole complicated affair
and hear what she has to say. Why not?"
However, that, you see, was nipped in the bud. I am a man of my
word, or a woman, or a flapper, whichever you like to call it, and my
lips are sealed by my own hand as far as Nancy is concerned.
But here a ray of hope dawns upon me. _I haven't sealed them as far
as anybody else is concerned_. I haven't said that I wouldn't say
anything to the other principal actor in this performance. So why
shouldn't I speak to Mr. Curtis?
In fact, I shall. I have made up my mind to speak to him as soon as
I get the opportunity!
The chance came sooner than I expected it would.
I went out for my usual afternoon walk, up near that field that is
all riddled with trenches, where I had come upon Penny that afternoon
when I little dreamt what it was he was up to.
And again I passed the Class, singing, "When the Boys come Home,"
with, trailing a long way after them on the road, the leggy,
eyeglassed figure of Evelyn's adored one.
He looked at me as much as to say, "Why are you alone, not with HER?"
but I wasn't damped.
"You are just the very person I want to see," I told him in a
friendly way, stopping short as he saluted. "Will you see me home by
the longest way round, please?"
"Wh--what? Oh! certainly! With pleasure, Miss Elizabeth," said Mr.
Curtis; with a great deal of hesitation would have been truthfuller.
Evidently he was alarmed beyond words at the idea of this
_tête-à-tête_ with the artless and opinionated one, and couldn't
think what on earth it was going to be about.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say: "Do not agitate yourself, my
good young man! this is out-of-doors, with no staircase window
rattling, and at any moment there are motor-lorries and people
passing, so you needn't think I shall expect you to behave to me as
you did to Nancy."
However, I realised that this would be quite the wrong opening. So I
said nothing for a moment, but merely trudged along by his side, in
the gloaming, oh, my darling, when the lights were falling low.
To return to prose. We were going down the road to the Junction that
Mr. Lascelles and I had whizzed down on our way to Nancy's wedding.
What ages ago that seemed now! It really does seem as if we had
never had what I used to call the "Incubus" in the house with us at
all....
However, here was this other creature wondering what in the world it
was I had got to say to him.
It was a situation that called for the greatest delicacy and tact, as
it says in the papers.
I thought I had better stop beating about the bush, take the bull by
the horns and begin at once with the main issue.
I began: "Mr. Curtis! You know that my sister Evelyn is desperately
in love with you?----"
At this he turned round on me like a jaguar at bay or something of
that sort.
His voice was as sharp as any old pistol shot as he rapped out at me,
"Miss Elizabeth! I don't know what your idea may be in making this
kind of joke; but, if you don't mind my saying so, we will have no
more of it. I consider it to be very poor taste."
You would have known he had been a schoolmaster, wouldn't you, by the
way he said that? Schoolmasters always talk about "we" when they
mean just themselves, just like the Kaiser.
And he--Mr. Curtis, I mean--started striding away so fast that, long
as my own legs are, I had to put my best foot foremost to keep up
with him.
"Mr. Curtis, Mr. Curtis," I exclaimed. "It isn't a joke----"
"It is not a joke to me," said Mr. Curtis grimly, through the
gathering darkness.
"No, nor to me," I said, panting a little, for I was out of breath
galloping after him like this, "nor to Evelyn."
"Please, I do not think we need bring your sister's name into it,"
said Mr. Curtis, as stiff as a dress-shirt that has just come home
from the laundry.
He must be frantically in love, mustn't he, to think that Evelyn's
mere name is too good to have her youngest sister mention it?
"But I must," I insisted. "I had to mention Evelyn's name, because
it's about her that I want to speak to you."
"I should prefer it if you chose some other subject for
conversation," said that awful Mr. Curtis that Evelyn was breaking
her heart over at this moment. How true it is that Love is blind! I
should think he must be deaf as well, besides not having any sense of
humour!
However, faint heart never won fair gentleman! Not that Mr. Curtis
is fair, being one of these men who is much of a muchness with their
own khaki. I do like a man to be one thing or the other. Either
definite black or quite fair or even red; but to get on with what I
was saying to Mr. Curtis.
"I really mean it," I insisted, trying to keep in step with him. "My
sister Evelyn is fearfully in love with you. I--I am very anxious
about her because of it!"
"Miss Elizabeth, you must allow me to beg you not to say these
things," barked Mr. Curtis, still doing the heavy schoolmaster.
"Since it is not a very doubtful joke on your part, it is a very
unfortunate and incomprehensible mistake."
"It isn't," I insisted, striding along by the side of the man who was
going to be my brother-in-law, or I would know the reason why.
"Strange as it may seem, it's the absolute truth."
"I am the best judge of that," said the stony voice of Mr. Curtis,
just above me. "Since you have broached the subject, Miss Elizabeth,
I may as well tell you that I have the best possible reason for
knowing that Miss Evelyn does not and could not ever care for me in
the least."
"She told you so, I suppose?"
This satire was quite lost on him.
If you notice, satire nearly always is, on everybody. You have only
got to say a thing without smiling and everybody takes it literally
and sees nothing further in it.
"She did tell me, since you must know," said Mr. Curtis, shortly.
But at the back of his words there was such a sort of quiver of
sorrow and yearning and hopeless loneliness that I overlooked the
rude things he'd said about me. I could not help feeling sorry for
him.
"Because a woman says a thing it isn't always a sign that it is
perfectly true," I informed him. "It is not true that Evelyn does
not care for you. Even if she says so one-hundred-and-sixty-five
times a day, it isn't true, Mr. Curtis. You aren't the only person
with 'reasons' for what you say, either."
He turned towards me very quickly.
It's a shame that all these goings-on and excitement didn't happen in
the summer last year, when one could have seen a young man's face and
what he looked like when he was walking down a country lane beside
one, talking about Life and Love and things.
By this time it was so dusk I couldn't see what the expression on Mr.
Curtis's face was like at all.
But I daresay it was just as anxious and agitated as his voice as he
turned to me and said, "I want to know what you mean. I want to know
what reasons you have for supposing that--that--that what you have
hit on is the truth."
I said, with the proud consciousness of being perfectly truthful, "I
didn't hit on it. I shouldn't have believed it, but that--well!
Evelyn told me so herself."
"What?" cried Mr. Curtis, and turned round in such agitation and so
quickly that his eyeglasses fell off his nose and dangled violently
over his not-nearly-broad-enough chest.
"Yes," I said firmly. "Evelyn told me. I had it all out with her,
more than a week ago. She'd simply murder me, too, if she knew that
I was talking about her to you and telling you all about it at this
moment."
There was a long, long pause as we walked along.
The voices of the Class came faintly to us from further down the road
as they tramped along, singing:
"_There's a sil--ver loin--ing
Threw ther dark claoud shoin--ing----_"
And then Mr. Curtis said to me in the quickest, most uncertain voice,
"Quite right. I ought not to be discussing--HER, even with you."
Then another pause, after which he said, more quickly still, "I've
_got_ to know. Please tell me exactly what she did say; every word,
if you can."
Well, thank goodness, I have a memory like a gramophone. I can
remember every syllable that people said and how they said it.
I simply took this memory of mine back to that afternoon when I found
Evelyn sobbing in her bedroom, and I rattled it all off, with much
expression, to the young man who had been the cause of those sobs.
He said in that quick voice, "I can't believe it. I can't believe
it!"
"You will have to," I said. "If you had any sense," I added, to this
young man who'd been what they call "_so-brilliant-up-at-Oxford_,"
"you would know that I couldn't possibly have made that story up.
Made-up stories," I said, "always sound so much more like Life than a
real one. That is one of the ways by which you tell the difference.
That is what they mean by truth is stranger than fiction. There is
nothing more improbable than the things that go on in real life,"
said I, meditatively. "I have been finding that out all this autumn."
But I found that Mr. Curtis hadn't been listening to one word of my
interesting theories.
He was striding down the road beside me again so fast that I had to
run a little, muttering, "Nancy! She minded that about Nancy?"
Just as he was saying this we arrived at that end of the village
where those semi-detached and furnished with those castor-oil plant
villas are that I told you about, where the Masters are in billets.
No light coming out of them, of course, but you could tell them by
the dark gables against the pale sky.
Here, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, Mr. Curtis stopped.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said earnestly, "you have said on your honour
that you are in earnest? You are serious about what you have just
told me?"
"Yes, I don't say on my honour twice as a rule," I said, rather
snappily.
"It is true, then," said Mr. Curtis, going off in his daze again.
Then again he woke up out of it and said briskly:
"Very well. In that case there is only one thing to be done, Miss
Elizabeth."
I urged him to let me know what it was, of course, but he went on to
say, "Thank you very much for what you have told me. I'll say good
evening."
"Good evening?" I echoed, astonished.
"Yes, I think we part company here," he said firmly, saluting again.
"I must go in and call upon Mrs. Masters."
"No, you don't," I said, gently but firmly. That is, not very
gently, but quite firmly. "You don't go in and see my sister Nancy
without my hearing what it is all going to be about."
For, you know, although _I_ had promised Evelyn solemnly that I
wasn't going to tell Nancy anything, _he_ hadn't. I certainly didn't
see why I should be done out of hearing him do it. Of course, I knew
that it was about Evelyn that he was going to talk to Nancy.
He said, very stiffly, "This matter is between ourselves, Miss
Elizabeth."
But I said, "No fear. I told you everything. I don't see why I
should be cut out of all the fun now, just as if I were a little
child that you talk French before as soon as the conversation begins
to be a little interesting. In fact, I won't. I'll _be_
'opinionated.' I am coming in with you now!"