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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c7b470 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52020 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52020) diff --git a/old/52020-0.txt b/old/52020-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7ea42fb..0000000 --- a/old/52020-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11213 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Roland Whately, by Alec Waugh - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Roland Whately - A Novel - -Author: Alec Waugh - -Release Date: May 7, 2016 [EBook #52020] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROLAND WHATLEY *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - ROLAND WHATELY - - [Illustration: colophon] - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS - ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO - - MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED - LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA - MELBOURNE - - THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. - TORONTO - - - - - ROLAND WHATELY - - _A Novel_ - - BY - - ALEC WAUGH - AUTHOR OF “THE LOOM OF YOUTH” - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1922 - - _All Rights Reserved_ - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, - BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. - - Set up and printed. Published September, 1922. - - Press of - J. J. Little & Ives Company - New York, U. S. A. - - TO MY FRIEND - CLIFFORD BAX - - - - -CONTENTS - - -PART I.--THE OPENING ROUND - -CHAPTER PAGE - -I. TWO HAPHAZARDS 3 - -II. THE OUTCOME 14 - -III. RALPH AND APRIL 23 - -IV. A KISS 35 - -V. A POTENTIAL DIPLOMAT 44 - -VI. APRIL’S LOOKING-GLASS 59 - -VII. A SORRY BUSINESS 67 - - -PART II.--THE RIVAL FORCES - -VIII. A FORTUNATE MEETING 99 - -IX. HOGSTEAD 112 - -X. YOUNG LOVE 127 - -XI. THE ROMANCE OF VARNISH 151 - -XII. MARSTON AND MARSTON 167 - -XIII. LILITH OF OLD 175 - -XIV. THE TWO CURRENTS 196 - - -PART III.--THE FIRST ENCOUNTERS - -XV. SUCCESS 209 - -XVI. LILITH AND MURIEL 244 - - -PART IV.--ONE WAY OR ANOTHER - -XVII. THREE YEARS 253 - -XVIII. THREE DAYS 261 - -XIX. THE LONELY UNICORN 285 - -XX. THERE’S ROSEMARY 304 - -XXI. THE SHEDDING OF THE CHRYSALIS 312 - -XXII. AN END AND A BEGINNING 331 - - - - -PART I - -THE OPENING ROUND - - - - -CHAPTER I - -TWO HAPHAZARDS - - -It began, I suppose, on a certain September afternoon, when Roland -Whately traveled back to school by the three-thirty train from Waterloo. -There were two afternoon trains to Fernhurst: one left London at -three-thirty and arrived at a quarter to six; the other left at -four-eighteen, stopped at every station between Basingstoke and -Salisbury, waited twenty-five minutes at Templecombe for a connection, -and finally reached Fernhurst at eight-twenty-three. It is needless to -state that by far the greater part of the school traveled down by the -four-eighteen--who for the sake of a fast train and a comfortable -journey would surrender forty-eight minutes of his holidays?--and -usually, of course, Roland accompanied the many. - -This term, however, the advantages of the fast train were considerable. -He was particularly anxious to have the corner bed in his dormitory. -There was a bracket above it where he could place a candle, by the light -of which he would be able to learn his rep. after “lights out.” If he -were not there first someone else would be sure to collar it. And then -there was the new study at the end of the passage; he wanted to get -fresh curtains and probably a gas mantle: when once the school was back -it was impossible, for at least a week, to persuade Charlie, the school -custos, to attend to an odd job like that. And so he traveled back by a -train that contained, of the three hundred boys who were on the -Fernhurst roll, only a dozen fags and three timid Sixth-Formers who had -distrusted the animal spirits of certain powerful and irreverent -Fifth-Formers. On the first day, as on the last, privilege counts for -little, and it is unpleasant to pass four hours under the seat of a -dusty railway carriage. - -It was the first time that Roland had been able to spend the first -evening of a term in complete leisure. He walked quietly up to the -house, went down to the matron’s room and consulted the study and -dormitory lists. He found that he was on the Sixth-Form table, had been -given the study for which he had applied, and was in the right -dormitory. He bagged the bed he wanted, and took his health certificate -round to the Chief’s study. - -“Ah, Whately, this is very early. Had a good holiday?” - -“Yes, thank you, sir.” - -“Feeling ready for football? They tell me you’ve an excellent chance of -getting into the XV.?” - -“I hope so, sir.” - -He went over to the studies and inspected the gas fittings. Yes, he -would certainly need a new mantle, and he must try to see if Charlie -couldn’t fit him up with a new curtain. After a brief deliberation -Charles decided that he could; a half crown changed hands, and as Roland -strolled back from the lodge the Abbey clock struck half-past six. Over -two hours to prayers. He had done all his jobs, and there didn’t seem to -be a soul in the place. He began to wonder whether, after all, it had -been worth his while to catch that early train: it had been a dull -journey, two hours in the company of three frightened fags, outhouse -fellows whom he didn’t know, and who had huddled away in a corner of the -carriage and talked in whispers. If, on the other hand, he had waited -for the four-eighteen he would at that moment be sitting with five or -six first-class fellows, talking of last year’s rags, of the new -prefects, and the probable composition of the XV. He would be much -happier there. And as for the dormitory and study, well, he’d have -probably been able to manage if he had hurried from the station. He had -done so a good many times before. Altogether he had made a bit of an ass -of himself. An impetuous fool, that was what he was. - -And for want of anything better to do, he mouched down to Ruffer’s, the -unofficial tuck-shop. There was no one he knew in the front of the shop, -so he walked into the inside room and found, sitting in a far corner, -eating an ice, Howard, one of the senior men in Morgan’s. - -“Hullo!” he said. “So you’ve been ass enough to come down by the early -train as well?” - -“Yes, I was coming up from Cornwall, and it’s the only way I could make -the trains fit in. A bad business. There’s nothing to do but eat; come -and join me in an ice.” - -Howard was only a very casual acquaintance; he was no use at games; he -had never been in the same form as Roland, and fellows in the School -house usually kept pretty much to themselves. They had only met in -groups outside the chapel, or at roll-call, or before a lecture. It was -probably the first time they had ever been alone together. - -“Right you are!” said Roland. “Mr. Ruffer, bring me a large strawberry -ice and a cup of coffee.” - -But the ice did not last long, and they were soon strolling up the High -Street, with time heavy on their hands. Conversation flagged; they had -very little in common. - -“I know,” said Howard. “Let’s go down to the castle grounds; they’ll -probably have a band, and we can watch the dancing.” - -Halfway between the station and the school, opposite the Eversham Hotel, -where parents stopped for “commem” and confirmation, was a public garden -with a band stand and well-kept lawns, and here on warm summer evenings -dances would promote and encourage the rustic courtships of the youthful -townsfolk. During the term these grounds were strictly out of bounds to -the school; but on the first night rules did not exist, and besides, no -one was likely to recognize them in the bowler hats and colored ties -that would have to be put away that night in favor of black poplin and -broad white straw. - -It was a warm night, and they leaned against the railing watching the -girls in their light print dresses waltz in the clumsy arms of their -selected. - -“Looks awfully jolly,” said Howard. “They don’t have a bad time, those -fellows. There are one or two rippingly pretty girls.” - -“And look at the fellows they’re dancing with. I can’t think how they -can stand it. Now look there, at that couple by the stand. She’s a -really pretty girl, while her man is pimply, with a scraggy mustache and -sweating forehead, and yet look how she’s leaning over his shoulder; -think of her being kissed by that.” - -“I suppose there’s something about him.” - -“I suppose so.” - -There was a pause; Roland wished that difference of training and -position did not hold them from the revel. - -“By Jove!” said Roland, “it would be awful fun to join them.” - -“Well, I dare you to.” - -“Dare say you do. I’m not having any. I don’t run risks in a place where -I’m known.” - -As a matter of fact, Roland did not run risks anywhere, but he wanted -Howard to think him something of a Don Juan. One is always ashamed of -innocence, and Howard was one of those fellows who naturally bring out -the worst side of their companions. His boisterous, assertive confidence -was practically a challenge, and Roland did not enjoy the rôle of -listener and disciple, especially as Howard was, by the school -standards, socially his inferior. - -At that moment two girls strolled past, turned, and giggled over their -shoulders. - -“Do you see that?” said Roland. - -“What about it?” - -“Well, I mean....” - -The girls were coming back, and suddenly, to Roland’s surprise, -embarrassment and annoyance, Howard walked forward and raised his hat. - -“Lonely?” he said. - -“Same as you.” - -“Like a walk, then?” - -“All right, if your friend’s not too shy.” - -And before Roland could make any protest he was walking, tongue-tied and -helpless, on the arm of a full-blown shop girl. - -“Well, you’re a cheerful sort of chap, aren’t you?” she said at last. - -“Sorry, but you see I wasn’t expecting you!” - -“Oh, she didn’t turn up, I suppose?” - -“I didn’t mean that.” - -“Oh, get along, I know you; you’re all the same. Why, I was talking to a -boy last week....” - -To save her the indignity of a confession, Roland suggested that they -should dance. - -“All right, only don’t hold me too tight--sister’s looking.” - -There was no need to talk while they were dancing, and he was glad to be -able to collect his thoughts. It was an awkward business. She wasn’t on -the whole a bad-looking girl; she was certainly too plump, but she had a -nice smile and pretty hair; and he felt no end of a dog. But it was -impossible to become romantic, for she giggled every time he tried to -hold her a little closer, and once when his cheek brushed accidentally -against hers she gave him a great push, and shouted, “Now, then, -naughty!” to the intense amusement of another couple. Still, he enjoyed -dancing with her. It would be something to tell the fellows afterwards. -They would be sitting in the big study. Gradually the talk would drift -round to girls. He would sit in silence while the others would relate -invented escapades, prefaced by, “My brother told me,” or, “I saw in a -French novel.” He would wait for the lull, then himself would let -fall--oh! so gently--into the conversation, “a girl that I danced with -in the castle grounds....” - -The final crash of the band recalled him to the requirements of the -moment, and the need for conversation. They sat on a seat and discussed -the weather, the suitability of grass as a dancing floor, the -superiority of a band over a piano. He introduced subject after subject, -bringing them up one after another, like the successive waves of -infantry in an attack. It was not a success. The first bars of a waltz -were a great relief. - -He jumped up and offered her his arm. - -“From the school, aren’t you?” she said. - -“How did you guess?” he asked. She answered him with a giggle. - -It was a blow, admittedly a blow. He had not imagined himself a shining -success, but he had not thought that he was giving himself away quite as -badly as that. They got on a great deal better though after it. They -knew where they were, and he found her a very jolly girl, a simple -creature, whose one idea was to be admired and to enjoy herself, an -ambition not so very different from Roland’s. It was her sense of humor -that beat him: she giggled most of the time; why he could not -understand. It was annoying, because everyone stared at them, and Roland -hated to be conspicuous. He was prepared to enjoy the illusion but not -the reality in public. He was not therefore very sorry when the Abbey -clock warned him that in a few minutes the four-eighteen would have -arrived and that the best place for him was the School house dining -room. - -On the way back he met Howard. - -“I say, you rather let me in for it, you know,” he said. - -“Oh, rot, my dear chap; but even if I did, I’ll bet you enjoyed yourself -all right.” - -“Perhaps I did. But that makes no difference. After all, you didn’t know -I was going to. I’d never seen the girl before.” - -“But one never has on these occasions, has one? One’s got to trust to -luck; you know that as well as I do.” - -“Of course, of course, but still....” - -They argued it out till they reached the cloisters leading to the School -house studies, exchanged there a cheery good-night and went their way. -Five minutes later the four-eighteen was in; the study passages were -filled with shouts; Roland was running up and down stairs, greeting his -old friends. The incident was closed, and in the normal course of things -it would never have been reopened. - -That it was reopened was due entirely, if indirectly, to Roland’s -laziness on a wet Sunday afternoon, halfway through October. It was a -really wet afternoon, the sort of afternoon when there is nothing to be -done but to pack one’s study full of really good chaps and get up a -decent fug. Any small boy can be persuaded, with the aid of a shilling, -to brew some tea, and there are few things better than to sit in the -window-seat and watch the gravel courts turn to an enormous lake. Roland -was peculiarly aware of the charm of an afternoon so spent as he walked -across to his study after lunch, disquieted by the knowledge that his -football boots wanted restudding and that the night before he had vowed -solemnly that he would take them down to the professional before tea. It -would be fatal to leave them any longer, and he knew it. The ground on -Saturday had been too wet for football, and the whole house had gone for -a run, during which Roland had worn down one of his studs on the hard -roads, and driven a nail that uncomfortable hundredth of an inch through -the sole of his boot. If he wore those boots again before they had been -mended that hundredth of an inch would become a tenth of an inch, and -make no small part of a crater in his foot. It was obviously up to him -to put on a mackintosh and go down to the field at once. There was no -room for argument, and Roland knew it, but.... - -It was very pleasant and warm inside the study and damnably unpleasant -anywhere else. If only he were a prefect, and had a fag, how simple his -life would become. His shoes would be cleaned for him, his shaving water -would be boiled in the morning, his books would be carried down to his -classroom, and on this rain-drenched afternoon he would only have to put -his head outside the study door and yell “Fag!” and it would be settled. -But he was not a prefect, and he had no fag. It was no use growling -about it. He would have to go, of course he would have to go, then added -as a corollary--yes, certainly, at three o’clock. By that time the -weather might have cleared up. - -But it had not cleared up by three o’clock, and Roland had become -hopelessly intrigued by a novel by Wilkie Collins, called _The -Moonstone_. He had just reached the place where Sergeant Cuff looks up -at Rachel’s window and whistles _The Last Rose of Summer_. He could not -desert Sergeant Cuff at such a point for a pair of football boots, and -at three o’clock, with the whole afternoon before him. At half-past -there would be tons of time. But by half-past three it was raining in -the true Fernhurst manner, fierce, driving rain that whipped across the -courts, heavy gusts of wind that shrieked down the cloisters. Impossible -weather, absolutely impossible weather. No one but a fool would go out -in it. He would wait till four, it was certain to have stopped a bit by -then. - -And by four o’clock it certainly was raining a good deal less, but by -four o’clock some eight persons had assembled in the study and a most -exciting discussion was in progress. Someone from Morgan’s had started a -rumor to the effect that Fitzgerald, the vice-captain of the XV., was -going to be dropped out of the side for the Tonwich match and his place -given to Feversham, a reserve center from James’s. It was a startling -piece of news that had to be discussed from every point of view. - -First of all, would the side be improved? A doubtful matter. Fitzgerald -had certainly been out of form this season, and he had played miserably -in the last two matches, but he had experience; he would not be likely -to lose his head in a big game, and Feversham, well, it would be his -first school match. Altogether a doubtful issue, and, granted even that -Feversham was better than Fitzgerald, would it be worth while in the -long run to leave out the vice-captain and head of Buxton’s? Would it be -doing a good service to Fernhurst football? Buxton’s was the athletic -house; it had six school colors. The prestige of Fernhurst depended a -good deal on the prestige of Buxton’s. Surely the prestige of Buxton’s -was more important than a problematic improvement in the three-quarter -line. - -They argued it out for a quarter of an hour and then, just when the last -point had been brought forward, and Roland had begun to feel that he was -left with no possible excuse for not going down to the field, the tea -arrived; and after that what chance did he stand? By the time tea was -over it was nearly five o’clock. Choir practice would have started in a -quarter of an hour: if he wanted to, he could not have gone down then. A -bad business. But it had been a pleasant afternoon; it was raining like -blazes still; very likely the ground would be again too wet for play -to-morrow, and he would cut the walk and get his boots mended. No doubt -things would pan out all right. - -Things, however, did not on this occasion adapt themselves to Roland’s -wishes. The rain stopped shortly after eight o’clock; a violent wind -shrieked all night along the cloisters; next morning the violent wind -was accompanied by bright sunshine; by half-past two the ground was -almost dry. Roland played in his unstudded boots, and, as he had -expected, the projecting hundredth of an inch sank deeply into his toe. -Three days later he was sent up to the sanatorium with a poisoned foot. - -And in the sanatorium he found himself in the same ward and alone with -Howard, who was recovering from an attack of “flu” that had been -incorrectly diagnosed as measles. - -It was the first time they had met since the first evening of the term. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE OUTCOME - - -When two people are left alone together all day, with no amusement -except their own conversation, they naturally become intimate, and as -the episode of the dance was the only bond of interest between Howard -and Roland, they turned to it at once. As soon as the matron had gone -out of the room Howard asked if he had been forgiven. - -“Oh, yes, a long time ago; it was a jolly rag.” - -“Seen anything of your girl since then?” - -“Heavens! no. Have you?” - -“I should jolly well think so; one doesn’t let a thing like that slip -through one’s fingers in a hurry. I go out with her every Sunday, and as -likely as not once or twice during the week.” - -Roland was struck with surprise and admiration. - -“But how on earth do you manage it?” - -“Oh, it’s quite easy: in our house anyone can get out who wants to. The -old man never spots anything. I just heave on a cap and mackintosh, meet -her behind the Abbey and we go for a stroll along the Slopes.” - -Roland could only ask too many questions and Howard was only too ready -to answer them. He had seldom enjoyed such a splendid audience. He was -not thought much of in the school, and to tell the truth he was not much -of a fellow. He had absorbed the worst characteristics of a bad house. -He would probably after he had left spend his evenings hanging about -private bars and the stage doors of second-class music halls. But he was -an interesting companion in the sanatorium, and he and Roland discussed -endlessly the eternally fascinating subject of girls. - -“The one thing that you must never do with a girl is to be shy,” Howard -said. “That’s the one fatal thing that she’ll never forgive. You can do -anything you like with any girl if only you go the right way about it. -She doesn’t care whether you are good-looking or rich or clever, but if -she feels that you know more than she does, that she can trust herself -in your hands.... It’s all personality. If a girl tries to push you away -when you kiss her, don’t worry her, kiss her again; she only wants to be -persuaded; she’d despise you if you stopped; girls are weak themselves, -so they hate weakness. You can take it from me, Whately, that girls are -an easy game when you know the way to treat them. It would surprise you -if you could only know what they were thinking. You’ll see them sitting -at your father’s table, so demure, with their, ‘Yes, Mr. Howard,’ and -their ‘No, Mr. Howard.’ You’d think they’d stepped out of the pages of a -fairy book, and yet get those same girls alone, and in the right mood, -my word....” - -Inflammatory, suggestive stuff: the pimp in embryo. - -And Roland was one of those on whom such persons thrive. He had always -kept straight at school; he was not clever nor imaginative, but he was -ambitious: and he had realized early that if he wanted to become a power -in the school he must needs be a success at games. He had kept clear of -anything that had seemed likely to impair his prowess on the field. But -it was different for him here in the sanatorium, with no exercise and -occupation. In a very little while he had become thoroughly roused. -Howard had enjoyed a certain number of doubtful experiences; had read -several of the books that appear in the advertisements of obscure French -papers as “rare and curious.” He had in addition a good imagination. -Within two days Roland’s one idea was to pick up at the first -opportunity the threads of the romance he had so callously flung aside. - -“There’ll be no difficulty about that, my dear fellow,” said Howard. “I -can easily get Betty to arrange it. We meet every Sunday, and we have to -walk right out beyond Cold Harbor. She says she feels a bit lonely going -out all that way by herself. Now suppose she went out with your girl and -you went out with me--that’d be pretty simple, wouldn’t it?” - -“Oh, that would be splendid. Do you think you could fix it up?” - -“As easy as laughing.” - -“But I shall feel an awful fool,” Roland insisted. “I shan’t know what -to say or anything.” - -“Don’t you worry about that, my dear fellow; you just look as if you did -and keep your eyes open, and you’ll soon learn; these girls know a lot -more than you would think.” - -So it was arranged. Roland found by the time his foot was right again -that he had let himself in for a pretty exacting program. It had all -seemed jolly enough up at the sanatorium, but when he was back in the -house, and life reëstablished its old values, he began to regret it very -heartily. He didn’t mind going out with the girl--that would be quite -exciting: besides it was an experience to which everyone had to come -some time or other--but he did not look forward to a long walk with -Howard every Sunday afternoon for the rest of the term. - -“Whately, old son,” he said to his reflection in the glass as he shaved -himself on the next Sunday morning, “you’ve made a pretty sanguinary -fool of yourself, but you can’t clear out now. You’ve got to see it -through.” - -It was very awkward though when Anderson ran up to him in the cloisters -with “Hullo, Whately, going out for a stroll? Well, just wait -half-a-sec, while I fetch my hat.” Roland had an infernal job getting -rid of him. - -“But, my dear man,” Anderson had protested, “where on earth are you -going? I’ve always thought you the most pious man in the house. But if -it’s a smoke I’ll watch you, and if it’s a drink I’ll help you.” - -“Oh, no, it’s not that. I’m going out with a man in Morgan’s.” - -Anderson’s mouth emitted a long whistle of surprise. - -“So our Whately has deserted his old friends? Ah, well, when one gets -into the XV., I know.” - -Roland could see that Anderson was offended. - -But it was even worse when he came back to find his study full of seven -indignant sportsmen wanting to know why on earth he had taken to going -out for walks with “a dirty tick in Morgan’s, who was no use at anything -and didn’t even wash.” - -“He’s quite a decent chap,” said Roland weakly. “I met him in the san.” - -“I dare say you did,” said Anderson; “we’re not blaming you for that. -You couldn’t help it. But those sorts of things, one does try to live -down.” - -For days he was ragged about it, so much so that he hadn’t the face to -say he had been going out with a girl. Such a statement should be a -proud acknowledgment, not a confession. If ever he said he couldn’t go -anywhere, or do something, the invariable retort was, “I suppose you’re -going out for a walk with Howard.” - -The School house was exclusive; it was insular; it was prepared to allow -the possibility of its members having friends in the outhouses; there -were good men in the outhouses, even in Morgan’s. But one had to be -particular, and when it came to Whately, a man of whom the house was -proud, deserting his friends for a greasy swine in Morgan’s who didn’t -wash, well, the least one could do was to make the man realize that he -had gone a little far. - -It was a bad business, altogether a bad business, and Roland very much -doubted whether the hour and a half he spent with Dolly was an adequate -recompense. She was a nice girl, quite a nice girl, and they found -themselves on kissing terms quickly enough. There were no signs of their -getting any further, and, as a matter of fact, if there had been, Roland -would have been extremely alarmed. He objected to awkward situations and -intense emotions: he preferred to keep his life within the decent -borders of routine. He wanted adventure certainly, but adventure bounded -by the limits of the society in which he lived. He liked to feel that -his day was tabulated and arranged; he hated that lost feeling of being -unprepared; he liked to know exactly what he had to say to Dolly before -he could hold her hand and exactly what he had to say before she would -let him kiss her. It was a game that had to be rehearsed before one got -it right; no actor enjoys his part before he has learned his words; -when he had learned the rules it was great fun; kisses were pleasant -things. He wrote a letter to his friend, Ralph Richmond, acquainting him -of this fact. - - MY DEAR RALPH,--Why haven’t you written to me, you lazy swine? I - suppose you will say that you’re awfully hard worked, getting ready - for Smalls. But I don’t believe it. I know how much I do myself. - - It’s been quite a decent term. I got my colors and shall be captain - of the house after the summer if the people I think are going to - leave do leave. Think of me as a ruler of men. I’m having a pretty - good slack in form and don’t have to do any work, except in French, - where a fellow called Carus Evans, an awful swine, has his knife - into me and puts me on whenever we get to a hard bit. However, as I - never do much else I’m able to swot the French all right. - - The great bit of news, though, is that I’ve met a girl in the town - who I go out for walks with. I’m not really keen on her, and I - think I prefer her friend, Betty (we go in couples). Betty’s much - older and she’s dark and she makes you blush when she looks at you. - Still, Dolly’s very jolly, and we go out for walks every Sunday and - have great times. She lets me kiss her as much as I like. Now what - do you think of it? Write and tell me at once. Yours ever, - -ROLAND. - - - -Two days later Roland received the following reply: - - MY DEAR ROLAND,--So glad to hear from you again, and many - congratulations on your firsts. I had heard about them as a matter - of fact, and had been meaning to write to you, but I am very busy - just now. April told me about it; she seemed awfully pleased. I - must say she was looking jolly pretty; she thinks a lot of you. - Sort of hero. If I were you I should think a bit more about her and - a little less about your Bettys and Dollys. - - I’m looking forward to the holidays. We must manage to have a few - good rags somehow. The Saundersons are giving a dance, so that - ought to be amusing. Ever yours, - -RALPH. - - - -Roland’s comment on this letter was “Jealous little beast.” He wished he -hadn’t written to him. And why drag April in? He and April were great -friends; they always had been. Once they had imagined themselves -sweethearts. When they went out to parties they had always sat next each -other during tea and held hands under the table; in general post Roland -had often been driven into the center because of a brilliant failure to -take the chair that was next to hers. They had kissed sometimes at -dances in the shadow of a passage, and once at a party, when they had -been pulling crackers, he had slipped on to the fourth finger of her -left hand a brass ring that had fallen from the crumpled paper. She -still kept that ring, although the days of courtship were over. Roland -had altered since he had gone to Fernhurst. But they were great friends, -and there was always an idea between the two families that the children -might eventually marry. Mr. Whately was, indeed, fond of prefacing some -remote speculation about the future with, “By the time Roland and April -are married----” - -There was no need, Roland felt, for Ralph to have dragged April into the -business at all. He was aggrieved, and the whole business seemed again -a waste and an encumbrance. Was it worth while? He got ragged in the -house, and he had to spend an hour in Howard’s company before he met -Dolly at all. Howard was really rather terrible; so conceited, so -familiar; and now that he had found an audience he indulged it the whole -time. He was at his worst when he attempted sentiment. Once when they -were walking back he turned to Roland, in the middle of a soliloquy, -with a gesture of profound disdain and resignation. - -“But what’s all this after all?” he said. “It’s nothing; it’s pleasant; -it passes the time, and we have to have some distractions in this place -to keep us going. But it’s not the real thing; there’s all the -difference in the world between this and the real thing. A kiss can be -anything or nothing; it can raise one to--to any height, or it can be -like eating chocolates. I’m not a chap, you know, who really cares for -this sort of thing. I’m in love. I suppose you are too.” - -And Roland, who did not want to be outdone, confessed that there was -someone, “a girl he had known all his life.” - -“But you don’t want a girl you’ve known all your life; love’s not a -thing that we drift into; it must be sudden; it must be unexpected; it -must hurt.” - -Howard was a sore trial, and it was with the most unutterable relief -that Roland learned that he was leaving at Christmas to go to a -crammer’s. - -“We must keep up with one another, old fellow,” Howard said on their -last Sunday. “You must come and lunch with me one day in town. Write and -tell me all about it. We’ve had some jolly times.” - -Roland caught a glimpse of him on the last day, resplendent in an O.F. -scarf, very loud and hearty, saying “good-by” to people he had hardly -spoken to before. “You’ll write to me, won’t you, old fellow? Come and -lunch with me when you’re up in town. The Regent Club. Good-by.” Since -his first year, when the prefect for whom he had fagged, and by whom he -had been beaten several times, had left, Roland had never been so -heartily thankful to see any member of the school in old boys’ colors. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -RALPH AND APRIL - - -Ralph Richmond was the son of an emotional woman and he had read too -many novels. He took himself seriously: without being religious, he -considered that it was the duty of every man to leave the world better -than he found it. Such a philosophy may be natural to a man of -thirty-six who sees small prospect of realizing his own ambition, and -resorts to the consolation of a collective enthusiasm, but it is -abnormal in a boy of seventeen, an age which usually sees itself in the -stalls of a theater waiting for the curtain to rise and reveal a stage -set with limitless opportunities for self-development and -self-indulgence. - -But Ralph had been brought up in an atmosphere of ideals; at the age of -seven he gave a performance of _Hamlet_ in the nursery, and in the same -year he visited a lenten performance of _Everyman_. At his preparatory -school he came under the influence of an empire builder, who used to -appeal to the emotions of his form. “The future of the country is in -your hands,” he would say. “One day you will be at the helm. You must -prepare yourselves for that time. You must never forget.” And Ralph did -not. He thought of himself as the arbiter of destinies. He felt that -till that day his life must be a vigil. Like the knights of Arthurian -romance, he would watch beside his armor in the chapel. In the process -he became a prig, and on his last day at Rycroft Lodge he became a -prude. His headmaster gave all the boys who were leaving a long and -serious address on the various temptations of the flesh to which they -would be subjected at their Public Schools. Ralph had no clear idea of -what these temptations might be. Their results, however, seemed -sufficient reason for abstention. If he yielded to them, he gathered -that he would lose in a short time his powers of thought, his strength, -his moral stamina; a slow poison would devour him; in a few years he -would be mad and blind and probably, though of this he was not quite -certain, deaf as well. At any rate he would be in a condition when the -ability of detecting sound would be of slight value. These threats were -alarming: their effect, however, would not have been lasting in the case -of Ralph, who was no coward and also, being no fool, would have soon -observed that this process of disintegration was not universal in its -application. No; it was not the threat that did the damage: it was the -romantic appeal of the headmaster’s peroration. - -“After all,” he said, after a dramatic pause, “how can any one of you -who has been a filthy beast at school dare to propose marriage to some -pure, clean woman?” - -That told; that sentiment was within the range of his comprehension; it -was a beautiful idea, a chivalrous idea, worthy, he inappropriately -imagined, of Sir Lancelot. He could understand that a knight should come -to his lady with glittering armor and an unstained sword. At the time he -did not fully appreciate the application of this image: he soon learned, -however, that a night spent on one’s knees on the stone floor of a -draughty chapel is a cold and lonely prelude to enchantment: a discovery -that did not make him the more charitable to those who preferred clean -linen and soft down. - -It was only to be supposed, therefore, that he would receive Roland’s -confidences with disgust. He had always felt a little jealous of April’s -obvious preference for his friend, but he had regarded it as the fortune -of war and had taken what pleasure he might in the part of confidant. To -this vicarious excitant their intimacy indeed owed its strength. His -indignation, therefore, when he learned of Roland’s rustic courtship was -only exceeded by his positive fury when, on the first evening of the -holidays, he went round to see the Curtises and found there Roland and -his father. It was the height of hypocrisy. He had supposed that Roland -would at least have the decency to keep away from her. It had been bad -enough to give up a decent girl for a shop assistant, but to come back -and carry on as though nothing had happened.... It was monstrous, cruel, -unthinkable. And there was April, so clean and calm, with her thick -brown hair gathered up in a loop across her forehead; her eyes, deep and -gentle, with subdued colors, brown and a shade of green, and that -delicate smile of simple trust and innocence, smiling at him, ignorant -of how she had been deceived. - -It must be set down, however, to Roland’s credit that he had felt a few -qualms about going round at once to see the Curtises. Less than -twenty-four hours had passed since he had held Dolly’s hand and -protested to her an undying loyalty. He did not love her; the words -meant nothing, and they both knew it; they were merely part of the -convention of the game. Nor for that matter was he in love with -April--- at least he did not think he was. He owed nothing to either of -them. But conscience told him that, in view of the understanding that -was supposed to exist between them, it would be more proper to wait a -day or two. After all, one did not go to a theater the day after one’s -father’s funeral, however eagerly one’s imagination had anticipated the -event. - -Things had, however, turned out otherwise. At a quarter to six Mr. -Whately returned from town. He was the manager of a bank, at a salary of -seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, an income that allowed the family -to visit the theater, upper circle seats, at least once every holidays -and provided Roland with as much pocket money as he needed. Mr. Whately -walked into the drawing-room, greeted his son with the conventional joke -about a holiday task, handed his wife a copy of _The Globe_, sat down in -front of the fire and began to take off his boots. - -“Nothing much in the papers to-day, my dear. Not much happening anywhere -as a matter of fact. I had lunch to-day with Robinson and he called it -the lull before the storm. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he wasn’t -right. You can’t trust these Radicals.” - -He was a scrubby little man: for thirty years he had worked in the same -house; there had been no friction and no excitement in his life; he had -by now lost any independence of thought and action. - -“I’ve just found a splendid place, my dear, where you can get a really -first-class lunch for one-and-sixpence.” - -“Have you, dear?” - -“Yes; in Soho, just behind the Palace. I went there to-day with -Robinson. We had four courses, and cheese to finish up with. Something -like.” - -“And was it well cooked, dear?” - -“Rather; the plaice was beautifully fried. Just beginning to brown.” - -His face flushed with a genuine animation. Change of food was the only -adventure that life brought to him. He rose slowly. - -“Well, I must go up and change, I suppose. I’ve one or two other things -to tell you, dear, later on.” - -He did not ask his wife what she had been doing during the day; it was -indeed doubtful whether he appreciated the existence of any life at 105 -Hammerton Villas, Hammerton, during the hours when he was away from -them. He himself was the central point. - -Five minutes later he came downstairs in a light suit. - -“Well, who’s coming out with me for a constitutional?” - -Roland got up, walked into the hall, picked up his hat and stick. - -“Right you are, father; I’m ready.” - -It was the same thing every day. At eight-thirty-five Mr. Whately caught -a bus at the corner of the High Street. He had never been known to miss -it. On the rare occasions when he was a few seconds late the driver -would wait till he saw the panting little figure come running round the -corner, trying to look dignified in spite of the top hat that bobbed -from one side of his head to the other. From nine o’clock till a -quarter-past five Mr. Whately worked at a desk, with an hour’s interval -for lunch. Every evening he went for an hour’s walk; for half an hour -before dinner he read the evening paper. After dinner he would play a -game of patience and smoke his pipe. Occasionally a friend would drop in -for a chat; very occasionally he would go out himself. At ten o’clock -sharp he went to bed. Every Saturday afternoon he attended a public -performance of either cricket or football according to the season. -Roland often wondered how he could stand it. What had he to look forward -to? What did he think about when he sat over the fire puffing at his -pipe? And his mother. How monotonous her life appeared to him. Yet she -seemed always happy enough; she never grumbled. Roland could not -understand it. Whatever happened, he would take jolly good care that he -never ran into a groove like that. They had loved each other well enough -once, he supposed, but now--oh, well, love was the privilege of youth. - -Father and son walked in silence. They were fond of each other; they -liked being together; Mr. Whately was very proud of his son’s -achievements; but their affection was never expressed in words. After a -while they began to talk of indifferent things, guessing at each other’s -thoughts: a relationship of intuitions. They passed along the High -Street and, turning behind the shops, walked down a long street of small -red brick villas with stucco fronts. - -“Don’t you think we ought to go in and see the Curtises?” Mr. Whately -asked. - -“I don’t know. I hadn’t meant to. I thought....” - -“I think you ought to, you know, your first day; they’d be rather -offended if you didn’t. April asked me when you were coming back.” - -And so Roland was bound to abandon his virtuous resolution. - -It was not a particularly jolly evening before Ralph arrived. Afterwards -it was a good deal worse. - -In the old days, when father and son had paid an evening visit, Roland -had run straight up to the nursery and enjoyed himself, but now he had -to sit in the drawing-room, which was a very different matter. He did -not like Mrs. Curtis; he never had liked her, but she had not troubled -him in the days when she had been a mere voice below the banisters. Now -he had to sit in the small drawing-room, with its shut windows, and hear -her voice cleave through the clammy atmosphere in languid, pathetic -cadences; a sentimental voice, and under the sentiment a hard, cold -cruelty. Her person was out of keeping with her voice; it should have -been plump and comfortable looking; instead it was tall, thin, angular, -all over points, like a hatrack in a restaurant: a terrible bedfellow. -And she talked, heavens! how she talked. It was usually about her -children. - -“Dear Arthur, he’s getting on so well at school. Do you know what his -headmaster said about him in his report?” - -“Oh, but, mother, please,” Arthur would protest. - -“No, dear, be quiet; I know Mr. Whately would like to hear. The -headmaster said, Mr. Whately....” Then it was her daughter’s turn. “And -April, too, Mr. Whately, she’s getting on so well with her drawing -lessons. Mr. Hamilton was only saying to me yesterday....” - -It was not surprising that Roland was less keen now on going round -there. It was little fun for him after all to sit and listen while she -talked, to see his father so utterly complacent, with his “Yes, Mrs. -Curtis,” and his “Really, Mrs. Curtis,” and to look at poor April -huddled in the window seat, so bored, so ashamed, her eyes meeting his -with a look that said: “Don’t worry about her, don’t take any notice of -what she says. I’m not like that.” Once or twice he tried to talk to -her, but it was no use: her mother would interrupt, would bring them -back into the circle of her own egotism. In her own drawing-room she -would tolerate nothing independent of herself. - -“Yes, Roland; what was it you were saying? The Saundersons’ dance? Of -course April will be going. They’re very old friends of ours, the -Saundersons. Mr. Saunderson thinks such a lot of Arthur, too. You know, -Mr. Whately, I met him in the High Street the other afternoon and he -said to me, ‘How’s that clever son of yours getting on, Mrs. Curtis?’” - -“Really, Mrs. Curtis.” - -“Yes, really, Mr. Whately.” - -It was at this point that Ralph arrived. - -His look of surprised displeasure was obvious to everyone. But knowing -Ralph, they mistook it for awkwardness. He did not like company, and his -shyness was apparent as he stood in the doorway in an ill-fitting suit, -with trousers that bagged at the knees, and with the front part of his -hair smarmed across his forehead with one hurried sweep of a damp brush, -at right angles to the rest of his hair, that fell perpendicularly from -the crown of his head. - -“Come along, Ralph,” said April, and made room for him in the -window-seat. She treated him with an amused condescension. He was so -clumsy; a dear fellow, so easy to rag. “And how did your exam. go?” she -asked. - -“All right.” - -“No; but really, tell me about it. What were the maths like?” - -“Not so bad.” - -“And the geography? You were so nervous about that.” - -“I didn’t do badly.” - -“And the Latin and the Greek? I want to know all about it.” - -“You don’t, really?” - -“Yes, but I do.” - -“No, you don’t,” he said impatiently. “You’d much rather hear about -Roland and all the things he does at Fernhurst.” - -There was a moment of difficult silence, then April said quite quietly: - -“You are quite right, Ralph; as a matter of fact I should”; and she -turned towards Roland, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Curtis -once more assumed her monopoly of the conversation. - -“Yes, Roland, you’ve told us nothing about that, and how you got your -firsts. We were so proud of you, too. And you never wrote to tell us. If -it hadn’t been for your father we should never have known.” And for the -next half hour her voice flowed on placidly, while Ralph sat in a frenzy -of self-pity and self-contempt, and Roland longed for an opportunity to -kick him, and April looked out between the half-drawn curtains towards -the narrow line of sky that lay darkly over the long stretch of roofs -and chimney-pots, happy that Roland’s holidays had begun, regretting -wistfully that childhood was finished for them, that they could no -longer play their own games in the nursery, that they had become part of -the ambitions of their parents. - -When at last they rose to go, Ralph lingered for a moment in the -doorway; he could not go home till April had forgiven him. - -She stood on the top of the step, looking down the street to Roland, her -heart still beating a little quickly, still disturbed by that pressure -of the hand and that sudden uncomfortable meeting of the eyes when he -had said “Good-by.” She did not notice Ralph till he began to speak to -her. - -“I am awfully sorry I was so rude to you, April. I’m rather tired. I -didn’t mean to offend you. I wouldn’t have done it for worlds.” - -She turned to him with a quiet smile. - -“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said, “that’s nothing.” - -And he could see that to her it was indeed nothing, that she had not -thought twice about it, that nothing he said or did was of the least -concern to her. He would much rather that she had been angry. - - * * * * * - -Next day Ralph came round to the Whatelys’ soon after breakfast. - -“Well, feeling more peaceful to-day, old friend?” - -Ralph looked at Roland in impotent annoyance. As he knew of old, Roland -was an impossible person to have a row with. He simply would not fight. -He either agreed to everything you said or else brushed away your -arguments with a good-natured “All right, old man, all right!” On this -occasion, however, he felt that he must make a stand. - -“You’re the limit,” he said; “the absolute limit.” - -“I don’t know about that, but I think you were last night.” - -“Oh, don’t joke about it. You know what I mean. I think it’s pretty -rotten for a fellow like you to go about with a shop assistant, but -that’s not really the thing. What’s simply beastly is your coming back -to April as though nothing had happened. What would she say if she -knew?” - -Roland refused to acknowledge omniscience. “I don’t know,” he said. - -“She wouldn’t be pleased, would she?” Ralph persisted. - -“I don’t suppose so.” - -“No; well then, there you are; you oughtn’t to do anything you think she -mightn’t like.” - -Roland looked at him with a sad patience, as a preparatory schoolmaster -at a refractory infant. - -“But, my dear fellow, we’re not married, and we’re not engaged. Surely -we can do more or less what we like.” - -“But would you be pleased if you learned that she’d been carrying on -with someone else?” - -Roland admitted that he would not. - -“Then why should you think you owe nothing to her?” - -“It’s different, my dear Ralph; it’s really quite different.” - -“No, it isn’t.” - -“Yes, it is. Boys can do things that girls can’t. A flirtation means -very little to a boy; it means a good deal to a girl--at least it ought -to. If it doesn’t, it means that she’s had too much of it.” - -“But I don’t see----” began Ralph. - -“Come on, come on; don’t let’s go all over that again. We shall never -agree. Let me go my way and you can go yours. We are too old friends to -quarrel about a thing like this.” - -Most boys would have been annoyed by Ralph’s attempt at interference, -but it took a great deal to ruffle Roland’s lazy, equable good nature. -He did not believe in rows. He liked to keep things running smoothly. He -could never understand the people who were always wanting to stir up -trouble. He did not really care enough either way. His tolerance might -have been called indifference, but it possessed, at any rate, a genuine -charm. The other fellow always felt what a thundering good chap Roland -was--so good-tempered, such a gentleman, never harboring a grievance. -People knew where they were with him; when he said a thing was over it -was over. - -“All right,” said Ralph grudgingly. “I don’t know that it’s quite the -game----” - -“Don’t worry. We’re a long way from anything serious. A good deal’s got -to happen before we’re come to the age when we can’t do what we like.” - -And they talked of other things. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -A KISS - - -April sat for a long while before the looking-glass wondering whether to -tie a blue or a white ribbon in her hair. She tried one and then the -other and paused irresolute. It was the evening of the Saundersons’ -dance, to which for weeks she had been looking forward, and she was -desperately anxious to look pretty. It would be a big affair: ices and -claret cup and a band, and Roland would be there. They had seen a lot of -each other during the holidays--nearly every day. Often they had felt -awkward in each other’s company; there had been embarrassing silences, -when their eyes would meet suddenly and quickly turn away; and then -there would come an unexpected interlude of calm, harmonious friendship, -when they would talk openly and naturally to each other and would sit -afterwards for a long while silent, softened and tranquilized by the -presence of some unknown influence--moments of rare gentleness and -sympathy. April could not help feeling that they were on the edge of -something definite, some incident of avowal. She did not know what, but -she felt that something was about to happen. She was flustered and -expectant and eager to look pretty for Roland on this great evening. - -She had chosen a very simple dress, a white muslin frock, that left bare -her arms and throat, and was trimmed with pale blue ribbon at the neck -and elbow; her stockings, too, were white, but her shoes and her sash a -vivid, unexpected scarlet. She turned round slowly before the glass and -smiled happily at her clear, fresh girlhood, tossing back her head, so -that her hair was shaken out over her shoulders. Surely he would think -her beautiful to-night. With eager fingers she tied the blue ribbon in -her hair, turned again slowly before the glass, smiled, shook out her -hair, and laughed happily. Yes, she would wear the blue--a subdued, -quiet color, that faded naturally into the warm brown. She ran -downstairs for her family’s approval, stood before her mother and turned -a slow circle. - -“Well, mother?” - -Mrs. Curtis examined her critically. - -“Of course, dear, I’m quite certain that you’ll be the prettiest girl -there whatever you wear.” - -“What do you mean, mother?” - -“Well, April dear, of course I know you think you know best, but that -white frock--it is so very simple.” - -“But simple things suit me, mother.” - -“I know they do, dear; you look sweet in anything; but at a big dance -like this, where there’ll be so many smart people, they might -think--well, I don’t know, dear, but it is very quiet, isn’t it?” - -The moment before April had been happy and excited, and now she was -crushed and humiliated. She sat down on the edge of a chair, gazing with -pathetic pity at her brilliant shoes. - -“You’ve spoilt it all,” she said. - -“No, dear. I’m sure you’ll be thankful to me when you get there. Now, -why don’t you run upstairs and put on that nice mauve frock of yours?” - -April shook her shoulders. - -“I don’t like mauve.” - -“Well then, dear, there’s the green and yellow; you always look nice in -that.” - -It was a bright affair that her mother had seen at a sale in Brixton and -bought at once because it was so cheap. It had never really suited -April, whose delicate features needed a simple setting; but her mother -did not like to feel that she had made a mistake, and having persuaded -herself that the green and yellow was the right color, and matched her -daughter’s eyes, had insisted on April’s wearing it as often as -possible. - -“Yes, my dear, the green and yellow. I’m sure I’m right. Now hurry up; -the cab will be here in ten minutes.” - -April walked upstairs slowly. She hated that green and yellow; she -always had hated it. She took it down from the wardrobe and, holding the -ends of the sleeves, stretched out her arms on either side so that the -green and yellow dress covered her completely, and then she stood -looking at it in the glass. - -How blatant, how decorative it was, with its bows and ribbons and -slashed sleeves. There were some girls whom it would suit--big girls -with high complexions and full figures. But it wasn’t her dress; it -spoilt her. She let it slip from her fingers; it fell rustling to the -floor, and once again the glass reflected her in a plain white frock, -and once again she tossed back her head, and once again the slow smile -of satisfaction played across her lips. And as she stood there with -outstretched arms, for one inspired moment of revelation, during which -the beating of her heart was stilled, she saw how beautiful she would -one day be to the man for whom with such a gesture she would be -delivered to his love. A deep flush colored her neck and face, a flush -of triumphant pride, of wakening womanhood. Then with a quick, -impatient movement of her scarlet shoes she kicked the yellow dress away -from her. - -Why should she wear it? She dressed to please herself and not her -mother. She knew best what suited her. What would happen if she -disobeyed her? Would anyone ever know? She could manage to slip out when -no one was looking. Annie would be sent to fetch her, but they would -come back after everyone had gone to bed. - -She sat on the edge of her bed and toyed with the thought of rebellion. -It would be horribly exciting. It would be the naughtiest thing she had -done in her life. She had never yet disobeyed deliberately anyone who -had authority over her. She had lost her temper in the nursery; she had -been insolent to her nurses; she had pretended not to hear when she had -been called; but never this: never had she sat down and decided in cold -blood to disregard authority. - -There was a knock at the door. - -“Yes. Who’s that?” - -“It’s only me--mother. Can I help you, dear?” - -“No, thank you, mother; I’m all right.” - -“Quite sure?” - -“Quite.” - -April heard her mother slowly descend the stairs, then heaved a sigh of -half-proud, half-guilty relief. She was glad she had managed to get out -of it without actually telling a lie. She sat still and waited, till at -last she heard the crunch of a cab drawing up outside the house. She -wrapped herself tightly in her coat, tiptoed to the door, opened it and -listened. She could hear her mother’s voice in the passage. Quietly she -stole out on to the landing, quietly ran downstairs and across the hall, -fumbled for the door handle, found it, turned it, and pulled it quickly -behind her. It was done; she was free. As she ran down the steps she -heard a window open behind her and her mother’s voice: - -“Who’s that? What is it? Oh, you, April. You might have come to see me -before you went. A happy evening to you.” - -April could not trust herself to speak; she ran down the steps, jumped -into the cab and sank back into the corner of the cushioned seat. Her -breath came quickly and unevenly, her breasts heaved and fell. She could -have almost cried with excitement. - -It had been worth it, though. She knew that beyond doubt a quarter of an -hour later, when she walked into the ballroom and saw the look of sudden -admiration that came into Roland’s eyes when he saw her for the first -time across the room. He came straight over to her. - -“How many dances may I have?” he asked. - -“Well, there’s No. 11.” - -“No. 11? Let me have a look at your card.” - -“No, of course you mustn’t.” - -“Yes, of course. Why, I don’t believe you have got one!” - -“Yes, I have,” she said, and held it up to him. In a second it was in -his hand, as indeed she had intended that it should be. - -“Well, now,” said Roland, “as far as I can see you’ve got only Nos. 6, -7, 14 and 15 engaged; that leaves fourteen for me.” - -“Well, you can have the four,” she laughed. - -In the end she gave him six. “And if I’ve any over you shall have them,” -she promised. - -“Well you know there won’t be,” and their eyes met in a moment of quiet -intimacy. - -As soon as he had gone other partners crowded round her. In a very short -while her program was filled right up, the five extras as well. She had -left No. 17 vacant; it was the last waltz. She felt that she might like -Roland to have it, but was not sure. She didn’t quite know why, but she -felt she would leave it open. - -It was a splendid dance. As the evening passed, her face flushed and her -eyes brightened, and it was delightful to slip from the heat of the -ballroom on to the wide balcony and feel the cool of the air on her bare -arms. She danced once with Ralph, and as they sat out afterwards she -could almost feel the touch of his eyes on her. Poor Ralph; he was so -clumsy. How absurd it was of him to be in love with her. As if she could -ever care for him. She felt no pity. She accepted his admiration as a -queen accepts a subject’s loyalty; it was the right due to her beauty, -to the eager flow of life that sustained her on this night of triumph. - -And every dance with Roland seemed to bring her nearer to the wonderful -moment to which she had so long looked forward. When she was dancing -with Ralph, Roland’s eyes would follow her all round the room, smiling -when they met hers. And when they danced together they seemed to share a -secret with one another, a secret still unrevealed. - -Through the languid ecstasy of a waltz the words that he murmured into -her ear had no relation with their accepted sense. He was not repeating -a piece of trivial gossip, a pun, a story he had heard at school; he was -wooing her in their own way, in their own time. And afterwards as they -sat on the edge of the balcony, looking out over the roofs and the -lights of London, she began to tell him about her dress and the trouble -that she had had with her mother. “She said I ought to wear a horrid -thing with yellow and green stripes that doesn’t suit me in the least. -And I wouldn’t. I stole out of the house when she wasn’t looking.” - -“You look wonderful to-night,” he said. - -He leaned forward and their hands touched; his little finger intertwined -itself round hers. She felt his warm breath upon her face. - -“Do I?” she whispered. “It’s all for you.” - -In another moment he would have taken her in his arms and kissed her, -and she would have responded naturally. They had reached that moment to -which the course of the courtship had tended, that point when a kiss is -involuntary, that point that can never come again. But just as his hands -stretched out to her the band struck up; he rested his hand on hers and -pressed it. - -“We shall have to go,” he whispered. - -“Yes.” - -“But the next but one.” - -“No. 16.” - -But the magic of that one moment had passed; they had left behind them -the possibility of spontaneous action. They were no longer part of the -natural rhythm of their courtship. All through the next dance he kept -saying to himself: “I shall have to kiss her the next time. I shall. I -know I shall. I must pull myself together.” He felt puzzled, frightened -and excited, so that when the time came he was both nervous and -self-conscious. The magic had gone, yet each felt that something was -expected of them. Roland tried to pull himself together; to remind -himself that if he didn’t kiss her now she would never forgive him; that -there was nothing in it; that he had kissed Dolly a hundred times and -thought nothing of it. But it was not the same thing; that was shallow -and trivial; this was genuine; real emotion was at stake. He did not -know what to do. As they sat out after the dance he tried to make a bet -with himself, to say, “I’ll count ten and then I’ll do it.” He stretched -out his hand to hers, and it lay in his limp and uninspired. - -“April,” he whispered, “April.” - -She turned her head from him. He leaned forward, hesitated for a moment, -then kissed her awkwardly upon the neck. She did not move. He felt he -must do something. He put his arm round her, trying to turn her face to -his, but she pulled away from him. He tried to kiss her, and his chin -scratched the soft skin of her cheek, his nose struck hers, her mouth -half opened, and her teeth jarred against his lips. It was a failure, a -dismal failure. - -She pushed him away angrily. - -“Go away! go away!” she said. “What are you doing? What do you mean by -it? I hate you; go away!” - -All the excitement of the evening turned into violent hatred; she was -half hysterical. She had been worked up to a point, and had been let -down. She was not angry with him because he had tried to kiss her, but -because he had chosen the wrong moment, because he had failed to move -her. - -“But, April, I’m sorry, April.” - -“Oh, go away; leave me alone, leave me alone.” - -“But, April.” He put his hand upon her arm, and she swung round upon him -fiercely. - -“Didn’t I tell you I wanted to be left alone? I don’t know how you -dared. Do leave me.” - -She walked quickly past him into the ballroom, and seeing Ralph at the -far end of it went up and asked him, to that young gentleman’s -exhilarated amazement, whether he was free for No. 17, and if he was -whether he would like to dance it with her. She wore a brave smile -through the rest of the evening and danced all her five extras. - -But when she was home again, had climbed the silent stairs, and turning -up the light in her bedroom saw, lying on the floor, the discarded green -and yellow dress, she broke down, and flinging herself upon the bed -sobbed long and bitterly. She was not angry with Roland, nor her mother, -nor even with herself, but with life, with that cruel force that had -filled her with such eager, boundless expectation, only in the end to -fling her down, to trample on her happiness, to mock her disenchantment. -Never as long as she lived would she forget the shame, the unspeakable -shame, and degradation of that evening. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -A POTENTIAL DIPLOMAT - - -Roland returned to school with the uncomfortable feeling that he had not -made the most of his holidays. He had failed with April; he had not been -on the best of terms with Ralph; and he had found the last week or -so--after the Saundersons’ dance--a little tedious. He was never sorry -to go back to school; on this occasion he was positively glad. - -In many ways the Easter term was the best of the three; it was agreeably -short; there were the house matches, the steeplechases, the sports and -then, at the end of it, spring; those wonderful mornings at the end of -March when one awoke to see the courts vivid with sunshine, the lindens -trembling on the verge of green; when one thought of the summer and -cricket and bathing and the long, cool evenings. And as Howard had now -left, there was nothing to molest his enjoyment of these good things. - -He decided, after careful deliberation, to keep it up with Dolly. There -had been moments during the holidays when he had sworn to break with -her; it would be quite easy now that Howard had left. And often during -an afternoon in April’s company the idea of embracing Dolly had been -repulsive to him. But he had been piqued by April’s behavior at the -dance, and his conduct was not ordered by a carefully-thought-out code -of morals. He responded to the atmosphere of the moment; his emotion, -while the moment that inspired it lasted, was sincere. - -And so every Sunday afternoon he used to bicycle out towards Yeovil and -meet Dolly on the edge of a little wood. They would wheel their machines -inside and sit together in the shelter of the hedge. They did not talk -much; there was not much for them to discuss. But she would take off her -hat and lean her head against his shoulder and let him kiss her as much -as he wanted. She was not responsive, but then Roland hardly expected -it. His small experience of the one-sided romances of school life had -led him to believe that love was a thing of male desire and gracious, -womanly compliance. He never thought that anyone would want to kiss him. -He would look at his reflection in the glass and marvel at the -inelegance of his features--an ordinary face with ordinary eyes, -ordinary nose, ordinary mouth. Of his hair certainly he was proud; it -was a triumph. But he doubted whether Dolly appreciated the care with -which he had trained it to lie back from his forehead in one immaculate -wave. She had, indeed, asked him to give up brilliantine. - -“It’s so hard and smarmy,” she complained; “I can’t run my fingers -through it.” - -The one good point about him was certainly lost on Dolly. He wondered -whether April liked it. April and Dolly! It was hard to think of the two -together. What would April say if she were to hear about Dolly? It was -the theme Ralph was always driving at him like a nail, with heavy, -ponderous blows. An interesting point. What would April say? He -considered the question, not as a possible criticism of his own conduct, -but as the material for an intriguing, dramatic situation. It would be -hard to make her see the difference. “I’m a girl and she’s a girl and -you want to kiss us both.” That was how she would look at it, -probably--so illogical. One might as well say that water was the same -thing and had the same effect as champagne. Ridiculous! But it would be -hard to make April see it. - -And there was a difference, big difference; he felt it before a -fortnight of the new term had passed. In spite of the kisses he was -never moved by Dolly’s presence as he was by April’s. His blood was -calm--calmer, far calmer, than it had been last term. He never felt now -that excitement, that dryness of the throat that used to assail him in -morning chapel towards the end of the Litany. Something had passed, and -it was not solely April, though, no doubt, she had formed a standard in -his mind and had her share in this disenchantment. It was more than -that. In a subtle way, although he had hardly exchanged a dozen words -with her in his life, he missed Betty. He had enjoyed more than he had -realized at the time those moments of meeting and parting, when the four -of them had stood together, awkward, embarrassed, waiting for someone to -suggest a separation. It had always been Betty who had done it, with a -toss of her head: “Come on, Dolly, time to be getting on”; or else: -“Now, then, Dolly, isn’t it time you were taking your Roland away with -you?” And what a provocative, infinitely suggestive charm that slow -smile of hers had held for him. The thrill of it had borne him -triumphantly over the preliminaries of courtship. He missed it now, and -often he found himself talking of her to Dolly. - -“Did she really like Howard?” he asked her once. - -“Yes, I think so; in fact, I know she did. Though I couldn’t see what -she saw in him myself. I suppose there was something about him. She -misses him quite a lot, so she says.” - -This statement Roland considered an excellent cue for an exchange of -gallantries. - -“But wouldn’t you miss me if I went?” - -Dolly, however, was greatly interested in her own subject. - -“Yes,” she went on, “she seems really worried. Only the other day she -said to me: ‘Dolly, I can’t get on without that boy. There’s nothing to -look forward to of a Sunday now, and I get so tired of my work.’ And -when I said to her: ‘But, my dear Betty, there’s hundreds more fish in -the sea. What about young Rogers at the post office?’ she answers: ‘Oh, -him! my boy’s spoilt me for all that. I can’t bear the sight of young -Rogers any more.’ Funny, isn’t it?” - -Roland agreed with her. To him it was amazing. - -“Well,” Dolly went on, “I saw quite clearly that there was nothing for -it but that she must get hold of another young chap like your friend. -And I asked her if there was anyone else up at the school she fancied, -and she said, yes, there was; a boy she’s seen you talking to once or -twice; a young, fair-haired fellow with a blue and yellow hat ribbon. -That’s the best I can do. Is that any help to you? Would you know him?” - -A blue and yellow hat ribbon limited the selection to members of the -School XI., and there was only one old color who answered to that -description--Brewster in Carus Evans’. - -“Oh, yes, I know him.” - -“Well, now, don’t you think you could arrange it? Do, for my sake.” - -“But I don’t know him well enough. I don’t see how I could.” - -“Oh, yes, you do. Haven’t I seen you talking together, and he would be -only too pleased. I am sure he would. Betty’s such a nice girl. Now, do -try.” - -Roland promised that he would do his best, though it was not a job he -particularly fancied. Brewster was the youngest member of the XI. He had -been playing on lower side games all the season without attracting any -attention and had then surprised everyone by making a century in an -important house match. He was immediately transplanted to the first, and -though he played in only two matches he was considered to have earned -his colors. He was not, however, in any sense of the word a blood. He -was hardly known by men of Roland’s standing in other houses. He was low -in form and not particularly brilliant at football. Roland knew next to -nothing about him. Still it was a fascinating situation--a girl like -Betty, who must be a good three years older than Dolly, getting keen on -such a kid. Was she in love, he wondered. He had never met anyone who -had enjoyed the privilege of having a girl in love with him. For towards -the end he had believed very little of all that Howard had told him. -This was distinctly an intriguing affair. And so he set himself to his -task. - -The difficulty, of course, was to find the auspicious moment. He hardly -ever saw Brewster except when there were a lot of other people about, -and he didn’t want to ask him across to his study. People would talk; -and, besides, it would not do to spring this business on him suddenly. -He would have to lead up to it carefully. For a whole week he sought, -unsuccessfully, for an opportunity, and on the Sunday he had to confess -to Dolly that he was no nearer the attainment of her friend’s desires. - -“It’s not as easy as you seem to think it is. We are not in the same -house, we are not in the same form, and we don’t play footer on the same -ground. In fact, except that we happen to be in the same school----” - -“Now! now! now! Haven’t I seen you talking to him alone twice before I -even mentioned him to you? And if you could be alone with him then, when -you had no particular reason to, surely you can manage to be now, when -you have.” - -“But, my dear Dolly----” - -“There’ve not got to be any buts. Either you bring along your friend or -it’s all over between us.” - -It was not a very serious threat, and at any other stage of their -relationship Roland, considering the bother that the affair involved, -might have been glad enough to accept it as an excuse for his dismissal. -But he had determined to bring this thing off. He thought of Betty, -large, black-haired, bright-eyed, highly colored, her full lips -moistened by the red tongue that slipped continually between them, and -Brewster, fair-haired and slim and shy. It would be amusing to see what -they would make of one another. He would carry the business through, and -as a reward for this determination luck, two days later, came his way. -He drew Brewster in the second round of the Open Fives. - -On the first wet day they played it off, and as Roland was a poor -performer and Brewster a tolerably efficient one the game ended in under -half an hour. They had, therefore, the whole afternoon before them, and -Roland suggested that as soon as they had changed they should have tea -together in his study. - -For Roland it was an exciting afternoon; he was playing, for the first -time in his life, the part of a diplomat. He had read a good many novels -in which the motive was introduced, but there it had been a very -different matter. The stage had been set skillfully; each knew the -other’s thoughts without being sure of his intention; there was a rapier -duel of thrust and parry. But here the stage was set for nothing in -particular. Brewster was unaware of dramatic tension; his main idea was -to eat as much as possible. - -With infinite care Roland led the conversation to a discussion of the -mentality of women. He enlarged on a favorite theme of his--the fact -that girls often fell in love with really ugly men. “I can’t understand -it,” he said. “Girls are such delicate, refined creatures. They want the -right colored curtains in their bedrooms and the right colored cushion -for their sofas; they spend hours discussing the right shade of ribbon -for their hair, and then they go and fall in love with a -ridiculous-looking man. Look at Morgan, now. He’s plain and he’s bald -and he’s got an absurd, stubby mustache, and yet his wife is frightfully -pretty, and she seems really keen on him. I don’t understand it.” - -Brewster agreed that it was curious, and helped himself to another cake. - -“I suppose,” said Roland, “that a fellow like you knows a good deal -about girls?” - -Brewster shook his head. The subject presented few attractions to him. - -“No,” he said, “I don’t really know anything at all about them. I -haven’t got a sister.” - -“But you don’t learn about girls from your sister.” - -“Perhaps not. But if you haven’t got a sister you don’t run much chance -of seeing anyone else’s. We don’t know any decent ones. A few of my -friends have sisters, but they seem pretty fair asses. I keep out of -their way.” - -“That’s rather funny, you know, because you’re the sort of fellow that -girls run after.” - -As Roland had been discussing for some time the ugliness of the type of -man that appealed most to girls, this was hardly a compliment. Brewster -did not notice it, however. Indeed, he evinced no great interest in the -conversation. He was enjoying his tea. - -“Oh, I don’t think I am,” he said. “At any rate none of them have run -after me, so far.” - -“That’s all you know,” said Roland, and his voice assumed a tone that -made Brewster look up quickly. - -“What do you mean?” he asked. - -“Well, I know someone who is doing their best to.” - -Brewster flushed; the hand that was carrying a cream cake to his mouth -paused in mid air. - -“A girl! Who?” - -“That’s asking.” - -Roland had at last succeeded in arousing Brewster’s curiosity, and he -was wise enough to refrain from satisfying it at once. If he were to -tell him that a girl down town had wanted to go for a walk with him, -Brewster would have laughed and probably thought no more about it. He -would have to fan his interest till Brewster’s imagination had had time -to play upon the idea. - -“She’s very pretty,” Roland said, “and she asked me who you were. She -was awfully keen to meet you, but I told her that it was no good and -that you wouldn’t care for that sort of thing. She was very -disappointed.” - -“Yes, but who is she?” - -“I’m not going to tell you that. Why should I give her away?” - -“Oh, but do tell me.” - -Roland was firm. - -“No; I’m jolly well not going to. It’s her secret. You don’t want to -meet her, do you?” - -“No,” Brewster grudgingly admitted; “but I’d like to know.” - -“I daresay you would, but I’m not going to give away a confidence. -Suppose you told me that you were keen on a girl and that you’d heard -she wouldn’t have anything to do with anyone, you wouldn’t like me to go -and tell her who you were, would you?” “No.” - -“Of course you wouldn’t. That’s the sort of thing one keeps to oneself.” - -“Yes; but as I shall never see her----” - -Roland adopted in reply the stern tone of admonition, “Of course not; -but if I told you, you’d take jolly good care that you did see her, and -then you’d tell someone else. You’d point her out and say, ‘That girl -wanted me to come out for a walk with her.’ You know you would, and of -course the other fellow would promise not to tell anyone and of course -he would. It would be round the whole place in a week, and think how the -poor girl would feel being laughed at by everyone because a fellow that -was four years younger than herself wouldn’t have anything to do with -her.” - -“What! Four years older than me?” - -“About that.” - -“And she’s pretty, you say?” - -“Jolly.” - -There was a pause. - -“You know, Whately,” he began, “I’d rather ...” then broke off. “Oh, -look here, do tell me.” - -Roland shook his head. - -“I don’t give away secrets.” - -“But why did you tell me anything about it at all?” - -“I don’t know; it just cropped up, didn’t it? I thought it might amuse -you.” - -“Well, I think it’s rotten of you. I shan’t be able to think of anything -else until I know.” - -Which was, of course, exactly what Roland wanted. He knew how Brewster’s -imagination would play with the idea. Betty would become for him -strange, wistful, passionate. Four years older than himself he would -picture her as the Lilith of old, the eternal temptress. In herself she -was nothing. If he had met her in the streets two days earlier he would -have hardly noticed her. “A pleasant, country girl,” he would have said, -and let her pass out of his thoughts. But now the imagination that -colors all things would make her irresistible, and when he met her she -would be identified with his dream. - -Next morning Brewster ran across to him during break. - -“I say, Whately, do tell me who she is.” - -“No; I told you I wasn’t going to.” - -“Well, then. Oh, look here! Is it Dorothy Jones?” Dorothy Jones was the -daughter of the owner of a cycle shop and was much admired in the -school. - -“Would you like it to be?” Roland asked. - -“I don’t know. Perhaps. But is it, though?” - -“Perhaps.” - -“It is Dorothy Jones, isn’t it? It is her?” - -“If you know, why do you ask me?” - -“Oh, don’t be a fool! Is it Dorothy Jones?” - -“Perhaps.” - -“Well, if it isn’t her, is it Mary Gardiner?” - -“It is Mary Gardiner,” Roland mocked. “It is she, isn’t it?” - -“Oh, you’re awful,” said Brewster, and walked away. - -But that evening he came over to the School house studies and, just -before Hall, a small boy ran across to the reading-room to tell Roland -that Brewster was waiting in the cloisters and would like to speak to -him. - -“Well,” said Roland, “and what is it?” - -“It’s about the girl.” - -Roland affected a weary impatience. - -“Oh, Lord, but I thought we’d finished with all that. I told you that I -wasn’t going to give her away.” - -“Yes, I know; but ... ah, well, look here, I must know who the girl is. -No, don’t interrupt. Will you tell me if I promise to come out with her -once?” Roland thought for a moment. He had his man now, but it would not -do to hurry things. He must play for safety a little longer. - -“Oh, yes, I know that game,” he said. “I shall tell you her name and -then you’ll wish you hadn’t promised and you’ll get frightened, and when -the time comes you will have sprained an ankle in a house match and -won’t be able to come for a walk. That won’t do at all.” - -“But I swear I wouldn’t do that,” Brewster protested. “Really, I -wouldn’t.” - -“Yes, and I promised that I wasn’t going to tell.” - -“But that’s so silly. Suppose now that I was really keen on her. For all -you know, or I, for that matter, I may have seen her walking about the -town and thought her jolly pretty without knowing who she was.” - -“And I’m damned certain you haven’t. You told me that you didn’t take -any interest in girls.” - -“No, but really, honest, man, I may have seen her. Only this morning as -I was going down to Fort’s after breakfast I saw an absolutely ripping -girl, and I believe it was me she smiled at. It’s very likely her.” - -“Yes, yes, I daresay, but----” - -“Oh, come on, do tell me, and I promise you I’ll come and see her; -honest, I will.” - -But at that moment the roll-bell issued its cracked summons. - -“If you don’t run like sin you’ll be late for roll-call, and that’ll -finish everything,” Roland said, and Brewster turned and sprinted across -the courts. - -Roland walked back to his study in a mood of deep self-satisfaction. He -was carrying an extremely difficult job to a triumphant close. It did -not occur to him that the role he filled was not a particularly noble -one and that an unpleasantly worded label could be discovered for it. He -was living in the days of unreflecting action. He did, or refrained from -doing, the things he wanted to do, without a minute analysis of motive, -but in accordance with a definite code of rules. He lived his life as he -played cricket. There were rewards and there were penalties. If you hit -across a straight long hop you ran a chance of being leg before, and if -the ball hit your pad you went straight back to the pavilion. You played -to win, but you played the game, provided that you played it according -to the rules. It did not matter to Roland what the game was. And the -affair of Betty and Brewster was a game that he was winning fairly and -squarely. - -Next morning he achieved victory. He met Brewster during break and -presented his ultimatum. - -“I won’t tell you her name,” he said. “I promised not to. It wouldn’t be -the game. But I tell you what I will do, though. If you’ll promise to -come out for a walk with me on Sunday I’ll arrange for her to meet us -somewhere, and then you can see what you think of each other. Now, what -do you say to that?” - -Brewster’s curiosity was so roused that he accepted eagerly, and next -Sunday they set out together towards Cold Harbour. - -About a mile and a half from the school a sunken lane ran down the side -of a steep hill towards the railway. The lane could be approached from -two sides, and from the shelter of a thick hedge it was possible to -observe the whole country-side without being seen. It was here that they -had arranged their meeting. - -They found the two girls waiting when they arrived. Betty looked very -smart in a dark blue coat and skirt and a small hat that fitted tightly -over her head. She smiled at Roland, and the sight, after months, of her -fresh-colored face, with its bright eyes and wide, moist mouth, sent a -sudden thrill through him--half fear, half excitement. - -“So you’ve managed to arrange it,” said Dolly. “How clever of you.” - -“Very nice of him to come,” said Betty, her eyes fixed on Brewster, who -stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets, kicking one heel against the -other. - -For a few minutes they talked together, stupid, inconsequent badinage, -punctuated by giggles, till Betty, as usual, reminded them that they -would only have an hour together. - -“About time we paired off, isn’t it?” - -“I suppose so,” said Roland. “Come along, Dolly,” and they began to walk -down the lane. At the corner they turned and saw the other two standing -together--Betty, taller, confident and all-powerful; Brewster, looking -up at her, scared and timid, his hands clasped behind him. - -“He looks a bit shy, doesn’t he?” said Dolly. - -Roland laughed. - -“He won’t be for long, I expect.” - -“Rather not. He’ll soon get used to her. Betty doesn’t let her boys stop -shy with her for long. She makes them do as she wants them.” - -And when they returned an hour later they saw the two sitting side by -side chatting happily. But as soon as they reached them Brewster became -silent and shy, and looked neither of them in the face. - -“Had a good time?” asked Dolly. - -“Ask him,” she answered. - -And they laughed, all except Brewster, and made arrangements to meet -again, only a little earlier the next week. - -“Well,” said Roland, as soon as they were out of earshot, “and how did -you enjoy yourself?” - -Brewster admitted that it had been pretty good. - -“Only pretty good?” - -“Well, I don’t know,” he said, “it was all right. Yes, it was ripping, -really; but it was so different from what I had expected.” - -“How do you mean?” - -“Oh, well, you know. I felt so awkward; she started everything. I didn’t -have any say in it at all. I had thought it was up to me to do all -that.” - -“Betty’s not that sort.” - -“No, but it’s a funny business.” - -“You are coming out next week, though?” - -“Rather!” - -And next week Dolly, as soon as she was alone with Roland, began to ask -him questions about Brewster: “What did he say to you? What did he think -of her? Was she nice to him? You must tell me all about it.” - -“Oh, I think he enjoyed himself all right. She startled him a bit.” - -“Did she? What did he say? Do tell me.” - -She asked him question after question, and he had to repeat to her every -word he could remember of Brewster’s conversation. Did he still feel -shy? Did he think Betty beautiful? Was he at all in love with her? And -then Roland began to ask what Betty had thought of Brewster. Had she -preferred him to Howard? She wasn’t disappointed in him? Did she like -him better than the other boys? They talked eagerly. - -“Wouldn’t it be fun to go back and have a look at them?” said Dolly. -“I’d give anything to see them together.” - -Their eyes met, and suddenly, with a fervor they had never reached -before, they kissed. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -APRIL’S LOOKING-GLASS - - -For April the term which brought Roland so much excitement was slow in -passing. In spite of the disastrous evening at the ball, Roland’s return -to school left a void in her life. When she awoke in the morning and -stretched herself in bed before getting up she would ask herself what -good thing she could expect that day to bring her. When she felt happy -she would demand the reason of herself. “Over what are you happy?” she -would ask herself. “In five minutes’ time you will get up. You will put -on your dressing-gown and hurry down the corridor to the bathroom. You -will dress hurriedly, but come down all the same a little late for -breakfast. You will find that your father has eaten, as is his wont, -more than his share of toast, which will mean that you, being the last -down, will have to go without it. You will rush down to school saying -over to yourself the dates of your history lesson. You will hang your -hat and coat on the fourth row of pegs and on the seventh peg from the -right. From nine o’clock to ten you will be heard your history lesson. -From ten o’clock till eleven you will take down notes on chemistry. From -eleven to a quarter past there will be an interval during which you will -try to find a friend to help you with the Latin translation, of which -you prepared only the first thirty lines last night. From a quarter-past -eleven till a quarter-past twelve you will be heard that lesson. At a -quarter-past twelve you will attend a lecture on English literature, -which will last till one o’clock. You will then have lunch, and as -to-day is Tuesday you know that your lunch will consist of boiled mutton -and caper sauce, followed by apple dumpling. In the afternoon you will -have gymnastics and a music lesson, after which there will be an hour of -Mademoiselle’s French conversation class. You will then come home. You -will hurry your tea in the hope of being able to finish your preparation -before your father comes back from the office at twenty minutes to -seven, because when once he is back your mother will begin to talk, and -when she begins to talk work becomes impossible. You will then dine with -your parents at half-past seven. You will sit perfectly quiet at the -table and not say a word, while your mother talks and talks and father -listens and occasionally says, ‘Yes, mother,’ or ‘No, mother.’ After -dinner you will read a book in the drawing-room till your mother reminds -you that it is nine o’clock and time that you were in bed. You have, in -fact, before you a day similar in every detail to yesterday, and similar -in every detail to to-morrow. If you think anything different is going -to happen to you, then you are a little fool.” And April would have to -confess that this self-catechism was true. “Nothing happens,” she would -say. “One day is like another, and I am a little fool to wake up in the -morning excited about nothing at all.” - -But all the same she was excited and she did feel, in spite of reason, -that something was bound to happen soon. “Things cannot go on like this -for ever,” she told herself. And, looking into the future, she came -gradually to look upon the day of Roland’s return from school as the -event which would alter, in a way she could not discern, the whole -tenor of her life. It was not in these words that the idea was presented -to her. “It may be different during the holidays when Roland is here.” -That was her first thought, from which the words “when Roland is here” -detached themselves, starting another train of thought, that “Life when -Roland is here is always different”; and she began to look forward to -the holidays, counting the days till his return. “Things will be -different then.” - -It was not love, it was not friendship; it was simply the belief that -Roland’s presence would be a key to that world other than this, of which -shadowy intimations haunted her continually. Roland became the focus for -her disquiet, her longing, her vague appreciation of the eternal essence -made manifest for her in the passing phenomena of life. - -“When Roland comes back....” And though she marked on the calendar that -hung in her bedroom April 2, the last day of her own term, with a big -red cross, it was April 5 that she regarded as the real beginning of her -holidays. And when she came down to breakfast and her father said to -her, “Only seven more days now, April,” she would answer gayly, “Yes, -only a week. Isn’t it lovely?” But to herself she would add, “Ten days, -only ten days more!” - -And so she missed altogether the usual last day excitement. She did not -wake on that first morning happy with the delicious thought that she -could lie in bed for an extra ten minutes if she liked. She had not yet -begun her holidays. - -But two days later she was in a fever of expectation. In twenty-four -hours’ time Roland would be home. How slowly the day passed. In the -evening she said she was tired and went to bed before dinner, so that -the next day might come quickly for her. But when she got to bed she -found that she could not sleep, and though she repeated the word -“abracadabra” many hundred times and counted innumerable sheep passing -through innumerable gates, she lay awake till after midnight, hearing -hour after hour strike. And when at last sleep came to her it was light -and fitful and she awoke often. - -Next day she did not know what to do with herself. She tried to read and -could not. She tried to sew and could not. She ran up and down stairs on -trifling errands in order to pass the time. In vain she tried to calm -herself. “What are you getting so excited about? What do you think is -going to happen? What can happen? The most that can happen is that he -will come round with his father in the evening, and you know well enough -by now what that will mean. Your mother will talk and his father will -say, ‘Yes, Mrs. Curtis,’ and ‘Really, Mrs. Curtis,’ and you and Roland -will hardly exchange a word with one another. You are absurdly excited -over nothing.” - -But logic was of no avail, and all the afternoon she fidgeted with -impatience. By tea-time she was in a state of repressed hysteria. She -sat in the window-seat looking down the road in the direction from which -he would have to come. “I wonder if he will come without his father. It -would be so dear of him if he would, but I don’t suppose he will. No, of -course he won’t. It’s silly of me to think of it. He’ll have to wait for -his father; he always does. That means he won’t be here at the earliest -till after six. And it’s only ten minutes to five now.” - -And to make things worse, seldom had she found her mother more annoying. - -“Now, why don’t you go for a walk, April, dear?” she said. “It’s such a -lovely evening and you’ve been indoors nearly all day. It isn’t good, -and I was saying to your father only the other day, ‘Father, dear, I’m -sure April isn’t up to the mark. She looks so pale nowadays.’” - -“I’m all right, mother.” - -“No, but are you, dear? You’re looking really pale. I’m sure I ought to -ask Dr. Dunkin to come and see you.” - -“But I’m all right--really, I’m all right, mother. I know when anything -is wrong with me.” - -“But you don’t, April, dear. That’s just the point. Don’t you remember -that time when you insisted on going to the tennis party and assured us -that you were quite well, and when you came back we found you had a -temperature of 101° and that you were sickening for measles? I was -saying to Dr. Dunkin only this morning: ‘Dr. Dunkin, I’m really not -satisfied about our little April. I think I shall have to ask you to -give her a tonic’; and he said to me: ‘Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Curtis; -you bring me along to her and I’ll set her straight.’” - -April put her hands up to her head and tried not to listen, but her -mother’s voice flowed on: - -“And now, dear, do go out for a walk--just a little one.” - -“But, mother, dear, I don’t want to, really, and I’m feeling so tired.” - -“There, what did I say? You’re feeling tired and you’ve done nothing all -day. There must be something wrong with you. I shall certainly ask Dr. -Dunkin to come and see you to-morrow.” - -“Oh, yes, yes, yes, mother. I’ll do anything you like to-morrow. If -you’ll only leave me alone to-night.” - -But Mrs. Curtis went on talking, and April grew more and more -exasperated, and the minutes went past and Roland did not come. Six -struck and half-past six, and a few minutes later she heard her father’s -latch-key in the door. And then the whole question of her health was -dragged out again. - -“I was saying to you only yesterday, father, that our little April -wasn’t as well as she ought to be. She has overworked, I think. Last -night she went to bed early and to-day she looks quite pale, and she -says that she feels tired although she hasn’t really done anything. I -must send for Dr. Dunkin to-morrow.” - -It seemed to April that the voice would never stop. It beat and beat -upon her brain, like the ticking of the watch that reminded her of the -flying moments. “He won’t come now,” she said; “he won’t come now.” -Seven o’clock had struck, the lamps were lit, evening had descended upon -the street. He had never come as late as this before. But she still sat -at the window, gazing down the street towards the figures that became -distinct for a moment in the lamplight. “He will not come now,” she -said, and suddenly she felt limp, tired, incapable of resistance. She -put her head upon her knees and began to sob. - -In a moment her mother’s arms were round her. “But, darling, what is it, -April, dear?” - -She could not speak. She shook her head, tried desperately to make a -sign that she was all right, that she would rather be left alone; but it -was no use. She felt too bitterly the need for human sympathy. She -turned, flung her arms about her mother’s neck, and began to sob and -sob. - -“Oh, mother, mother,” she cried. “I’m so miserable. I don’t know what to -do. I don’t know what to do.” - -Next morning Dr. Dunkin felt her pulse, prescribed a tonic and told her -not to stay too much indoors. - -“Now, you’ll be all right, dear,” her mother said. “Dr. Dunkin’s -medicines are splendid.” - -April smiled quietly. “Yes, I expect that was what was wanted. I think I -worked a little too hard last term.” - -“I’m sure you did, my dear. I shall write to Mrs. Clarke about it. I -can’t have my little girl getting run down.” - -And that afternoon April met Roland in the High Street. It was the first -time that she had seen him alone since the evening of the dance, and she -found him awkward and embarrassed. They said a few things of no -importance--about the holidays, the weather and their acquaintances. -Then April said that she must be going home, and Roland made no effort -to detain her--did not even make any suggestion about coming round to -see her. - -“So that is what you have been looking forward to for over a month,” she -said to herself, as he passed out of sight behind an angle of the road. -“This is the date you wanted to mark upon your calendar with a red -cross. Little fool. What did you think you were doing? And what has it -turned out to be in the end? Five minutes’ discussion of indifferent -things. A fine event to make such a fuss about; and what else did you -expect?” - -She was not bitter. It was one of those mild days that in early spring -surprise us with a promise of summer, on which the heart is stirred with -the crowded glory of life and the sense of widening horizons. The long -stretch of roofs and chimney stacks became beautiful in the subdued -sunlight. It was an hour that in the strong might have quickened the -hunger for adventure, but that to April brought a mood of chastened, -quiet resignation. She appreciated, as she had not done before, the -tether by which her scope was measured. For the last month she had made -Roland’s return a focus for the ambitions and desires and yearnings -towards an intenser way of living, for which of herself she had been -unable to find expression. This, in a confused manner, she understood. -“I can do nothing by myself. I have to live in other people. And what I -am now I shall be always. All my life I shall be dependent on someone -else, or on some interest that is outside myself. And whether I am happy -or unhappy depends upon some other person. That is my nature, and I -cannot go beyond my nature.” When she reached home she sat for a long -time in the window-seat, her hands folded in her lap. “This will be my -whole life,” she said. “I am not of those who may go out in search of -happiness.” And she thought that if romance did not come to her, she -would remain all her life sitting at a window. “Of myself I can do -nothing.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -A SORRY BUSINESS - - -April did not see very much of Roland during the holidays, and was not, -on the whole, sorry. Now that the hysterical excitement over his return -had passed, she judged it better to let their friendship lapse. She did -not want any repetition of that disastrous evening, and thought that it -would be easier to resume their friendship on its old basis after the -long interval of the summer term. Roland was still a little piqued by -what he considered her absurd behavior, and had resolved to let the -first step come from her. - -This estrangement was a disappointment to his people. - -“Have you noticed, my dear, that Roland’s hardly been round to the -Curtises’ at all these holidays?” Mr. Whately said to his wife one -evening. “I hope there has not been a row or anything. I rather wish -you’d try and find out.” - -And so next day Mrs. Whately made a guarded remark to her son about -April’s appearance: “What a big girl she’s getting. And she’s prettier -every day. If you’re not careful you’ll have all the boys in the place -running after her and cutting you out.” - -Roland answered in an off-hand manner, “They can for all I care, -mother.” - -“Oh, but, Roland, you shouldn’t say that; I thought you were getting on -so well together last holidays. We were even saying----” - -But Roland never allowed himself to be forced into a confidence. - -“Oh, please, mother, don’t. There was nothing in it; really, there -wasn’t.” - -“You haven’t had a row, have you, Roland?” - -“Of course not, mother. What should we have a row about?” - -“I don’t know, dear. I only thought----” - -“Well, you needn’t worry about us, mother; we’re all right.” - -Roland was by no means pleased at what seemed to him a distinct case of -interference. It arrived, too, at a most inopportune moment, for he had -been just then wondering whether he ought not to forget about his -high-minded resolves and try to make it up with April. His mother’s -inquiries, however, decided him. He was not going to have others -arranging that sort of thing for him. “And for all I know,” he said to -himself, “Mrs. Curtis may be at the back of this. I shan’t go round -there again these holidays.” And this was the more unfortunate, because -if the intimacy between Roland and April had been resumed, it is more -than likely that Roland, at the beginning of the summer term, would have -decided to give up Dolly altogether. Both he and Brewster were a little -tired of it; the first interest had passed, and they had actually -discussed the wisdom of dropping the whole business. - -“After all,” said Brewster, “it can’t go on forever. It’ll have to stop -some time, and next term we shall both be fairly high in the school, -house prefects and all that, and we shall have to be pretty careful what -we do.” - -Roland was inclined to agree with him, but his curiosity was still -awake. - -“It’s not so easy to break a thing like this. Let’s wait till the end of -the term. The summer holidays are a long time, and by the time we come -back they’ll very likely have picked up someone else.” - -“All right,” said Brewster, “I don’t mind. And it does add an interest -to things.” - -And so the affair went on smoothly and comfortably, a pleasant interlude -among the many good gifts of a summer term--cricket and swimming and the -long, lazy evenings. Nothing, indeed, occurred to ruffle the complete -happiness of Roland’s life, till one Monday morning during break -Brewster came running across to the School house studies with the -disastrous news that his house master had found out all about it. It had -happened thus: - -On the previous Saturday Roland had sent up a note in break altering the -time of an appointment. It was the morning of a school match and -Brewster received the note on his way down to the field. He was a little -late, and as soon as he had read the note he shoved it into his pocket -and thought no more about it. During the afternoon he slipped, trying to -bring off a one-handed catch in the slips, and tore the knee of his -trousers. The game ended late and he had only just time to change and -take his trousers round to the matron to be mended before lock-up. In -the right-hand pocket the matron discovered Roland’s note, and, judging -its contents singular, placed it before Mr. Carus Evans. - -As Roland walked back with Brewster from the tuckshop a small boy ran up -to tell him that Mr. Carus Evans would like to see him directly after -lunch. - -Roland was quite calm as he walked up the hill three hours later. One is -only frightened when one is uncertain of one’s fate. When a big row is -on, in which one may possibly be implicated, one endures agonies, -wondering whether or not one will be found out. But when it is settled, -when one is found out, what is there to do? One must let things take -their course; nothing can alter it. There is no need for fret or fever. -Roland was able to consider his position with detached interest. - -He had been a fool to send that note. Notes always got lost or dropped -and the wrong people picked them up. How many fellows had not got -themselves bunked that way, notes and confirmation? They were the two -great menaces, the two hidden rocks. Probably confirmation was the more -dangerous. On the whole, more fellows had got the sack through -confirmation, but notes were not much better. What an ass he had been. -He would never send a note again, never; he swore it to himself, and -then reflected a little dismally that he might very likely never have -the opportunity. - -Still, that was rather a gloomy view to take. And he stood more chance -with Carus Evans than he would have done with any other master. Carus -Evans had always hated him, and because he hated him would be -desperately anxious to treat him fairly. As a result he would be sure to -underpunish him. It is always safer to have a big row with a master who -dislikes you than with one who is your friend. And from this reflection -Roland drew what comfort he might. - -Mr. Carus Evans sat writing at his desk when Roland came in. He looked -up and then went on with his letter. It was an attempt to make Roland -feel uncomfortable and to place him at the start at a disadvantage. It -was a characteristic action, for Carus Evans was a weak man. His house -was probably the slackest in the school. It had no one in the XV., -Brewster was its sole representative in the XI. and it did not possess -one school prefect. This should not have been, for Carus Evans was a -bachelor and all his energies were available. He had no second interest -to attract him, but he was weak when he should have been strong; he -chose the wrong prefects and placed too much confidence in them. He was -not a natural leader. - -For a good two minutes he went on writing, then put down his pen. - -“Ah, yes, yes, Whately. Sit down, will you? Now then, I’ve been talking -to one of the boys in my house and it seems that you and he have been -going out together and meeting some girls in the town. Is that so?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And the suggestion came from you, I gather?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“This is a very serious thing, Whately. I suppose you realize that?” - -“I suppose so, sir.” - -“Of course it is, and especially so for a boy in your position. Now, I -don’t know what attitude the headmaster will adopt, but of this I am -quite certain. A great deal will depend on whether you tell me the -truth. I shall know if you tell me a lie. You’ve got to tell me the -whole story. Now, how did this thing start?” - -“On the first night of the Christmas term, sir.” - -“How?” - -“I met them at a dance in the pageant grounds.” - -“The pageant grounds are out of bounds. You ought to know that.” - -“It was the first night, sir.” - -“Don’t quibble with me. They’re out of bounds. Well, what happened -next?” - -“I danced with her, sir.” - -“Were you alone?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Who was with you?” - -“I can’t tell you, sir.” - -“If you don’t tell me----” - -“He’s left now, sir. It wouldn’t be fair.” - -They looked each other in the face and in that moment Carus Evans -realized that, in spite of their positions, Roland was the stronger. - -“Oh, well, never mind that; we can leave it till later on. And I suppose -you made an appointment?” - -“No, sir.” - -“What?” - -“You asked me if I made an appointment, sir. I answered I didn’t.” - -Roland was not going to give him the least assistance. Indeed, in the -joy of being able to play once again the old game of baiting masters, -that had delighted him so much when he had been in the middle school and -that he had to abandon so reluctantly when he attained the dignity of -the Fifths and Sixths, he had almost forgotten that he was in a -singularly difficult situation. He would make “old Carus” ask him a -question for every answer that he gave. And he saw that for the moment -Carus had lost his length. - -“Well, then, let me see. Yes, well--er--well, where did you meet her -next?” - -“In a lane beyond Cold Harbour, sir.” - -“Did you go there alone?” - -“No, sir.” - -“You were with this other fellow?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And what did you do?” - -“Do, sir?” - -“Yes, do. Didn’t you hear me?” - -“Yes, sir, but, Do? I don’t quite understand you. What exactly do you -mean by the word ‘do’?” - -“You know perfectly well what I mean, Whately. You flirted, I suppose?” - -“Yes, sir. I suppose that’s what I did do. I flirted.” - -“I mean you held her hand?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And you kissed her?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Disgusting! Simply disgusting! Is this place a heathen brothel or a -Christian school?” Carus’ face was red, and he drove his fingers through -the hair at the back of his neck. “You go out on a Sunday afternoon and -kiss a shop-girl. What a hobby for a boy in the XV. and Sixth!” And he -began to stamp backwards and forwards up and down the room. - -This fine indignation did not, however, impress Roland in the least. -Carus appeared to him to be less disgusted than interested--pruriently -interested--and that he was angry with himself rather than with Roland, -because he knew instinctively that he was not feeling as a master should -feel when confronted with such a scandal. It was a forced emotion that -was inspiring the fierce flow of words. - -“Do you know what this sort of thing leads to?” he was saying. “But, of -course, you do. I could trust you to know anything like that. Your whole -life may be ruined by it.” - -“But I didn’t do anything wrong.” - -“Perhaps you didn’t, not this time, though I’ve only your word for it; -but you would have, sooner or later, under different conditions. There’s -only one end to that sort of thing. And even if you were all right -yourself, how did you know that Brewster was going to be? That’s the -beastly part of it. That’s what sickens me with you. Your own life is -your own to do what you like with, but you’ve no right to contaminate -others. You encourage this young fellow to go about with a girl four -years older than himself, about whom you know nothing. How could you -tell what might be happening to him? He may not have your self-control. -He’d never have started this game but for you, and now that he’s once -begun he may be unable to break himself of it. You may have ruined his -whole life, mayn’t you?” - -Roland considered the question. - -“I suppose so, but I didn’t look at it that way.” - -“Of course, you didn’t. But it’s the results that count. That’s what -you’ve got to keep in mind; actions are judged by their results. And -now, what do you imagine is going to happen to you? I suppose you know -that if I go across and report you to the headmaster that it’ll mean the -next train back to London?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And if I did, you’d have no cause for complaint. It would be what you’d -deserved, wouldn’t it?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -There was a pause. They looked at each other. Carus Evans hoped that he -had frightened Roland, but he had not. Roland knew that Carus did not -intend to get him expelled. He would not have talked like that if he -had. He was trying to make Roland feel that he was conferring a favor -on him in allowing him to stop on. - -“There’s no reason why I should feel kindly disposed towards you,” Carus -said. “We’ve never got on well together. You’ve worked badly in my form. -I’ve never regarded you as a credit to the school. When you were a small -boy you were rowdy and bumptious, and now that you have reached a -position of authority you have become superior and conceited. There’s no -reason why I, personally, should wish to see you remain a member of the -school. As regards my own house, I cannot yet judge what harm you may -have done me. You’ve started the poison here. Brewster will have told -his friends. One bad apple will corrupt a cask. I don’t know what -trouble you may have laid up for me.” - -“No, sir.” - -“But all the same, I know what it means to expel a boy. He’s a marked -man for life. I’m going to give you another chance.” - -“Thank you, sir.” - -“But you’ve got to make this thing good first. You’ve got to go to the -headmaster yourself and tell him all about it--now, at once. Do you -see?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -It was going to be an awkward business, and Roland made no attempt to -conceal it from himself. It was just on the half-hour as he walked -across the courts. Afternoon school was beginning. Groups had collected -round the classrooms, waiting for the master to let them in. Johnson -waved to him from a study window and told him to hurry up and help them -with the con. - -“Don’t wait for me,” Roland called back. “I’ve got one or two things to -do. I shall be a little late.” - -“Slacker,” Johnson laughed. - -It was funny to see the machine revolving so smoothly, with himself, to -all outward appearance, a complacently efficient cog in it. He supposed -that a criminal must feel like this when he watched people hurry past -him in the streets; all of them so intent upon their own affairs and -himself seemingly one with them, but actually so much apart. - -He knocked at the headmaster’s door. - -“Come in.” - -The headmaster was surprised to see Roland at such an hour. - -“Yes, Whately?” he said, and then appeared to remember something, and -began to fumble among some papers on his desk. “One moment, Whately; I -knew there was something I wanted to speak to you about. Ah, yes, here -it is. Your essay on Milton. Will you just come over here a minute? I -wanted to have a few words with you about it. Sit down, won’t you? Now, -let me see, where is it? Ah, yes, here it is: now you say, ‘Milton was a -Puritan in spite of himself. Satan is the hero of the poem.’ Now I want -to be quite certain what you mean by that. I’m not going to say that you -are wrong. But I want you to be quite certain in your own mind as to -what you mean yourself.” - -And Roland began to explain how Milton had let himself be carried away -by his theme, that his nature was so impregnated by the sense of defeat -that defeat seemed to him a nobler thing than victory. Satan had become -the focus for his emotions on the overthrow of the Commonwealth. - -“Yes, yes, I see that, but surely, Whately, the Commonwealth was the -Puritan party. If Milton was so distressed by the return of the -Royalists, how do you square this view with your statement, ‘Milton was -a Puritan in spite of himself’? Surely if his Puritanism was only -imposed, he would have welcomed the return of the drama and a more -highly colored life.” - -Roland made a gallant effort to explain, but all the time he kept saying -to himself, “I came here for a confessional, and yet here I am sitting -down in the Chief’s best arm-chair, enjoying a friendly chat. I must -stop it somehow.” But it was excessively difficult. He began to lose the -thread of his argument and contradicted himself; and the Chief was so -patient, listening to him so attentively, waiting till he had finished. - -“But, my dear Whately,” the Chief said, “you’ve just said that _Comus_ -is a proof of his love of color and display, and yet you say in the same -breath....” - -Would it never cease? And how on earth was he at the end going to -introduce the subject of his miserable amours? He had never anticipated -anything like this. But at last it was finished. - -“You see what you’ve done, Whately? You’ve picked up a phrase somewhere -or other about the paganism of Milton and the nobility of Satan and you -have not taken the trouble to think it out. You’ve just accepted it. I -don’t say that your statement could not be justified. But it’s you who -should be able to justify it, not I. You should never make any statement -in an essay that you can’t substantiate with facts. It’s a good essay, -though, quite good.” And he returned to his papers. He had forgotten -altogether the fact that Roland had come unasked to see him. - -It was one of the worst moments of Roland’s life. He stood silent in the -middle of the room while the Chief continued his letter, thinking the -interview was at an end. - -“Sir,” he said at last. - -The headmaster looked up quickly and said a little impatiently, for he -was a busy man and resented interruption, “Well, Whately? Yes; what is -it?” - -“I came to see you, sir.” - -“Oh, yes, of course you did. I forgot. Well, what is it?” - -“Sir, I’ve come to tell you that Mr. Carus Evans told me to come and -report myself to you and say that--well, sir--that I’ve been going out -for walks with a girl in the town.” - -“What!” - -“Yes, sir, a girl in the town, and that I’d asked a boy in his house to -come with me, sir.” - -The Chief rose from his chair and walked across to the mantelpiece. -There was a long pause. - -“But I don’t quite understand, Whately. You’ve been going out with some -girl in the town?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And you’ve encouraged some boy in Mr. Carus Evans’ house to accompany -you?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And he, I suppose, has been going for walks with a girl as well?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -There was another long pause, during which Roland realized that he had -chosen the worst possible moment for his confession. Whatever decision -the Chief might arrive at would be influenced, not only by his -inevitable disappointment at the failure of a boy in whom he had -trusted, but by its violent contrast with the friendly discussion over -the essay and the natural annoyance of a busy man who has been -interrupted in an important piece of work to discuss an unpleasant -situation that has arisen unexpectedly. When the Chief at last began to -speak there was an impatience in his voice that would have been absent -if Roland had tackled him after dinner. - -“I don’t know,” he said. “I am tempted sometimes to give up faith in you -fellows altogether. I never know where I am with any of you. I feel as -though I were sitting upon a volcano. Everything seems quiet and -satisfactory and then suddenly the volcano breaks out and I find that -the boys in whom I have placed, or am thinking of placing, -responsibility have deceived me. Do you realize the hypocrisy of your -behavior during the last year? You have been meeting Mr. Carus Evans and -myself on friendly, straightforward terms, with an open look on your -face, and all the time, behind our backs, you’ve been philandering with -girls in the town. I haven’t asked you for any details and I am not -going to; that doesn’t enter into the question at all. You’ve been false -and doublefaced. You’ve been acting a lie for a year. It’s the sort of -thing that makes me sick of the whole lot of you. You can go.” - -Roland walked back to the studies, perplexed and miserable. The word -“deceit” had cut hard into him. He loathed crookedness and he had always -considered himself dead straight. It was a boast of his that he had -never told a lie, at least not to a boy; masters were different. Of -course they were, and it was absurd to pretend they weren’t. Everyone -did things that they wouldn’t care to tell the Chief. There was a -barrier between. The relationship was not open like friendship. He saw -the Chief’s point of view, but he did not consider it a sound one. He -disliked these fine gradations of conduct, this talk of acting a lie; -things were either black or white. He remembered how the Chief had once -come round the upper dormitories and had endeavored to persuade him that -it was acting a lie to get into bed without cleaning his teeth. He had -never understood why. An unclean act, perhaps, but acting a lie! oh, no, -it wouldn’t do. It was an unfair method of tackling the problem. It was -hitting a man in the back, this appeal to a better nature. Life should -be played like cricket, according to rules. You could either play for -safety and score slowly, or you could run risks and hit across straight -half-volleys. If one missed it one was out and that was the end of it. -One didn’t talk about acting a lie to the bowler because one played at -the ball as though it were outside the leg stump. Why couldn’t the Chief -play the game like an umpire? Roland knew that he had done a thing -which, in the eyes of authority, was wrong. He admitted that. He had -known it was wrong all the time. He had been found out; he was prepared -for punishment. That was the process of life. One took risks and paid -the penalty. The issue was to Roland childishly simple, and he could not -see why all these good people should complicate it so unnecessarily with -their talk of hypocrisy and deceit. - -That evening the headmaster wrote to Roland’s father: - - DEAR MR. WHATELY,--I write to inform you of a matter that will - cause you, I fear, a good deal of pain. I have discovered that for - the last year Roland has been in the habit of going out for walks - on Sunday afternoons with a young girl in the town, and that he has - encouraged another and younger boy to accompany him. These walks - resulted, I am sure, in nothing beyond a little harmless - flirtation, and I do not regard the actual issue as important. I do - consider, however, and I think that in this you will agree with me, - that Roland’s conduct in the matter is most reprehensible. It has - involved a calculated and prolonged deception of you, his parent, - and of us, his schoolmasters, and he has proved himself, I fear, - unworthy of the responsibility of prefectship that I had hoped to - place in him next term. If he were a younger boy the obvious course - would be a sound thrashing. But Roland is too old for that. Perhaps - he is too old to be at school at all. The leaving age of nineteen - is arbitrary. Boys develop at such different ages; and though I - should not myself have thought so before this affair arose, it may - very well be that Roland has already passed beyond the age at which - it is wise and, indeed, safe to keep him any longer at a school. - For all we know, this trouble may prove to have been a blessing in - disguise, and will have protected him from more serious - difficulties. At any rate, I do not feel that I should be doing my - duty by you or by the other parents who place the welfare of their - boys in my hands if I were to keep Roland here after the summer. - There is, of course, in this not the least suggestion of expulsion. - Roland will leave at the end of the term with many of his - contemporaries in the ordinary course of events. And he will - become, if he wishes, as I hope he will wish, a member of the old - Fernhurstian Society. Perhaps you may yourself decide to come down - and have a talk with Roland. If so, perhaps we might discuss his - future together. I do not myself see why this should prejudice in - any way his going up to the University in a year’s time. Of course - he could not go up now as he has not yet passed responsions. - - I very much hope that you will come down and that we shall be able - to discuss the whole matter from every point of view. Sincerely - yours, - -J. F. HARRISON. - - - -This letter arrived at Hammerton by the evening post. Mr. Whately had -that morning received a letter from Roland, written before the row, with -an account of a house game in which he had made 59 runs and taken 3 -wickets. Mr. Whately was most excited. - -“He’s really doing remarkably well,” he said, after dinner. “He says -that he’s pretty certain for his second XI. colors, and I can’t think -why they don’t give him a trial for the first. I know that Fernhurst -have a pretty strong side this year, but they ought to try all the men -they’ve got.” - -“He ought to get in next year at any rate,” said his wife. - -“Next year! Of course there should be no doubt about that at all. But I -should like to see him get in this. It will make a big difference to his -last term if he knows he’s safe for his place. It’s always a little -worrying having to play for one’s colors, and I should like him to have -a really good last term. He’s deserved it; he’s worked hard; he’s been a -real success at Fernhurst.” - -His soliloquy was at this point interrupted by the double knock of the -postman. Mr. Whately jumped up at once. - -“The Fernhurst postmark, my dear,” he said. “I wonder what this can be -about. The headmaster’s writing!” - -He tore open the envelope eagerly and began to read. - -“Well, dear?” said his wife. - -He said nothing, but handed the letter across to her. She read it -through and then sat forward in her chair, her hands lying on her knees. - -“Poor darling,” she said. “So that’s why he saw so little of April last -holidays.” - -“Yes, I suppose that’s the reason.” - -“Do you think he was in love with her?” - -“With April?” - -“No, of course not, dear. With this girl at Fernhurst?” - -“I don’t know. How could I tell?” - -And again they sat in silence. It was such a long while since they had -been called upon to face a serious situation. For many years now they -had lived upon the agreeable surface of an ordered life. They were -unprepared for this disquieting intrusion. - -“And what’s going to happen now?” she said at last. “I suppose you’ll -have to go down to school and see him.” - -“Yes, I think so. Yes, certainly. I ought to go down to-morrow.” - -“And what will you say to him?” - -“I don’t know. What is it the headmaster says?” - -She handed him the letter and he fumbled with it. “Here it is. ‘I do not -see myself why this should prejudice in any way his going up to the -University.’ That’s what the headmaster says. But I don’t really see how -we could manage it. After all, what would happen? He would have to go to -a crammer’s and everyone would ask questions. We have always said how -good the Fernhurst education is, and now they’ll begin to wonder why -we’ve changed our minds. If we take Roland away and send him to a -crammer’s they would be sure to think something was up. You know what -people are. It would never do.” - -“No, I suppose not. But it seems rather hard on Roland if he’s got to -give up Oxford.” - -“Well, it will be his own fault, won’t it?” - -“We haven’t heard the whole story yet.” - -“I know; but what’s the good of discussing it? He knew he was doing -something he ought not to be doing. He can’t expect not to have to pay -for it.” - -And there was another pause. - -“He was doing so well, too,” she said. - -“He would have been a prefect after the summer. He would have been -captain of his house. We should have been so proud of him.” - -“And it’s all over now.” - -They did not discuss the actual trouble. He knew that on the next day he -would have to go over the whole thing with Roland, and he wanted to be -able to think it out in quiet. They were practical people, who had spent -the last fifteen years discussing the practical affairs of ways and -means. They had come nearest to each other when they had sat before -their account-books in the evening, balancing one column with another, -and at the end of it looking each other in the face, agreeing that they -would have to “cut down this expense,” and that they could “save a -little there.” The love of the senses had died out quickly between them, -but its place had been taken by a deep affection, by the steady -accumulation of small incidents of loyalty and unselfishness, of -difficulties faced and fought together. They had never ventured upon -first principles. They had fixed their attention upon the immediate -necessities of the moment. - -And now, although Roland’s moral welfare was a deep responsibility to -them, they spoke only of his career and of how they must shape it to fit -the new requirements. Mr. Whately thought that he might be able to find -a post for him in the bank. But his wife was very much against it. - -“Oh, no, dear, that would be terrible. Roland could never stand it; he’s -such an open-air person. I can’t bear the idea of his being cooped up at -a desk all his days.” - -“That’s what my life’s been.” - -“I know; but, Roland. Surely we can find something better for him than -that.” - -“I’ll try. I don’t know. Things like the Civil Service are impossible -for him now, and the Army’s no use, and I’ve got no influence in the -City.” - -“But you must try, really, dear. It’s awful to think of him committed to -a bank for the rest of his life just when he was doing so well.” - -“All right. I’ll do my best.” - -A few minutes later he said that he was tired and would go to bed. At -the door he paused, walked back into the room and stood behind his wife. -He wanted to say something to show that he appreciated her sympathy, -that he was glad she was beside him in this disappointment, this hour of -trouble. But he did not know what to say. He stretched out a hand -timidly and touched her hair. She turned and looked up at him, and -without a word said put her arms slowly about his neck, drew his hand -down to her and kissed him. For a full minute he was pressed against -her. “Dear,” he murmured, and though he mounted the stairs sadly, he -felt strengthened by that embrace of mutual disappointment. - -He set off very early next morning, for he would have to go down to the -bank and make arrangements for his absence. He had hoped that Roland -would have written to them, but the post brought only a circular from a -turf accountant. - -“Have you decided what you are going to say to him?” his wife asked. - -“Not yet. I shall think it out in the train. I shall be able to say the -right thing when the time comes.” - -“You won’t be hard to him. I expect he’s very miserable.” - -It was a bad day for Mr. Whately. During the long train journey through -fields and villages, vivid in the bright June sunlight, he wondered in -what spirit he should receive his son. Roland would be no doubt waiting -for him at the station. What would they say to each other? How would -they begin? He would have lunch, of course, at the Eversham Hotel, and -then, he supposed, he would have to see the headmaster. That would be -very difficult. He always felt shy in the headmaster’s presence. The -headmaster was such an aristocrat; he was stamped with the hallmark of -Eton and Balliol, while he himself was the manager of a bank in London. -He was always aware of his social inferiority in that book-lined study, -with the five austere reproductions of Greek sculpture. The interview -would be very difficult. But the headmaster would at least do most of -the talking; whereas with Roland.... Mr. Whately shifted uneasily in his -corner seat. What on earth was he going to say? Something, surely, about -the moral significance of the act. Roland must realize that he was -guilty of really immoral conduct, and yet how was he to be made to -realize it? What arguments must be produced? Wherein lay the harm of -calf love? And looking back over his own life Mr. Whately could not see -that there was any particular vice attached to it. It was absurd and -preposterous, but it was very pleasant. He remembered how he had once -fancied himself in love with his grandmother’s housemaid. He used to -get up early in the morning so that he could sit with her while she laid -the grate, and he had knelt down beside her and joined his breath with -hers in a fierce attempt to kindle the timid flame. He had never kissed -her, but she had let him hold her hand, and the summer holidays had -passed in delicious reveries. He remembered also how, a little later, he -had fallen desperately in love with the girl at the tobacconist’s, and -he could still recall the breathless excitement of that morning when he -had come into the shop and found it empty. For a second she had listened -at the door leading to the private part of the house and had then leaned -forward over the counter: “Quick,” she had whispered. - -Mr. Whately smiled at the recollection and then remembered suddenly for -what cause he was traveling down to Fernhurst. “I must say something to -him. What shall I say?” And for want of any better argument he began to -adapt a speech that he had heard spoken a few weeks earlier in a -melodrama at the Aldwich. The hero, a soldier, had come home from the -war to find his betrothed in the arms of another, and she had protested -that it was him alone she loved, and that she was playing with the -other; but the returned warrior had delivered himself of an oration on -the eternal sanctity of love. “Love cannot be divided like a worm and -continue to exist. It is not a game.” There was something in that -argument, and Mr. Whately decided to tell Roland that love came only -once in a man’s life, and that he must reserve himself for that one -occasion. “If you make love to every girl you meet, you will spoil -yourself for the real love affair. It will be the removal of a shovelful -of gravel from a large pile. One shovelful appears to make no -difference, but in the end the pile of gravel disappears.” That is what -he would say to Roland. And because the idea seemed suitable, he did not -pause to consider whether or not it was founded upon truth. He lay back -in his corner seat and began to arrange his ideas according to that line -of persuasion. - -But all this fine flow of wit and logic was dispelled when the train -drew up at Fernhurst station and Mr. Whately descended from the carriage -to find Roland waiting for him on the platform. - -“Hullo! father,” he said, and the two of them walked in silence out of -the station, and turned into the Eversham Rooms. - -“I’ve booked a table at the hotel,” said Roland. - -“Good.” - -“I expect you’re feeling a bit hungry after your journey, aren’t you, -father?” - -“Yes, I am a bit.” - -“Not a bad day for traveling, though?” - -“No, it was very jolly. The country was beautiful all the way down. It’s -such a relief to be able to get out of London for a bit.” - -“I expect it must be.” - -“It’s quite a treat to be able to come here”; and so nervous was he that -he failed to appreciate the irony of his last statement. - -By this time they had reached the hotel. Roland walked with a cheerful -confidence into the entrance, nodded to the porter, hung his straw hat -upon the rack, and suggested a wash. - -Mr. Whately looked at himself in the glass as he dried his hands. It was -a withered face that looked back at him; the face of a bank clerk who -had risen with some industry and much privation to a position of -authority; a face that was lined and marked and undistinguished; the -face of a man who had never asserted himself. Mr. Whately turned from -his own reflection and looked at his son, so strong, and fresh and -eager; unmarked as yet by trouble and adversity. Who was he, a scrubby, -middle-aged little man, emptied of energy and faith, with his life -behind him--who was he to impose his will on anyone? - -“Finished, father?” - -He followed his son into the dining room and picked up the menu; but he -did not know what to choose, and handed the card across to Roland. -Roland ordered the meal; the waiter rubbed his hands, and father and son -sat opposite each other, oppressed by a situation that was new to them. -Roland waited for his father to begin. During the last thirty-six hours -he had been interviewed by three different masters, all of whom had, in -their way, tried to impress upon him the enormity of his offense. He was -by now a little tired of the subject. He wanted to know what punishment -had been fixed for him. He had heard enough of the moral aspect of the -case. “These people treat me as though I were a fool,” he had said to -Brewster. “To hear the way they talked one would imagine that I had -never thought about the damnable business at all. They seem to expect me -to fall down, like St. Paul before Damascus, and exclaim: ‘Now, all is -clear to me!’ But, damn it all, I knew what I was doing. I’d thought it -all out. I’m not going to do the conversion stunt just because I’ve been -found out.” He expected his father to go over the old ground--influence, -position, responsibility. He prepared himself to listen. But as his -father did not begin, and as the soup did not arrive, Roland felt it was -incumbent upon him to say something. - -“A great game that against Yorkshire?” he said. - -“What! Which game?” - -“Don’t you remember, about a fortnight ago, the Middlesex and Yorkshire -match? Middlesex had over two hundred to get and only three hours to get -them in. They’re a fine side this year.” - -And within two minutes they were discussing cricket as they had -discussed it so often before. At first they talked to cover their -embarrassment, but soon they had become really interested in the -subject. - -“And what chance do you think you have of getting in the XI.? Surely -they ought to give you a trial soon.” - -“Oh, I don’t know, father; I’m not much class, and there are several old -colors. I ought to get my seconds all right, and next season....” - -He stopped, realizing suddenly that he did not as yet know whether there -would be any next season for him, and quickly changed the conversation, -telling his father of a splendid rag that the Lower Fourth had organized -for the last Saturday of the term. - -Sooner or later the all-important question had to be tackled, but by the -time lunch had finished, son and father had established their old -intimacy of quiet conversation, and they were ready to face and, if need -be, to dismiss the violent intrusion of the trouble. They walked up and -down the hotel grounds, Mr. Whately wondering at what exact point he -should dab in his carefully constructed argument. Then there came a -pause, into which his voice broke suddenly: - -“You know, Roland, about this business....” - -“Yes, father.” - -“Well, I mean, going out with a girl in the town. Do you think -it’s....” He paused. After all, he did not know what to say. - -“I know, father. I know.” And looking at each other they realized that -it would be impossible for them to discuss it. Their relationship was at -stake. It had no technique to deal with the situation. And Roland asked, -as his mother had asked, “What’s going to happen, father?” - -For answer, Mr. Whately put his hand into his pocket, took out the -headmaster’s letter and gave it to Roland. Roland read it through and -then handed it back. “Not a bad fellow, the Chief,” he said, and they -walked up and down the path in silence. - -“It’s a disappointment,” said Roland. - -“For all of us.” - -“I suppose so.” - -And after another pause: “What’s going to happen to me at the end of the -term?” - -“That’s what I’ve got to decide. I suggested a bank, but your mother was -very much against it.” - -“Oh, not the bank, father!” - -“Well, I’ll do my best for you, but it’ll be difficult. Oxford’s out of -the question. You can see that, can’t you? I should have to send you to -a crammer, and everyone would talk. It would be sure to leak out. And we -don’t want anything like that to happen, because they would be sure to -think it was something worse than it really was. I’m afraid Oxford’s got -to go. Your mother agreed with me about that.” - -“I’m sure you’re right, father.” - -“But I don’t know what else there is, Roland. I shall have to ask the -headmaster.” - -But the headmaster was not very helpful. He was kind and sympathetic. He -spoke of the moral significance of the situation and the eventual -service that this trouble might prove to have been. He wished Roland -the very best of luck. He didn’t agree with Mr. Whately about the -impossibility of Oxford, but he appreciated Mr. Whately’s point of view. -After all, Mr. Whately knew his own son better than he did. Was there -anything more Mr. Whately would wish to ask him? He would be always very -glad to give Mr. Whately any advice or help that lay within him. He -hoped Mr. Whately would have a pleasant journey back to town. - -“Dorset’s at its best in June,” he said, as he escorted Mr. Whately to -the door. - -There was an hour to put in before the departure of the London train, -and Roland and his father walked down to the cricket field. They sat on -the grass in the shade of the trees that cluster round the pavilion, and -watched the lazy progress of the various games that were scattered round -the large high-walled ground. It was a pretty sight--the green fields, -the white flannels, the mild sunshine of early summer. It was bitter to -Mr. Whately that he would never again see Fernhurst. For that was what -Roland’s trouble meant to him. And the reflection saddened his last hour -with his son. - -When Roland had left him at the station he walked up and down the -platform in the grip of a deep melancholy. On such an afternoon, five -years ago, he had seen Fernhurst for the first time. He had brought -Roland down to try for a scholarship and they had stayed for three days -together at the Eversham Hotel. Fernhurst had been full of promise for -them then. He had not been to a public school himself. When he was a boy -the public school system had indeed hardly begun to impose its autocracy -on the lower middle classes, and he had always felt himself at a -disadvantage because he had been educated at Burstock Grammar School. -He had been desperately anxious for Roland to make a success of -Fernhurst. He had looked forward to the day when his son would be an -important figure in the school, and when he himself would become -important as Whately’s father. How proud he would feel when he would -walk down to the field in the company of a double-first. He would come -down to “commem” and give a luncheon party at the Eversham Hotel, and -the masters would come and speak to him and congratulate him on his -son’s performance: “A wonderful game of his last week against Tonwich.” -And during the last eighteen months it had indeed seemed that these -dreams were to be realized. Roland had his colors at football, he was in -the Sixth, a certainty for his seconds at cricket: after the summer he -would be a prefect and captain of games in the house. And now it was all -over. As far as he was concerned, Fernhurst was finished. His life would -be empty now without the letter every Monday morning telling of Roland’s -place in form, of his scores during the week, and all the latest news of -a vivid communal life. That was over. And as Mr. Whately mounted the -train, closed the door and sat back against the carriage, he felt as -though he were undergoing an operation; a part of his being was being -wrenched from him. - -Roland felt none of this despondency. After saying good-by to his father -he walked gayly up the Eversham Road. The brown stone of the Abbey tower -was turning to gold in the late sunlight, a cool wind was blowing, the -sky was blue. What did this trouble matter to him? Had he not strength -and faith and time in plenty to repair it? He had wearied of school, he -reminded himself. He had felt caged this last year; he had wanted -freedom; he had outgrown the narrow discipline of the field and -classroom. Next term he would be a man and not a schoolboy. He flung -back his shoulders as though he were ridding them of a burden. - -There was still three-quarters of an hour to put in before lock-up, and -he walked up past the big school towards the hill. He thought he would -like to tell Brewster what had happened. He found him in his study, and -with him an old boy, Gerald Marston, who had been playing against the -school that afternoon. - -“Hullo!” he said. “So here’s the criminal. I’ve just been hearing all -about you. Come along and sit down.” - -Roland was flattered at Marston’s interest in his escapade. He had -hardly known him at all when he had been at Fernhurst. Marston had been -in another house, was two years his senior, and, in addition, a double -first. Probably it was the first time they had even spoken to each -other. - -“Oh, yes, we’ve been having an exciting time,” laughed Roland. - -“And what’s going to be the end of it?” - -“Well, as far as I can gather, the school will meet without me next -September.” - -“The sack?” - -“Well, hardly that; the embroidered bag.” - -They talked and laughed. Marston was very jolly; he gave himself no -airs, and Roland could hardly realize that three years ago he had been -frightened of him, that when Marston had passed him in the cloister he -had lowered his voice, and as often as not had stopped speaking till he -had gone by. - -“And what’s going to happen to you now?” asked Marston. - -“That’s just what I don’t know. My pater talked about my going into a -bank.” - -“But you’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” - -“I’m not too keen on it.” - -“Lord, no! I should think not. And there’s no real future in it. You -ought to go into the City. There’s excitement there, and big business. -You don’t want to waste your life like that.” - -It happens sometimes that we meet a person whom we seem to have known -all our life, and by the time the clock began to strike the quarter, -Roland felt that he and Marston were old friends. - -“A good fellow that,” said Marston, after he had gone, “and a bit of a -sport too, by all accounts. I must try and see more of him.” - -And in his study Roland had picked up a calendar and was counting the -days that lay between him and Freedom. - - - - -PART II - -THE RIVAL FORCES - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -A FORTUNATE MEETING - - -Mr. Whately’s one idea on his return to Hammerton was to hide the fact -that Roland’s sudden leaving was the result of a scandal. He wished the -decision in no way to seem unpremeditated. Two days later, therefore, he -went round to the Curtises’ and prepared the way by a discussion of the -value of university training. - -“Really, you know, Mrs. Curtis,” he said, “I very much doubt whether -Oxford is as useful as we sometimes think it is. What will Roland be -able to do afterwards? If I know Roland he will do precious little work. -He is not very clever; I doubt if he will get into the Civil Service, -and what else is there open to him? Nothing, perhaps, except -schoolmastering, and he would not be much use at that. I am not at all -certain that it is not wiser, on the whole, to take a boy away at about -seventeen or eighteen, send him abroad for a couple of months and then -put him into business.” - -Mrs. Curtis was not a little surprised. For a good sixteen years Mr. -Whately had refused to consider the possibility of any education for -Roland other than Fernhurst and Brasenose. - -“But you are not thinking of taking him away from Fernhurst and not -sending him to Brasenose?” she said. - -“Oh, no, Mrs. Curtis, but I have been thinking that if we could do -things all over again I am not at all sure but that’s not the way I -should have arranged his education.” - -That was the first step. - -A few nights later he came round again, and again talked of the value of -two or three months in France. - -“What does Roland think about it, Mr. Whately?” she asked. - -“As a matter of fact, I only heard from Roland on the subject to-day; he -seems quite keen on it. I just threw it out as a suggestion to him. I -pointed out that most of his friends will have left at the end of the -term, that next year he would be rather lonely, and that there would not -be anything very much for him to do when he came down from Oxford. He -seemed to agree with me.” - -Mrs. Curtis, however, was no fool. She had spent the greater part of her -middle age sitting in front of a fire watching life drift past her, and -her one amusement had been the examination of the motives and actions of -her friends. - -“There is something rather curious here,” she said that evening to her -husband. “As long as we have known the Whatelys they have insisted on -the value of public school and university education. Now, quite -suddenly, they have turned round, and they are talking about business -and commerce and the value of French.” - -Mr. Curtis, who was a credulous creature, saw no reason why they should -not change their minds if they wanted to. - -“After all,” he said, “it is quite true that Latin and Greek are of very -little use to anyone in the City.” - -But Mrs. Curtis refused to be convinced. - -“I do not care what you say,” she said. “You just wait and see.” - -And, sure enough, within a week Mr. Whately had confessed his intention -of taking Roland away from Fernhurst at the end of the term. - -“And you are going to send him to France?” said Mrs. Curtis. - -“I am not quite certain about that,” he said. “I am going to look round -first to see if I can’t get him a job at once. We both agree that -another year at Fernhurst would be a waste of time.” - -Mrs. Curtis smiled pleasantly. As soon as he had gone she expressed -herself forcibly. - -“I do not believe for a moment,” she insisted, “that Mr. Whately has -changed his mind without some pretty strong reason. He was frightfully -anxious to see Roland captain of his house. He was so proud of -everything he did at Fernhurst. There must be a row or something; -unless, of course, he has lost his money.” - -But that idea Mr. Curtis pooh-poohed. - -“My dear Edith,” he said, “that is quite impossible. You know that -Whately’s got a good salaried post in the bank. He has got no private -means to lose and he is not the sort of man to live above his income. It -is certainly not money. I don’t see why a man should not change his mind -if he wants to.” - -Mrs. Curtis again refused to be convinced. - -“You wouldn’t,” she said. - -April was of the same opinion. She knew perfectly well that Roland, of -his own free will, would never have agreed to such a plan. There must be -trouble of some sort or other, she said to herself, and Roland instantly -became more interesting in her eyes. She wondered what he had done. Her -knowledge of school life was based mainly upon the stories of Talbot -Baines Reid, and she began to picture some adventure in which he had -taken the blame upon his own shoulders. A friend of his had contracted -liabilities at the Eversham Arms and Roland had become involved; or -perhaps someone had endeavored to steal the papers of a Scholarship -examination and Roland had been falsely accused. She could not imagine -that Roland had himself done anything dishonorable, and she could not be -expected to know the usual cause for which boys are suddenly removed -from their school. Ralph Richmond was the only person who was likely to -know the true story, and to him she went. - -Now, there is in the Latin Grammar a morality contained in an example of -a conditional sentence which runs in the following words: “Even though -they are silent they say enough.” In spite of Ralph’s desperate efforts -to assume ignorance it was quite obvious to April that he knew all about -it, also that it was something that Roland would not want her to know. -She was puzzled and distressed. If there had been no embarrassment -between them during the holidays she would probably have written to -Roland and asked him about it, but under the conditions she felt that -this was impossible. - -“I shall have to wait till he returns,” she said. “Perhaps he will tell -me of his own accord.” - -But when Roland came home he showed not the slightest inclination to -tell her anything. If he were acting a part he was acting it -extraordinarily well. He told her how glad he was that he was leaving -Fernhurst. “One outgrows school,” he said. “It is all right for a bit. -It is great fun when you are a fag and when you are half-way up; but it -is not worth it when you have got responsibilities. And as I went there -at thirteen--a year earlier than most people--nearly all my friends will -have left. I should have been very lonely next term. I think I am well -out of it.” - -April reminded him of his eagerness to go to Oxford. That objection, -too, he managed to brush aside. - -“Oxford,” he said; “that is nothing but school over again. It is masters -and work and regulations. I am very glad it is over.” - -For a while she was almost tempted to believe he was telling her the -truth, but as August passed she noticed that Roland seemed less -satisfied with his prospects. He spoke with diminishing enthusiasm of -the freedom of an office. Indeed, whenever she introduced the subject he -changed it quickly. - -“I expect father will find me something decent soon,” he would say, and -began to talk of cricket or of some rag that he remembered. - -But Mr. Whately was not finding it easy to procure a post for his son. -Roland, after all, possessed no special qualifications. He had been in -the Sixth Form of a public school, but he had not been a particularly -brilliant member of it. He had passed no standard examinations. He was -too young for any important competitive work and Mr. Whately had very -few influential friends. Roland began to see before him the prospect of -long days spent in a bank--a dismal prospect. “What will it lead to, -father?” he used to ask, and Mr. Whately had not been able to hold out -very much encouragement. - -“Well, I suppose in time if you work well you would become a manager. If -you do anything really brilliant you might be given some post of central -organization.” - -“But it is not very likely, is it, father?” said Roland. - -“Not very likely; no.” - -The years seemed mapped out before him and he found it difficult to -maintain his pose of complacent satisfaction, so that one evening, when -he felt more than ordinarily depressed, and when the need of sympathy -became irresistible, he found himself telling April the story of his -trouble. - -She listened to him quietly, sitting huddled up in the window-seat, her -knees drawn up towards her, her hands clasped beneath them. She said -nothing for a while after he had finished. - -“Well,” he said at last, “that’s the story. You know all about it now.” - -She looked up at him. There was in her eyes neither annoyance nor -repulsion nor contempt, but only interest and sympathy. - -“Why did you do it, Roland?” she asked. - -“I don’t know,” he said. And because this happened to be the real -reason, and because he felt it to be inadequate, he searched his memory -for some more plausible account. - -“I don’t know,” he said. “It seemed to happen this way: Things were -awfully dull at school, and then, during the Christmas holidays, we had -that row. If it hadn’t been for that I think I should have chucked it up -altogether. But you didn’t seem to care for me; it didn’t seem to matter -much either way; and--well one drifts into these things.” - -There was another pause. - -“But I don’t understand, Roland. Do you mean to say if we hadn’t had -that row at Christmas nothing of this would have happened?” - -Because their disagreement had not been without its influence on -Roland’s general attitude towards his school romance, and because -Roland was always at the mercy of the immediate influence, and in the -presence of April was unable to think that anything but April could have -influenced him, he mistook the part for the whole, and assured her that -if they had not had that quarrel at the dance he would have given up -Dolly altogether. And because the situation was one they had often met -in plays and stories they accepted it as the truth. - -“It’s all my fault,” she said, “really all my fault.” And turning her -head away from him she allowed her thoughts to travel back to that -ineffectual hour of loneliness and resignation. “I can do nothing, -nothing myself,” she said. “I can only spoil things for other people.” - -At the time Roland was disappointed, but two hours later he decided that -he was, on the whole, relieved that Mrs. Curtis should have chosen that -particular moment to return from her afternoon call. In another moment -he would have been saying things that would have complicated life most -confoundedly. April had been very near tears; he disliked heroics. He -would have had to do something to console her. He would probably have -said to her a great many things that at the time would have seemed to -him true, but which afterwards he would have regretted. He had -sufficient worries of his own already. - -At home life was not made easy for Roland. He received little sympathy. -Ralph told him that he deserved all he had got and had been lucky to get -off so cheaply. His father repeated a number of moral platitudes, the -source of which Roland was able to recognize. - -“After all,” said Mr. Whately, “I have been in a bank all my life; I -have not done badly in it, and you, with your education and advantages, -should be able to do much better.” - -This was a line of argument which did not appeal to Roland. He was very -fond of his father, but he had always regarded his manner of life as a -fate, at all costs, to be avoided. And though his mother in his presence -endeavored to make him believe that all was for the best in the best of -all possible worlds, when she was alone with her husband she saw only -her son’s point of view. - -“If this is all we have got to offer him,” she said, “all the money and -time we have spent will be wasted. If a desk at a bank is going to be -the end of it, he might just as well have gone to a day school, and all -the extra money we have spent could have been put away for him in a -bank.” - -Mr. Whately reminded her that the change in their plans was due entirely -to Roland. - -“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she said, “that is all very well. But it is a cruel -shame that a boy’s whole life should depend on a thing he does when he -is seventeen years old.” - -Mr. Whately murmured something about it being the way of the world, -adding he himself had been in a bank now for thirty years. - -“Which is the very reason,” said Mrs. Whately, “that I don’t want my son -to go into one”--an argument that did not touch her husband. - -But talk how they might, and whatever philosophic attitude they might -adopt, the practical position remained unchanged. Roland had been -offered a post in a bank, which he could take up at the beginning of -October. Three weeks were left him in which he might try to find -something better for himself; but of this there seemed little prospect. - -And as he sat in the free seats at the Oval, on an afternoon of late -September, Roland had to face his position honestly, and own to himself -there was no alternative to the bank. - -He was lonely as he sat there in the mild sunshine watching the white -figures move across the grass. That evening school would be going back -and he would not be with them. It was hard to realize that in four -hours’ time the cloisters would be alive with voices, that feet would be -clattering up and down the study steps, that the eight-fifteen would -have just arrived and the rush to the hall would have begun. - -The play became slow; two professionals were wearing down the bowling. -He began to feel sleepy in the languid atmosphere of this late summer -afternoon. He could not concentrate his attention upon the cricket. He -could think only of himself, and the river that was bearing him without -his knowledge to a country he did not know. - -It was not merely that he had left school, that he had exchanged one -discipline for another; he had altered entirely his mode of life, and -for this new life a new technique would be required. Up till now -everything had been marked out clearly in definite stages; he had been -working in definite lines. It was not merely that the year was divided -into terms, but his career also was so divided. There had been a -gradation in everything. It had been his ambition to get his firsts at -football, and the path was marked out clearly for him--house cap., -seconds, firsts: in form he had wanted to get into the Sixth, and here -again the course had been clear--Fourth, Fifth, Sixth: he had wanted to -become a house prefect; the process was the same--day room table, Lower -Fourth table, Fifth Form table, Sixth Form table. He had known exactly -what he was doing; everything had been made simple for him. His -ambitions had been protected. It was quite different now; nothing was -clearly defined. He would have to spend a certain number of hours a day -in an office. Outside of that office he would be free to do what he -liked. He could choose his own ambition, but as yet he could not decide -what that would be. He was as dazed by the imminence of this freedom as -a mortal man whose world is ordered by the limits of time and space when -confronted suddenly with the problem of infinity. Roland could not come -to terms with a world in which he would not be tethered to one spot by -periods of three months. His reverie was interrupted by a hand that -descended heavily on his shoulder and a voice he recognized, that -addressed him by his name. He turned and saw Gerald Marston standing -behind him. - -“So you are a free man at last,” he said. “How did the rest of the term -go?” - -It was a pleasant surprise; and Roland welcomed the prospect of a cheery -afternoon with a companion who would soon dispel his melancholy. - -“Oh, not so badly,” he said. “I lay pretty quiet and saw as little of -Carus Evans as I could.” - -“And how is the amiable Brewster?” asked Marston. - -“He’s all right, I suppose. He won’t have much of a time this year, -though, I should think. He ought to have been captain of the XI., but -they say now he is not responsible enough, and Jenkins, a man he -absolutely hates, is going to run it instead.” - -“So you’re not sorry you have left?” - -Roland shrugged his shoulders. - -“In a way not; if there hadn’t been a row, though, I should have had a -pretty good time this term.” - -“Well, you can’t have things both ways. What’s going to happen to you -now?” - -With most people Roland would have preferred to pass the matter off with -some casual remark about his father having got him a good job in the -City. He liked sympathy, but was afraid of sympathy when it became pity. -He did not want the acquaintances who, six months ago, had been talking -of him as “that lucky little beast, Whately,” to speak of him now as -“poor old Whately; rotten luck on him; have you heard about it?” But it -is always easier to make a confession to a stranger than to a person -with whom one is brought into daily contact. Marston was a person with -whom he felt intimate, although he knew him so little; and so he found -himself telling Marston about the bank and of the dismal future that -awaited him. - -Marston was highly indignant. - -“What a beastly shame,” he said. “You will simply hate it. Cannot your -father get you something better?” - -“I don’t think so. He has always lived a very quiet life; he has not got -any influential friends--but really, what’s the good of talking about -it? Something may turn up. Let’s watch the cricket.” - -“Oh, rot, man!” expostulated Marston. “You can’t let the thing drop like -this. After all, my father is rather a big pot in the varnish world; he -may be able to do something.” - -“But I don’t know anything about varnish.” - -“You don’t need to, my dear fellow. The less you know about it the -better. All you’ve got to do is to believe that our kind of varnish is -the best.” And as they walked round the ground during the tea interval a -happy idea occurred to Marston. - -“I’ve got it,” he said. “We have got a cricket match on Saturday against -the village; we’re quite likely to be a man short; at any rate we can -always play twelve-a-side. You come down and stay the week-end with us. -The pater’s frightfully keen on cricket. If you can manage to make a few -he’s sure to be impressed, and then I’ll tell him all about you. You -will get a pleasant week-end and I expect quite a good game of cricket.” - -Roland naturally accepted this proposal eagerly. He did not, however, -tell his people of the prospect of a job in Marston & Marston, Limited; -he preferred to wait till things were settled one way or another. If he -were to be disappointed, he would prefer to be disappointed alone. He -did not need any sympathy at such a time. - -But when he went round to the Curtises’ April could tell, from the glow -in his face, that he was unusually excited about something. She did not -have a chance to speak to him when he was in the drawing-room. Her -mother talked and talked. Arthur had just gone back to school and she -was garrulous about his outfit. - -“It is so absurd, you know, Mr. Whately,” she said, “the way people say -women care more about clothes than men. There is Arthur to-day; he -insisted on having linen shirts instead of woolen ones, although woolen -shirts are much nicer and much warmer. ‘My dear Arthur,’ I said, ‘no one -can see your shirt; your waistcoat hides most of it and your tie the -rest.’ But he said that all the boys wore linen shirts instead of -flannel. ‘But, my dear Arthur,’ I said, ‘who is going to see what kind -of a shirt you are wearing if it is covered by your waistcoat and tie? -And I can cut your sleeves shorter so that they would not be seen -beneath your coat.’ And do you know what he said, Mr. Whately? He said, -‘You don’t understand, mother; the boys would see that I was wearing a -flannel shirt when I changed for football, and I would be ragged for -it.’ Well, now, Mr. Whately, isn’t that absurd?” - -She went on talking and talking about every garment she had bought for -her son--his ties, his boots, his socks, his coat. - -Roland hardly talked at all. His father mentioned that he was going down -for the week-end to stay with some friends and take part in a cricket -match. - -“So that is what you are so excited about!” April had interposed. And -Roland had laughed and said that that was it. - -But she would not believe that he could be so excited about a game of -cricket, and in the hall she had pulled him by his coat sleeve. - -“What is it?” she had whispered. “Something has happened. It is not only -a cricket match.” - -And because he wanted to share his enthusiasm with someone, and because -April looked so pretty, and because he felt that courage would flow to -him from her faith in him, he confided in her his hope. - -“Oh, that would be lovely,” she said. “I do hope things will turn out -all right. I’ve felt so guilty all along about it; if it hadn’t been for -me none of this would ever have happened.” - -“Don’t worry about that,” said Roland. “Things are beginning to turn -right now.” - -There was no time for further conversation; Mrs. Curtis had completed -her doorstep homily to Mr. Whately. April pressed Roland’s hand eagerly -as she said good-by to him. - -“Good luck!” she whispered. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -HOGSTEAD - - -It was a glorious week, and through Thursday and Friday Roland watched -in nervous anticipation every cloud that crossed the pale blue sky. -Sooner or later the weather must break, he felt; and it would be fatal -for his prospects if it rained now. It is miserable to sit in a pavilion -and watch the wicket slowly become a bog; cheeriness under such -conditions is anti-social. Mr. Marston would be unable to work up any -sympathy for him, and would remember him as “that fellow who came down -for the cricket match that was such a fiasco”--an unfortunate -association. - -Everything went well, however. Roland traveled down on the Friday night, -and as he got out of the train at Hogstead station he saw the spire of -the church black against a green and scarlet sky. “With such a sky it -can hardly be wet to-morrow,” he said. - -The Marstons were a rich family, and it was the first time Roland had -seen anything of the life of really wealthy people. He was met at the -station and was driven up through a long, curving drive to a Georgian -house surrounded by well-kept lawns. Marston received him in a large, -oak-paneled hall, and although at first Roland was a little embarrassed -by the attentions of the footman, who took his hat and coat and bag, -within five minutes he found himself completely at his ease, sitting in -a deep arm-chair discussing with Mr. Marston the prospects of a certain -young cricketer who had made his first appearance that summer at the -Oval. - -Mr. Marston was a fine healthy man, in the autumn of life. The -enthusiasm of his early years had been spent in a bitter struggle to -build up his business and he had had very little time for amusement. -During the long hours at his desk and the long evenings with ledgers and -account-books piled before him he had looked forward to the days when he -would be able to delegate his authority and spend most of his time in -the country, within the sound of bat and ball. Having had little -coaching he was himself a poor performer; for which reason he was the -more kindly disposed to anyone who showed promise. It was a rule of his -estate that, winter as well as summer, every gardener, groom and servant -should spend ten minutes each morning bowling at the nets. He lived in -the hope that one day an under-gardener would be deemed worthy of -transportation to the county ground. - -“My son tells me you are a great performer,” he said to Roland. - -“Oh, no, sir; only very moderate. I did not get into the first XI. at -Fernhurst.” - -“They had an awfully strong XI.,” interposed Marston. “And he had a -blooming good average for the second. Didn’t you make a century against -the town?” - -Roland confessed that he had, but remarked that with such bowling it was -very hard to do anything else. - -“Well, ten other people managed to,” said Marston. - -“And a century is a century whoever makes it,” said his father, who had -never made as many as fifty in his life. “You’ve got to make a lot of -good shots to make a hundred.” - -“At any rate,” said Marston, “I don’t mind betting he gets a few -to-morrow.” - -And for half an hour they exchanged memories of the greatest of all -games. - -Roland found his evening clothes neatly laid out on his bed when he went -up to change for dinner; and when he came down the whole family was -assembled in the drawing-room. There were Mrs. Marston, a large rather -plump woman of about fifty years old; her daughter Muriel, a small and -pretty girl, with her light hair scattered over her shoulders; and two -or three other members of the next day’s side. There was an intimate -atmosphere of comfort and well-being to which Roland was unaccustomed. -At home they had only one servant, and had to wait a good deal upon -themselves. He enjoyed the silent, unobtrusive methods of the two men -who waited on them. He never needed to ask for anything; as soon as he -had finished his bread another piece was offered him; his glass was -filled as it began to empty; and the conversation was like the -meal--calm, leisured, polished. - -Roland sat next to Muriel and found her a delightful companion. She was -at an age when school and games filled her life completely. She told -Roland of a rag that they had perpetrated on their French mistress, and -he recounted her the exploits of one Foster, who used to dress up at -night, go down to the Eversham Arms, sing songs and afterwards pass -round the hat. - -Roland had his doubts as to the existence of Foster; he had become at -Fernhurst one of those mythical creatures which every school -possesses--a fellow who took part in one or two amusing escapades, and -around whose name had accumulated the legends of many generations. His -story was worth telling, none the less. - -After dinner they walked out into the garden, with the chill of the -autumn night in the air. It reminded Roland that his sojourn in that -warmly colored life was only temporary, and that outside it was the -cold, cheerless struggle for existence. - -“It is so ripping this,” he said to Muriel, “and it is so rotten to -think that in a few weeks I shall be sitting down in front of a desk and -adding up figures.” He told her, though she was already acquainted with -the facts, of how he had left Fernhurst at the end of the term, and in a -few weeks would be going into a bank. - -“Oh, how beastly,” she said. “I suppose you will have rotten short -holidays?” - -“A fortnight a year.” - -“I think it is a shame,” she said. “I am sure a boy like you ought to be -leading an open-air life somewhere.” - -And that night, before he fell asleep, Roland thought wistfully of the -company he had met that day. It was marvelous how money smoothed -everything. It was the oil that made the cogs in the social machine -revolve; without it there was no rhythm or harmony, but only a broken, -jarring movement. Without money he felt life must be always in a degree -squalid. He remembered his own home and the numerous worries about small -accounts and small expenses; he knew how it had worn down the energy of -his father. He knew that such worries would never touch a girl like -Muriel. How easy and good-natured all these people were; they were -flowers that had been grown in a fertile soil. Everything depended upon -the soil in which one was planted; the finest plants would wither if -they grew far from the sunshine in a damp corner of a field. - -Next day Roland awoke to a world heavy with a dripping golden mist, that -heralded a bright hot day. There had been a heavy dew, and after -breakfast they all walked down to the ground to look at the wicket. - -“If we win the toss to-day, Gerald,” said Mr. Marston to his son, “I -think we had better put them in first. It is bound to play a bit -trickily for the first hour or so.” - -There was no need for such subtlety, however, for the village won the -toss, and, as is the way with villagers, decided to go in first. - -“Good,” said Mr. Marston, “and if we have not got eight of them out by -lunch I shall be very surprised.” - -And, sure enough, eight of the village were out by lunch, but the score -had reached one hundred and five. This was largely due to three erratic -overs that had been sent down by an ecclesiastical student from Wells -who had bowled, perhaps in earnest of future compromise, on the leg -theory, with his field placed upon the off. - -The local butcher had collected some thirty runs off these three overs, -and thirty runs in a village match when the whole score of a side does -not usually reach more than fifty or sixty is a serious consideration. - -At lunch time Mr. Marston was most apologetic. “I had heard he was a -good bowler,” he said to Roland, “and I thought it would be a good -thing to give him a chance to bowl early on; and then when I saw him -getting hit all over the place I imagined he was probably angling for a -catch or something; and then after he had been hit about in the first -two overs I had to give him a third for luck.” - -“An expensive courtesy,” said Roland. - -“Perhaps it was; but, after all, a hundred and five is not a great deal, -and we have a good many bats on our side.” - -Within half an hour’s time a hundred and five for eight had become a -hundred and fifty. Under the kindly influence of his excellent champagne -cup Mr. Marston had decided to give the ecclesiastical student another -opportunity of justifying his reputation. He did not redeem that -reputation. He sent down two overs, which resulted--in addition to three -wides and a “no ball”--in twenty-five runs; and a hundred and fifty -would take a lot of getting. Indeed, Mr. Marston’s XI. never looked at -all like getting them. - -Roland, who was sent in first, was caught at short leg in the second -over; it was off a bad ball and a worse stroke--a slow, long hop that he -hit right across, and skied. He was bitterly disappointed. He did not -mind making ducks; it was all in the run of a game, and he never minded -if he was got out by a good ball. But it was hard on such a day to throw -away one’s wicket. - -“Very bad luck indeed,” said Muriel, as he reached the pavilion. - -“Not bad luck, bad play!” he remarked good humoredly. Having taken off -his pads he sat down beside her and watched the game. It was not -particularly exciting; wickets fell with great regularity. Mr. Marston -made a few big hits, and his son stayed in for a little while without -doing anything much more than keep his end up. In the end the total -reached a hundred and thirteen, and in a one-day match a first innings -result was usually final. But Mr. Marston was not at all despondent. He -refused to wait for the tea interval and led his side straight on to the -field. - -“We don’t want any rest,” he said. “Most of us have rested the whole -afternoon, and those of the other side who are not batting can have -tea.” - -It was now four-thirty; two hours remained before the drawing of stumps, -and from now on the game became really exciting. Marston took two -wickets in his first over, and at the other end a man was run out. Three -wickets were down for two runs; a panic descended upon the villagers. -The cobbler was sent in to join the doctor, with strict instructions not -to hit on any account. The cobbler was not used to passive resistance; -he played carefully for a couple of overs, then a faster ball from -Marston found the edge of the bat. Short slip was for him, -providentially, asleep, and the umpire signaled a four. This seemed to -throw him off his balance. - -“It is no good,” he said. “If I start mucking about like that I don’t -stand the foggiest chance of sticking in. I’m going to have a hit.” - -At the next ball he did have a hit--right across it, and his middle -stump fell flat. - -After this there was no serious attempt to wear down the bowling. Rustic -performers--each with a style more curious than the last--drove length -balls on the off stump in the direction of long on. Wickets fell -quickly. The score rose; and by the time the innings was over only an -hour was left for play, and ninety-two runs were required to -win--ninety-two runs against time in a fading light, on a wicket that -had been torn up by hob-nailed boots, was not the easiest of tasks. - -“Still, we must have a shot for it,” Mr. Marston said. “We cannot be -more than beaten, and we are that already.” - -And so Gerald Marston and Roland went in to open the innings with the -firm intention of getting on or getting out. - -The start was sensational. Marston had few pretensions to style; and -indeed his unorthodox, firm-footed drive had been the despair of the -Fernhurst Professional. The ball, when he hit it, went into the air far -more often than along the ground. And probably no one was more surprised -than he was when he hit the first two balls that he received right along -the ground to the boundary, past cover-point. The third ball was well -up; he took a terrific drive at it, missed it, and was very nearly -bowled. Roland, who was backing up closely, called him for a run, and if -surprise at so unparalleled an example of impertinence had not rendered -the wicket-keeper impotent, nothing could have saved him from being run -out. A fever entered into Roland’s brain. He knew quite well that he -ought to play carefully for a few balls to get his eye in, but that -short run had flung him off his balance. The first ball he received he -hit at with a horizontal bat, and it sailed, fortunately for him, over -cover-point’s head for two. He attempted a similar stroke at the next -ball, was less fortunate, and saw cover-point prepare himself for an -apparently easy catch. But there is a kindly Providence which guards the -reckless. - -Cover-point was the doctor, and probably the safest man in the whole -field to whom to send a catch. He was not, however, proof against the -impetuous ardor of mid-off. Mid-off saw the ball in the air and saw -nothing else. He rushed to where it was about to fall. He arrived at the -spot just when the doctor’s hands were preparing a comfortable nest for -the ball, and the doctor and mid-off fell in a heap together, with the -ball beneath them! - -Twelve runs had been scored in the first five balls; there had been a -possible run out; a catch had been missed at cover-point. It was a -worthy start to a great innings. - -After that everything went right with Roland. He attempted and brought -off some remarkably audacious shots. He let fly at everything that was -at all pitched up to him. Sometimes he hit the ball in the center of the -bat, and it sailed far into the long field, but even his mishits were -powerful enough to lift the ball out of reach of the instanding -fieldsman; and fortune was kind. By the time Marston was caught at the -wicket the score had reached fifty-seven, and there were still -twenty-five minutes left for play. At the present rate of scoring there -would be no difficulty in getting the runs. At this point, however, a -misfortune befell them. - -In the first innings the ecclesiastical student had made a duck; he had -not, indeed, received a single ball. His predecessor had been bowled by -the last ball of an over, and off the first ball of the next over the -man at the other end had called him for an impossible run and he had -been run out. To recompense him for this ill luck Mr. Marston had put -him in first wicket down. “After all,” he had said, “we ought to let the -man have a show, and if he does make a duck it won’t make any -difference.” He was not prepared, however, for what did occur. The -ecclesiastical student was a left-handed batsman, and a sigh of relief -seemed to go up from the fielding side at the revelation. They were -sportsmen; they were prepared to run across in the middle of the over; -but even so, the preparation of a field for a left-hander was a lengthy -business. - -A gray gloom descended on the pavilion. - -“Well, I declare!” said Mr. Marston. “First of all he bowls on the leg -theory, with his field placed on the off, and then at a moment like this -he doesn’t let us know that he’s a left-hander!” - -And the prospective divine appeared to be quite unconscious of the -situation. He had come out to enjoy himself; so far he had not enjoyed -himself greatly. He had taken no wickets, and had been responsible for -the loss of some fifty runs. This was his last chance, and he was not -going to hurry himself. He played his first three balls carefully, and -placed the last ball of the over in front of short leg for a single. -During the next four overs only eight runs were scored; four of these -were from carefully placed singles, off the fifth and sixth balls in the -over. Roland only had three balls altogether, and off one of these he -managed to get a square leg boundary. - -The total had now reached sixty-five, twenty-eight runs were still -wanted, and only a quarter of an hour remained. Unless the left-hander -were got out at once there seemed to be no chance of winning; this fact -the village appreciated. - -One would not say, of course, that the bowlers did not do their best to -dismiss the ecclesiastical student; they were conscientious men. But it -is very hard to bowl one’s best if one knows that one’s success will be -to the eventual disadvantage of one’s side; a certain limpness is bound -to creep into the attack. And if Roland had received the balls that -were being sent down to his partner, there is little doubt that a couple -of overs would have seen the end of the match. - -Roland realized that something desperate must be done. Either the -left-hander must get out, or he himself must get down to the other end; -and so off the first ball of the next over Roland backed up closely. He -was halfway down the pitch by the time the ball reached the batsman. It -was a straight half-volley, which was met with a motionless, if -perpendicular, bat. The ball trickled into the hands of mid-off. - -“Come on!” yelled Roland. - -It was an impossible run, and the left-hander stood, in startled dismay, -a few steps outside the crease. - -“Run!” yelled Roland. His partner ran a few steps, saw the ball was in -the hands of mid-off, and prepared to walk back to the pavilion. -Mid-off, however, was in a highly electric state. He had already -imperiled severely the prospects of his side by colliding with -cover-point, and was resolved, at any rate, not to make a second -blunder. He had the ball in his hands. There was a chance of running a -batsman out; he must get the ball to the unprotected wicket as soon as -possible, and so, taking careful aim, he flung the ball at the wicket -with the greatest possible violence. It missed the wicket; and a student -of the score book would infer that, after having played himself in -carefully and scoring four singles, F. R. Armitage opened his shoulders -in fine form. He might very well remain in this illusion, for there is -no further entry in the score book against that gentleman’s name. There -are just four singles and a five. He did not receive another ball. - -Off the next four balls of the over Roland hit two fours and a two; off -the last ball he got another dangerously close single. Only ten more -runs were needed: there was now ample time in which to get them. Roland -got them indeed off the first four balls of the next over. - -At the end of the match there was a scene of real enthusiasm, in which -Mr. Armitage was the only person who took no part. He was still -wondering what had induced Roland to call him for those absurd singles. -He indeed took Mr. Marston aside after dinner and pointed out to him -that that young man should really be given a few lessons in backing up. - -“My dear sir,” he said, “it was only the merest fluke that saved my -wicket--another inch and I should have been run out.” - -“Well, he managed to win the match for us,” replied Mr. Marston. - -“Perhaps, perhaps, but he nearly ran me out.” - -Mr. Armitage was, however, the only one of the party at all alarmed by -Roland’s daring. That evening Roland was a small hero. Mr. Marston could -find no words too good for him. - -“A splendid fellow,” he said to Gerald afterwards. “A really splendid -fellow--the sort of friend I have always wanted you to make--a -first-class, open, straight fellow.” - -Marston thought this a good opportunity to drop a hint about Roland’s -position. - -“Yes--a first-class fellow,” he said. “Isn’t it rotten to think a chap -like that will have to spend the whole of his life in a bank, with only -a fortnight’s holiday a year, and no chance at all to develop his game!” - -Mr. Marston’s rubicund face expressed appropriate disapproval. - -“That fellow going to spend all his life in a bank? Preposterous! He -will be simply ruined there--a fellow who can play cricket like that!” - -Mr. Marston, having spent his own life at a desk, was anxious to save -anyone else from a similar fate, especially a cricketer. - -“Well, it seems the only thing for him to do, father; his people haven’t -got much money and have no influence. I know they have tried to get him -something better, but they haven’t been able to.” - -“My dear Gerald, why didn’t you tell me about it? If I had known a -fellow like that was being tied up in a bank I’d have tried to do -something to help him.” - -“Well, it’s not too late now, is it?” - -“No, but it’s rather short notice, isn’t it? What could he do?” - -“Pretty well anything you could give him, father. He is jolly keen.” - -“Um!” said Mr. Marston; and Gerald, who knew his father well, recognized -that he was about to immerse himself in deep thought, and that it would -be wiser to leave him alone. - -By next morning the deep thought had crystallized into an idea. - -“Look here, Gerald,” said Mr. Marston. “I don’t know what this young man -is worth to me from a business point of view--probably precious little -at present. But he is a good fellow, the sort of young chap we really -want in the business. None of us are any younger than we were. As far as -I know, you are the only person under thirty in the whole show. Now, -what we do want badly just now are a few more foreign connections. We -have got the English market pretty well, but that is not enough. We want -the French and Belgian and German markets, and later on we shall want -the South American markets. Now, what I suggest is this: that when you -go out to France in November you should take young Whately with you, -show him round, and see what he is worth generally; and then we will -send him off on a tour of his own and see how many clients he brings us. -He is just the sort of fellow I want for that job. We don’t want the -commercial traveler type at all; he is very good at small accounts, but -he does not do for the big financiers. I want a man who is good enough -to mix in society abroad--whom big men like Bertram can ask to their -houses. A man like that would always have a pull over a purely business -man. Now, if your young friend would care to have a shot at that, he -can; and if he makes good at it he will be making more at twenty-five -with us than he would be at a bank by the time he was fifty.” - -Marston carried the news at once to Roland. - -“My lad,” he said, “that innings of yours is about the most useful thing -that has ever happened to you in your life. The old man thinks so much -of you he is prepared to cut me out of his will almost; at any rate, as -far as I can make out, he is going to offer you a job in our business.” - -“What?” - -“You will have to fix it up with him, of course, but he suggested to me -that you and I should go out together to France in November, and you -will be able to see the sort of way we do things, and then he will give -you a shot on your own as representative. If you do well at it--well, my -lad, you will be pretty well made for life!” - -It was wonderful news for Roland. Life, at the very moment when it had -appeared to be closing in on him, had marvelously broadened out. He -returned home on the Monday morning, not only excited by the prospect -of a new and attractive job, but moved irresistibly by this sudden -vision of a world to which he was unaccustomed--by the charm, the -elegance and the direct good-naturedness of this family life. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -YOUNG LOVE - - -Roland said nothing to his people of Mr. Marston’s conversation with -Gerald. He disliked scenes and an atmosphere of expectation. When -everything was settled finally he would tell them, but he would not risk -the exposure of his hope to the chill of disappointment. He could not, -however, resist the temptation to confide in April. She was young; she -could share his failures as his successes. Life was before them both. - -No sooner had he turned the corner of the road than he saw the door of -the Curtises’ house open. April was in the porch waiting for him. “She -must have been looking for me,” he thought. “Sitting in the window-seat, -hoping that I would come.” His pride as well as his affection was -touched by this clear proof of her interest in him. - -“Well?” she said. - -“I made a duck,” he answered; and his vanity noted that her brown eyes -clouded suddenly with disappointment. “But that was only in the first -innings,” he added. - -“Oh, you pig!” she said, “and I thought that after all it had come to -nothing.” - -Roland laughed at the quick change to relief. - -“But how do you know that I did do anything in the second innings?” - -“You must have.” - -“But why?” - -“‘Cos--oh, I don’t know. It’s not fair to tease me, Roland; tell me what -happened.” They had passed into the hall, shutting the door behind them, -and she pulled impatiently at his sleeve: “Come on, tell me.” - -“Well, as a matter of fact, I made forty-eight not out.” - -“Oh, how ripping, how ripping! Come and tell me all about it,” and -catching him by the hand she led him to the window-seat, from which, on -that miserable afternoon, she had gazed for over an hour down the -darkening street. “Come on, tell me everything.” - -And though he at first endeavored to assume an attitude of superior -indifference, he soon found himself telling the story of the match -eagerly, dramatically. Reticence was well enough in the presence of the -old and middle-aged--parents, relatives and schoolmasters--for all those -who had put behind them the thrill of wakening confidence and were -prepared to patronize it in others, from whose scrutiny the young had to -protect their emotions with the shield of “it is no matter.” But April’s -enthusiasm was fresh, unquestioning and freely given; he could not but -respond to it. - -She listened to the story with alert, admiring eyes. “And were they -awfully pleased with you?” she said when he had finished. - -“Well, it was pretty exciting.” - -“And did Mr. Marston say anything to you?” - -“Rather! Quite a lot. He was more excited than anyone.” - -“Oh, yes, but I didn’t mean the cricket. Did he say anything about the -business?” - -Roland nodded. - -“Oh, but, Roland, what?” - -“Well, I’m not quite certain what, but I think he’s going to let me have -a shot at some sort of foreign representative affair.” - -“But, how splendid!” She felt that she shared, in a measure, in his -success. It was in her that he had confided his hopes; it was to her -that he had brought the news of his good fortune. Her face was flushed -and eager, its expression softened by her faith in him. And Roland who, -up till then, had regarded her as little more than a friend, her charm -as a delicate, elusive fragrance, was unprepared for this simple joy in -his achievement. The surprise placed in his mouth ardent, unconsidered -words. - -“But I shouldn’t have been able to do anything without you,” he said. - -“What do you mean?” she asked, feeling herself grow nervous, taut, -expectant. - -“You encouraged me when I was depressed,” he said. “You believed in me. -You told me that things would come right. And because of your belief -they have come right. If it hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t have -worried; I should have resigned myself to the bank. As likely as not I -shouldn’t have gone down to the Marstons’ at all. It’s all you.” - -There was a pause. And when at last she spoke, the intonation of her -voice was tender. - -“Is that true, Roland, really true?” - -And as she looked at him, with her clear brown eyes, he believed -implicitly that it was true. He was not play-acting. His whole being was -softened and made tender by her beauty, by the sight of her calm, oval -face and quiet color, her hair swept in a wide curve across her -forehead, gathered under the smooth skin of her neck. His manhood grew -strong through her belief in him. She was the key that would open for -him the gate of adventure. He leaned forward, took her hands in his, and -the touch of her fingers brought to his lips an immediate avowal. - -“It’s quite true, April, every word of it. I shouldn’t have done -anything but for you.” Her brown eyes clouded with a mute gratitude. -Gently he drew her by the hand towards him, and she made no effort to -resist him. “April,” he murmured, “April.” - -It was the first real kiss of his life. His mouth did not meet hers as -it had met Dolly’s, in a hungry fierceness; he did not hold her in his -arms as he had held Dolly; did not press her to him till she was forced, -as Dolly had been, to fling her head back and gasp for breath. For an -instant April’s cheek was against his and his mouth touched hers: -nothing more. But in that cool contact of her lips he found for the -first time the romance, poetry, ecstasy, and what you will, of love. And -when his arms released her and she leaned back, her hand in his, a deep -tenderness remained with them. He said nothing. There was no need for -words. They sat silent in face of the mystery they had discovered. - -Roland walked home in harmony with himself, with nature; one with the -rhythm of life that was made manifest in the changing seasons of the -year; the green leaf and the bud; the flower and the fruit; the warm -days of harvesting. Hammerton was stretched languid beneath the -September sunshine. The sky was blue, a pale blue, that whitened where -it was cut by the sharp outline of roof and chimney-stack. The leaves -that had been fresh and green in May, but had grown dull in the heat and -dust of summer, were once more beautiful. The dirty green had changed to -a shriveled, metallic copper. A few mornings of golden mist would break -into a day of sultry splendor; then would come the first warning of -frost--the chill air at sundown, the gray dawn that held no promise of -sunshine. Oh, soon enough the boughs would be leafless, the streets bare -and wintersome. But who could be sad on this day of suspended decadence, -this afternoon laden with the heavy autumn scents? Were not the year’s -decay, the lengthening evenings, part of the eternal law of -nature--birth and death, spring and winter, and an awakening after -sleep? The falling leaves suggested to him no analogy with the elusive -enchantments of the senses. - -Two days later he received a letter from Mr. Marston offering him a post -of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, with all expenses found. - -“You will understand, of course,” the letter ran, “that at present you -are on probation. Our work is personal and requires special gifts. These -gifts, however, I believe you to possess. For both our sakes I hope that -you will make a success of this. Gerald is sailing for Brussels at the -end of October, and I expect that you will be able to arrange to -accompany him. He will tell you what you will need to take out with you. -We usually make our representatives an allowance of fifteen pounds for -personal expenses, but I daresay that we could in your case, if it is -necessary, increase this sum.” - -Roland handed the letter to his father. - -Mr. Whately, as usual in the morning, was in a state of nervous -excitement. He was always a considerable trial to his family at -breakfast. And as often as possible Roland delayed his own appearance -till he had heard the slam of the front door. It is not easy to enjoy a -meal when someone is bouncing from table to sideboard, reading extracts -from the morning paper, opening letters, running up and down stairs, -forgetting things in the hall. Mr. Whately had never been able to face -the first hour of the morning with dignity and composure. When Roland -handed him Mr. Marston’s letter he received it with the impatience of a -busy man, who objects to being worried by an absurd trifle. - -“Yes, what is it? What is it?” - -“A letter from Mr. Marston, father, that I thought you might like to -read.” - -“Oh, yes, of course; well, wait a minute,” and he projected himself out -of the door and up the stairs. He returned to the table within a minute, -panting and flustered. - -“Yes; now what’s the time? Twenty-five past eight. I’ve got seven -minutes. Where’s this letter of yours, Roland? Let me see.” - -He picked up the letter and began to read it as he helped himself to -another rasher of bacon. His agitation increased as he read. - -“But I don’t understand,” he said impatiently. “What’s all this about -Mr. Marston offering you a post in his business?” - -“What’s that, dear?” said Mrs. Whately quickly. “Isn’t Roland going into -the bank after all?” - -“Yes, of course he is going into the bank,” her husband replied hastily. -“It’s all settled. Don’t interrupt me, Roland. I can’t understand what -you’ve been doing!” - -And he flung the back of his hand against his forehead, a favorite -gesture when the pressure of the conversation grew intense. - -“I don’t know what it’s all about, Roland,” he continued. “I don’t know -anything about this man. Who he is, and what he is. And I don’t know -why you’ve been arranging all these things behind my back.” - -Roland expressed surprise that his father had not welcomed the offer of -so promising a post. But Mr. Whately was too flustered to consider the -matter in this light. “It may be a better job,” he said, “I don’t know. -But the bank has been settled and I can’t think why you should want to -alter things. At any rate, I can’t stop to discuss it now,” and a minute -later the front door had banged behind a querulous, irritable little -man, who considered no one had any right to disturb--especially at the -breakfast table--the placid course of his existence. As he left the room -he flung the letter upon the table, and Mrs. Whately snatched it up -eagerly. Roland watched carefully the expression of her face as she read -it. At first he noted there only a relieved happiness, but as she folded -the letter and handed it back he saw that she was sad. - -“Of course it’s splendid, Roland,” she said. “I’m delighted, but.... Oh, -well, I do think you might have told us something about it before.” - -“I wanted to, mother, but one doesn’t like to shout till one’s out of -the wood.” - -“With friends, no, but with one’s parents--surely you might have -confided in us.” - -There was no such implied disapproval in April’s reception of the news. -He had not seen her since the afternoon when he had kissed her, and he -had wondered in what spirit she would receive him. Would there be -awkward stammered explanations? Would she be coy and protest “that she -had been silly, that she had not meant it, that it must never happen -again?” He had little previous experience to guide him and he was still -debating the point when he arrived at No. 73 Hammerton Rise. - -What April Curtis did was to open the door for him, close it quickly -behind him as soon as he was in the porch, take him happily by both -hands and hold her face up to be kissed. There was not the least -embarrassment in her action. - -“Well?” she said, on a note of interrogation. - -For answer he put his hand into his pocket, drew out Mr. Marston’s -letter and gave it to her. - -April pulled it out of the envelope, hurriedly unfolded it, and ran an -engrossed eye over its contents. - -“Oh, but how splendid, Roland; now it’s all right. Now there’s no need -to worry about anything. Come at once and tell mother. Mother, mother!” -she shouted, and catching Roland by the hand dragged him after her -towards the drawing-room. - -Mrs. Curtis had, through the laborious passage of fifty-two uneventful -years, so trained her face to assume on all occasions an expression of -pleasant sentimental interest in the affairs of others that by now her -features could not be arranged to accommodate any other emotion. She -appeared therefore unastonished when her name was called loudly in the -hall, when the drawing-room door was flung open and a flushed, excited -April stood in the doorway grasping by the hand an equally flushed but -embarrassed Roland. Mrs. Curtis laid her knitting in her lap; a kindly -smile spread over her glazed countenance. - -“Well, my dear, and what’s all this about?” she said. - -“Oh, it’s so exciting, mother. Roland’s not going into a bank after -all.” - -“No, dear?” - -“No, mother. A Mr. Marston, you know the man whom Roland went to stay -with last week, has offered him a post in his firm. It’s a lovely job. -He’ll be traveling all over the world and he’s going to get a salary; of -how much is it--yes, a hundred and fifty pounds a year and all expenses -paid. Isn’t it splendid?” - -Mrs. Curtis purred with reciprocated pleasure: “Of course it is, and how -pleased your parents must be. Come and sit down here; yes, shut the -door, please. You know I always said to Mr. Whately, ‘Roland is going to -do something big; I’m sure of it.’ And now you see my prophecy has come -true. I shall remind Mr. Whately of that next time he comes round to see -me, and I shall remind him, too, that I said exactly the same thing -about Arthur. ‘Mr. Whately,’ I said,” and her voice trailed off into -reminiscences. - -But though Mrs. Curtis was in many--and indeed in most--ways a -troublesome old fool, she was not unobservant. She knew that a young -girl does not rush into a drawing-room dragging a young man by the hand -simply because that young man has obtained a lucrative post in a varnish -factory. There must be some other cause for so vigorous an ebullition. -And as Mrs. Curtis’s speculation was unvexed by the complexities of -Austrian psychology, she assumed that Roland and April had fallen in -love with each other. She was not surprised. She had indeed often -wondered why they had not done so before. April was such a dear girl, -and Roland could be trained into a highly sympathetic son-in-law. He -listened to her conversation with respect and interest, whereas Ralph -Richmond insisted on interrupting her. Roland would make April a good -husband. Certainly she had been temporarily disquieted by Mr. Whately’s -sudden decision to remove his son from school; but no doubt he had had -this post in his mind’s eye and had not wished to speak of it till -everything had been fixed. - -Mrs. Curtis’s reverie traversed into an agreeable future; she pictured -the wedding at St. Giles; they would have the full choir. There would be -a reception afterwards at the Town Hall. April would look so pretty in -orange blossom. Arthur would be the best man. He would stand beside the -bridegroom, erect and handsome. “What fine children you have, Mrs. -Curtis!” That’s what everyone would say to her. It would be the -prettiest wedding there had ever been at St. Giles.... She collected -herself with a start. She must not be premature. Nothing was settled -yet; they were not even engaged. And of course they could not be engaged -yet: They were too absurdly young. Everyone would laugh at her. Still, -there might be an understanding. An understanding was first cousin to an -engagement; it bound both parties. And then April and Roland would be -allowed to go about together. It would be so nice for them. - -When Roland had gone, she fixed on her daughter a deep, questioning -look, under which April began to grow uncomfortable. - -“Well, mother?” she said. - -“You like Roland very much, don’t you, dear?” - -“We’re great friends.” - -“Only friends?” - -April did not answer, and her mother repeated her question. “But you’re -more than friends, aren’t you?” But April was still silent. Mrs. Curtis -leaned forward and took April’s hand, lifted for a moment out of her -vain complacency by the recollection of herself as she had been a -quarter of a century ago, like April, with life in front of her. Through -placid waters she had come to a safe anchorage, and she wondered -whether for April the cruise would be as fortunate, the hand at the helm -as steady. Her husband had risked little, but Roland would scarcely be -satisfied with safe travel beneath the cliffs. Would April be happier or -less happy than she had been? Which was the better--blue skies, calm -water, gently throbbing engines, or the pitch and toss and crash of -heavy seas? - -“Are you very fond of him, dear?” she whispered. - -“Yes, mother.” - -“And he’s fond of you?” - -“I think so, mother.” - -“Has he told you so, dear?” - -“Yes.” - -A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, stung her, welled, fell upon -her cheek, and this welcome relief recalled her to what she considered -the necessities of the moment. - -“Of course I shall have to speak to the Whatelys about it.” - -A shocked, surprised expression came into April’s face. - -“Oh, but why, mother?” - -“Because, my dear, they may have other plans for Roland.” - -“But ... oh, mother, dear, there’s no talk of engagements or anything; -we’ve just ... oh, why can’t we go on as we are?” - -Mrs. Curtis was firm. - -“No, my dear,” she said, “it would be fair neither to you nor to them. -It’s not only you and Roland that have to be considered. It’s your -father and myself and Mr. and Mrs. Whately. We shall have to talk it -over together.” - -And so when Roland returned that evening from an afternoon with Ralph he -found his father and mother sitting in the drawing-room with Mrs. -Curtis. - -“Ah, here’s Roland,” said Mrs. Curtis. “Come along, Roland, we’ve just -been talking about you.” - -Roland entered and sat on the chair nearest him. He looked from one to -the other, and each in turn smiled at him reassuringly; their smile -said, “Now don’t be nervous. We mean you well. You’ve only got to agree -to our conditions and we’ll be ever so nice to you.” In the same way, -Roland reflected, the Spanish Inquisitors had recommended conversion to -the faith with a smile upon their lips, while from the adjoining room -sounds came that the impenitents would be wise to associate with -furnaces and screws and pliant steel. - -“Yes, Roland,” said Mr. Whately, “we’ve been talking about you and -April.” - -“Damn!” said Roland to himself. It was like that ridiculous Dolly affair -all over again. It was useless, of course, to be flustered. He was -growing accustomed to this sort of scene. He supposed that April had got -frightened and told her mother, or perhaps the maidservant had seen them -kissing in the porch. In any case it was not very serious. They would -probably forbid him to see April alone. It would be rather rotten; but -the world was wide. In a few weeks’ time he would be going abroad; he -could free himself of these entanglements, and when he returned he would -decide what he should do. He would be economically independent. In the -meantime let them talk. He settled himself back in his chair and -prepared to hear at least, with patience, whatever they might have to -say to him. What they did have to say came to him as a surprise. - -“I was talking to April about it this morning,” said Mrs. Curtis. “Of -course I’ve noticed it for a long time. A mother can’t help seeing these -things. Several times I’ve said to my husband: ‘Father, dear, haven’t -you noticed that Roland and April are becoming very interested in each -other?’ and he’s agreed with me. Though I haven’t liked to say anything. -But then this morning it was so very plain, wasn’t it?” She paused and -smiled. And Roland feeling that an answer was expected of him, said that -he supposed it was. - -“Yes, really quite clear, and so afterwards I had a talk with my little -April and she told me all about it. And, of course, we’re all of us very -pleased that you should be fond of one another, but you must realize -that at present you’re much too young for there to be any talk of -marriage.” - -“But ...” Roland began. - -“Yes, I know that you’ve got a good post in this varnish factory; but as -I was saying to Mr. Whately before you came, you’re only on probation, -and it’s a job that means a lot of traveling and expense that you -wouldn’t be able to afford if you were a married man or were even -contemplating matrimony.” - -“But ...” Roland began again, and again Mrs. Curtis stopped him. - -“Yes, I know what you’re thinking; you say that you are content to wait; -that four years, five years, six years--it’s nothing to you, that you -want to be engaged now. I can quite understand it. We all can. We’ve all -been young, but I’m quite certain that....” - -Roland could not believe that it was real, that he was sitting in a real -room, that a real woman was talking, a real scene was in the process of -enaction. He listened in a stupefied amazement. What, after all, had -happened? He had kissed April three times. She had asked no vows and he -had given none. They were lovers he supposed, but they were boy and girl -lovers. The romances of the nursery should not be taken seriously. By -holding April’s hand and kissing her had he decided the course of both -their lives? What were they about, these three solemn people, with their -talk of marriage and engagements? - -“But you don’t understand,” he began. - -“Oh, yes, we do,” Mrs. Curtis interrupted. “We old people know more than -you think.” - -And she began to speak in her droning, mellifluous voice of the sanctity -of love and of the good fortune that had led him so early to his -affinity. And then all three of them began to speak together, and their -words beat like hammers upon Roland’s head, till he did not know where -he was, nor what they were saying to him. “It can’t be real,” he told -himself. “It’s preposterous. People don’t behave like this in real -life.” And when his mother came across and kissed him on the forehead -and said, “We’re all so happy, Roland,” he employed every desperate -device to recall himself to reality that he was accustomed to use when -involved in a nightmare. He fixed his thoughts upon one issue, focused -all his powers on that one point: “I will wake up. I will wake up.” - -And even when it was all over, and he was in his bedroom standing before -the looking-glass to arrange his tie, he could not believe that it had -really happened. It was impossible that grown-up people should be so -foolish. He could understand that Mrs. Curtis should be annoyed at his -attentions to her daughter. He had been prepared for that. If she had -said, “Roland, you’re both of you too old for that. It was well enough -when you were both children, but it won’t do now; April is growing up,” -he could have appreciated her point of view. Perhaps they were too old -for the love-making of childhood. But that she should take up the -attitude that they were too young for the serious matrimonial -entanglements of man and womanhood! It was beyond the expectation of any -sane intelligence. - -In a way he could not help feeling annoyed with April. If she had not -told her mother nothing would have happened. - -“Oh, but how silly,” she said, when he told her about it next day. “I do -wish I had been there. It must have been awfully funny!” - -Roland had not considered it in that light and hastened to tell her so. - -“I felt a most appalling fool. It was beastly. I can’t think why you -told your mother anything about it.” - -She looked up quickly, surprised by the note of impatience in his voice. - -“But, Roland, dear, what else could I do? She asked me and I couldn’t -tell a lie. Could I?” - -“I don’t know,” said Roland. And he began to walk backwards and -forwards, up and down the room. “I suppose you couldn’t help it, but.... -Oh, well, what did you say to her?” - -“Nothing much. She asked me.... Oh, but, Roland, do sit down,” she -pleaded. “I can’t talk when you’re walking up and down the room.” - -“All right,” said Roland, sitting down. “Go on.” - -“Well, she asked me if I liked you and I said that we were great -friends, and then she asked if we weren’t more than friends.” - -“Oh, yes, yes, I know,” said Roland, rising impatiently from his chair -and walking across the room. “Of course you said we were, and that I had -been making love to you, and that--oh, but what’s the good of going on -with it? I know what she said and what you said, and the whole thing was -out in three minutes, and then your mother comes round to my mother and -they talk and they talk, and that’s how all the trouble in the world -begins.” - -While he was actually speaking he was sustained by the white heat of his -impatience, but the moment he had stopped he was bitterly ashamed of -himself. What had he done? What had he said? And April’s silence -accentuated his shame. She neither turned angrily upon him nor burst -into tears. She sat quietly, her hands clasped in front of her knees, -looking at the floor. - -After a while she rose and walked across to the window. Her back was -turned to him. He felt that he must do something to shatter the poignant -silence. He drew close to her and touched her hand with his, but she -drew her hand away quietly, without haste or anger. - -“April,” he began, “I’m....” - -But she stopped him. “Don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything.” - -“But I must, April. I’ve been a beast. I didn’t mean it.” - -“It’s quite all right. I’ve been very foolish. There’s nothing more to -be said.” - -Her voice was calm and level. She kept her back turned to him, distant -and unapproachable. He did not know what to do nor what to say. He had -been a beast to her. He knew it. And because he had wronged her, because -she had made him feel ashamed of himself, he was angry with her. - -“Oh, very well then,” he said. “If you won’t talk to me, I’m going -home.” - -He turned and walked out of the room. In the porch he waited for a -moment, thinking that she would call after him. But no sound came from -the drawing-room, not even the rustle of clothes, that might have -indicated the change of her position. “Oh, well,” he said, “if she’s -going to sulk, let her sulk,” and he walked out of the house. - -For the rest of the day he endured the humiliating discomfort of -contrition. He was honest with himself. He made no attempt to excuse his -behavior. There was no excuse for it. He had behaved like a cad. There -was only one thing to do and that was to grovel as soon as possible. It -would be an undignified proceeding, but he was quite ready to do it, if -he could be certain that the performance would be accepted in the right -spirit. It was not easy to grovel before a person who turned her back on -you, looked out of the window and refused to listen to what you had to -say. - -When evening came he decided that he might do worse than make a -reconnaissance of the enemy’s country under the guidance of an armed -escort--in other words, that if he paid a visit to the Curtises’ with -his father he would be able to see April without having the -embarrassment of a private talk forced on him. - -And so when Mr. Whately returned from the office he found his son -waiting to take him for a walk. - -“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I never expected to find you here. -I thought you would be spending all your time with April now.” - -Roland laughed. - -“Well, as a matter of fact,” he said, “I thought we might go round and -see the Curtises together.” - -“And you thought you wanted a chaperon?” - -“Hardly that.” - -“But you felt shy of facing the old woman?” - -“That’s more like it.” - -“All right, then, we’ll tackle her together.” - -Roland was certain, when they arrived, that the idea of employing his -father as a shield was in the nature of an inspiration. April received -him without a smile; she did not even shake hands with him. Fortunately, -in the effusion of Mrs. Curtis’s welcome, this omission was not noticed. - -“I’m so glad you have come, both of you. April told me, Roland, that you -had been round to see her this morning, and I must say I began to feel -afraid that I should never see you again. I thought you would only want -to come round when you could have April all to yourself. It would have -been such a disappointment to me if you had; I should have so missed our -little evening talks. As I was saying to my husband only yesterday, ‘I -don’t know what we should do without the Whatelys,’ and he agreed with -me. You know, Mr. Whately, there are some people whom we quite like, but -whom we shouldn’t miss in the least if they went away and we never saw -them again, and there are others who would leave a real gap. It’s funny, -isn’t it? And it’s so nice, now, to think that Roland and April--though -we mustn’t talk like that, must we, or they’ll begin to think they’re -engaged. And we couldn’t allow that, could we, Mr. Whately?” - -His body rattled with a deep chuckle. Out of the corner of his eye -Roland flung a glance at April, to see what effect this wind of words -was having on her, but her face was turned from him. - -Mrs. Curtis then proceeded to speak of Arthur and of the letter she had -received from him by the evening post. “He says--now what is it that he -says? Ah, yes, here it is; he says, ‘As I am too old for the Junior -games, I have been moved into the Senior League.’ Now that’s very -satisfactory, isn’t it, Mr. Whately, that he should be in the Senior -League? I always said he would be good at games, and April too, Mr. -Whately; she would have been very good at games if she had played them. -When they used to play cricket in the nursery she used to hit at the -ball so well, with her arms, you know. She would have been very good, -but she hasn’t had the time and they don’t go in for games very much at -St. Stephen’s. Now what do you think of that new frock of hers? I got it -so cheap--you can’t think how cheaply I got it. And then I got Miss -Smithers to make it up for her, and April looks so pretty in it; don’t -you think so, Mr. Whately?” - -“Charming, of course, Mrs. Curtis, absolutely charming!” - -“I thought you’d like it. And I’m sure Roland does too, though he would -be too shy to own to it. You know, Mr. Whately, I felt like telling her -when she put it on that Roland would have to be very careful or he would -find a lot of rivals when he came back from Brussels.” - -It was more than April could bear. She had endured a great deal that day -and this was the final ignominy. - -“How can you, mother?” she said. “How can you?” and jumping to her feet, -she ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. - -The sudden crash reverberated through the awkward silence; then came the -soft caressing voice of Mrs. Curtis: “I’m so sorry, Mr. Whately; I don’t -know what April can be thinking of. But she’s like that sometimes. -These young people are so difficult; one doesn’t know where to find -them. Yes, that’s right, Roland, run and see if you can’t console her.” - -For Roland had risen, moved deeply by the sight of April’s misery, her -pathetic weakness. It was not fair. First of all he had been beastly to -her, then her mother had made a fool of her. He found her in the dining -room, huddled on a chair beside the fire. She turned at once to him for -sympathy. She stretched out her arms, and he ran towards them, knelt -before her and buried his face in her lap. - -“We have been such beasts to you, April, all of us. I have felt so -miserable about it all day. I didn’t know what to do. I thought you -would never forgive me. I don’t deserve to be forgiven; but I love you; -I do, really awfully!” - -“That’s all right,” she said; “don’t worry,” and placing her hand -beneath his chin she raised gently his face to hers. - -It was a long kiss, one of those long passionless kisses of sympathy, -pity and contrition that smooth out all difficulties, as a wave that -passes over a stretch of sand leaving behind it a shining surface. For a -long while they sat in each other’s arms, saying nothing, his fingers -playing with her hair, her lips from moment to moment meeting his. When -at last they reverted to the subject of their morning’s quarrel there -was little possibility of dissension. - -It was with a gay smile that she asked him why he had been so angry with -her. “Why shouldn’t our parents know, Roland? They would have had to -some day.” - -“Oh, yes, of course, but----” - -“And surely, Roland, dear,” she continued, “it’s better for us that they -should know. I should have hated having to do things in secret. It -would have been exciting, of course; I know that; but it wouldn’t have -been fair to them, would it? They are so fond of us; they ought to have -a share in our happiness.” - -“That’s just what I felt,” Roland objected. “I had felt that our love -had ceased to be our own, that they had taken too big a share of it. It -didn’t seem to be our love affair any longer.” - -“Oh, you silly darling!” and she laughed happily, relieved of her fear -that there might be some deeper cause for Roland’s behavior to her. “Why -should you worry about that? What does it matter if other people do know -about it? Why, what’s an engagement but a letting of a lot of other -people into our secret; and when we’re married, why, that’s a telling of -everyone in the whole world that we’re in love with one another. What -does it matter if others know?” - -“I suppose it doesn’t,” Roland dubiously admitted. - -“Of course it doesn’t. The only thing that does matter,” she said, -twisting a lock of his hair round her little finger and smiling at him -through half-closed eyes, “is that we’ve made up our silly quarrel and -are friends again,” and bending forward she kissed him quietly and -happily. - -He was naturally relieved that the sympathy between them had been -reëstablished; but he realized how little he had made her appreciate his -misgivings. Indeed, he would have found it hard to explain them to -himself. Their love was no longer fresh and spontaneous. Its growth, as -that of a wild flower that is taken from a hedge and planted in a -conservatory, would be no longer natural. Other hands would tend it. In -April’s mind the course of love was marked by certain fixed -boundaries--the avowal, the engagement, the marriage service. She did -not conceive of love as existing outside these limits. She had never -been in love before; and naturally she regarded love as a state of mind -into which one was suddenly and miraculously surprised, and in which one -continued until the end of one’s life. There was no reason why she -should think differently. Her training had taught her that love could -not exist outside marriage--marriage that ordained one woman for one -man. - -But it was different for Roland, who had learned from the vivid and -fleeting romances of his boyhood that love comes and goes, irresponsible -as the wind that at one moment is shaking among the branches, scattering -the leaves, tossing them in the air, only to subside a moment later into -calm. - -These misgivings passed quickly enough, however, in the delightful -novelty of the situation. It was great fun being in love; to wake in the -early morning with the knowledge that as soon as breakfast was over you -would run down the road and be welcomed by a charming girl, whom you -would counsel to shut the door behind you quickly so that you could kiss -her before anyone knew you were in the house, who would then tilt up her -face prettily to yours. It was charming to sit with her in the -drawing-room and hold her hand and rest your cheek against hers, to -answer such questions as, “When did you first begin to love me?” - -Often they would go for walks together in the autumn sunshine; -occasionally they would take a bus and ride out to Kew or Hampstead, and -sit on the green grass and hold hands and talk of the future. These -talks were a delicious excitant to Roland’s vanity. His ambitions were -strengthened by her faith in him. He saw himself rich and famous. “We’ll -have a wonderful house, with stables and an orchard, and we’ll have a -private cricket ground and we’ll get a pro. down from Lord’s to look -after it. And we’ll have fine parties in the summer--cricket and tennis -during the day, and dances in the evening!” - -“And a funny little cottage,” she would murmur, “somewhere down the -river, for when we want to be all by ourselves.” - -It was exciting, too, when other people, grown-up people, made -significant remarks. - -One afternoon he was at a tea-party and a lady asked him if he would -come round to lunch with them the next day. “We’ve got a nephew of ours -stopping with us. An awfully jolly boy. I’m sure you and he would get on -well together.” Roland, however, had to excuse himself on the grounds of -a previous engagement. - -“I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “but I’ve promised to go on the river.” - -“With April Curtis? Ah, I thought so.” - -And the smile that accompanied the question made Roland feel very grown -up and important. - -These weeks of preparation for the foreign tour Roland considered -however, in spite of their charm, as an interlude, a pause in the -serious affairs of life. It was thus that he had always regarded his -holidays. He had divided with a hard line his life at school and his -life at home. The two were unrelated. April and Ralph, his parents and -the Curtises belonged to a world that must remain for him always -episodic. It was a pleasant world in which from time to time he might -care to sojourn. But what happened to him there was of no great -importance. - -As he leaned over the taffrail of the steamer and felt the deck throb -under him he knew that his real life had begun again. What significance -had these encumbrances of his home life if he could cast them off so -easily? Already they were slipping from him. The waves beat against the -side of the ship, splashing the spray across the deck, and the sting of -the water on his face filled him with a buoyant confidence. The thud of -the engines beat through his body to a tune of triumph. - -The gray line that was England faded and was lost. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE ROMANCE OF VARNISH - - -A separation of six months makes in the middle years of a man’s life -little break in a relationship. Human life was compared over two -thousand years ago by a Greek philosopher to the stream that is never -the same from one moment to another. And though, indeed, nothing is -permanent, though everything is in flux, the stream during the later -stages of its passage flows quietly through soft meadows to the sea. A -man of forty-five who has been married for several years may leave his -family to go abroad and returning at the end of the year find his wife, -his home, his friends, to all appearances, exactly as he left them. - -Roland returned from Belgium a different person. He was no longer a -schoolboy; he was a business man. He had been introduced to big -financiers; he had listened to the discussion of important deals; he had -witnessed the signatures of contracts. In the evenings he had sat with -Marston and gone carefully over the accounts of the day’s transactions. - -“There’s not much profit here,” Marston would say, “hardly any, in fact, -when we’ve taken over-head charges, office expenses and all that into -consideration. But we’re not out for profits just now. We’re building up -connections. If we can make these foreign deals pay their way we’re all -right. We shall crowd the other fellows out of the market, we shall -make ourselves indispensable, and then we can shove our prices as high -as we blooming well like.” - -To Roland it was a game, with the thrills, the dangers, the recompenses -of a game. He did not look on business as part of the social fabric. He -did not regard wealth as a thing important in itself. A credit balance -was like a score at cricket. You were setting your brains against an -opponent’s. You made as many pounds as you could against his bowling. He -did not allow first principles to attach disquieting corollaries. He did -not ask himself whether it was just for a big firm to undersell their -smaller rivals and drive them out of the market by the simple expedient -of taking money out of one pocket and putting it into another. Business -was a game; if one was big enough to take risks one took them. - -Within a month Gerald was writing home to his father with genuine -enthusiasm. - -“He really is first class, father. I thought he would be pretty useful, -but I never expected him to be a patch on what he is. He’s really keen -on the job and he’s got the hang of it already. He ought to do jolly -well when he comes out here alone. The big men like him; old Rosenheim -told me the other day that it was a pleasure to see him about the place. -‘Such a relief,’ he said, ‘after the dried-up, hard-chinned provincials -that pester me from morning to night.’ I believe it’s the best thing we -ever did, getting Roland into the business.” - -Roland, realizing that his work was appreciated, grew confident and -hopeful of the future. They were happy days. - -It is not easy to explain the friendship of two men. And Roland would -have been unable to say why exactly he valued the companionship and -esteem of Gerald Marston more highly than that of the many boys, such as -Ralph Richmond, whom he had known longer and, on the whole, more -intimately. Gerald never said anything brilliant; he was not -particularly amusing; he was often irritable and moody. But from the -moment when he had seen him for the first time in Brewster’s study -Roland had recognized in him a potential friend. Later, when they had -met at the Oval, he had felt that they understood each other, that they -spoke the same language, that there was between them no need for the -usual preliminaries of friendship. And during their weeks in France and -Belgium this relationship or intuition was fortified by the sharing of -common interests and common adventures. - -The majority of these adventures were, it must be confessed, of doubtful -morality, for it was only natural that Roland and Gerald should in their -spare time amuse themselves after the fashion of most young men who find -themselves alone in a foreign city. - -In the evenings, after they had balanced their accounts, they used to -walk through the warm lighted streets, surrounded by the stir of a world -waking to a night of pleasure, select a brightly colored café, sit back -on the red plush couch that ran the length of the room, and order iced -champagne. The band would play soft, sentimental music that, mixing with -the wine in their heads, would render them eager, daring and responsive, -and when two girls walked slowly down the center of the room, swaying -from the hips, and casting to left and right sidelong, alluring glances, -naturally they smiled back, and indicated two vacant seats on either -side of them. Then there would be talk and laughter and more champagne, -and afterwards.... But what happened afterwards was of small -importance. Gerald had had too much experience to derive much excitement -from bought kisses. And for Roland, these romances were the focus of -little more than a certain lukewarm kindliness and curiosity. They were -not degrading, because they were not regarded so. They were equally -unromantic, because neither was particularly interested in the other. -Indeed, Roland was a little dismayed to find how slight, on the whole, -was the pleasure, even the physical pleasure, that he received from his -companion’s transports; these experiences, far from having the -devastating effect that they are popularly supposed to have on a young -man’s character, would have had in Roland’s life no more significance -than an act of solitary indulgence, had they not been another bond -between himself and Gerald. And this they most certainly were. - -It was amusing to meet in the morning afterwards and exchange -confidences. And as everything is transmuted by the imagination, Roland -in a little while came to look on those evenings--the wine, the music, -the rustle of skirts, the low laughter--not as they had been actually, -but as he would have wished to have them. They became for him a gracious -revel. And in London his thoughts would wander often from his -ink-stained desk, from the screech of the telephone, from the eternal -tapping of the typewriter, to those brightly colored cafés, with their -atmosphere of warm comfort, the soft sensuous music, the cool sparkling -champagne, the low whisper at his elbow. When he went out to lunch with -Marston he would frequently contrast the glitter of a Brussels -restaurant with the tawdry furniture and over-heated atmosphere of a -City eating-house. - -“A bit different this, isn’t it?” he would say. “Do you remember that -evening when we went down the Rue de la Madeleine and found a café in -that little side street?” - -“That was where we met the jolly little girl in the blue dress, wasn’t -it?” - -“Yes. And do you remember what she said about the old Padre?” - -And they would laugh together over the indelicacies that had slipped so -charmingly in broken English from those red lips. - -But Gerald was the one figure that remained distinct for Roland. The -girls, for the most part, resembled each other so closely that he could -only in rare instances recall their features or what they had worn or -what they had said. He remembered far more vividly his walks with Gerald -through the lighted streets, their confidences and hesitations. Should -they go into this café or into that; and then when they had selected -their café how Gerald would open the wine fist and carefully run his -finger down the page, while the waiter would hover over him: “Yes, yes, -sir, a very good wine that, sir, a very good wine indeed!” And then when -the wine was ordered how they would look round at the girls who sat in -couples at the marble-topped tables, sipping a citron or a bock. “What -do you think of that couple over there?” “Not bad, but let’s wait a bit; -something better may turn up soon”; and a little later: “Oh, look, that -girl over there, the one with the green dress, just beneath the picture; -try and catch her eye, she looks ripping!” They had been more exciting, -those moments of expectation, than the subsequent embraces. - -Gerald was always the dominant figure. - -It was the expression of Gerald’s face that Roland remembered most -clearly on that disappointing evening when they had taken two chorus -girls to dinner at a private room and Roland’s selected had refused -champagne and preferred fried sole to pheasant--an abstinence so -alarming that, in spite of Roland’s protests, Gerald had suddenly -decided that they would have to catch a train to Paris that evening -instead of being able to wait till the morning. - -And it was Gerald whom Roland particularly associated with the memory of -that ignominious occasion on which he had thought at last to have -discovered real romance. - -They had dropped into a restaurant in the afternoon for a cup of -chocolate, and had seen sitting by herself a girl who could hardly have -been twenty years of age. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, under which -Roland could just see, as she bent her head over her ice, the tip of her -nose, the smooth curve of a cheek, the strain on the muscles of her -neck. She raised the spoon delicately to her mouth, her lips closed on -it and held it there. Her eyelids appeared to droop in a sort of sensual -contentment. Roland watched her, fascinated; watched her till she drew -the spoon slowly from her mouth. She lingered pensively, and between the -even rows of her white teeth the red tip of her tongue played for a -moment on the spoon. At that moment she raised her eyes, observed that -Roland was staring at her, smiled, and dropped her eyes again. - -“Did you see that?” whispered Roland excitedly. “She smiled at me, and -she’s ripping! I must go and speak to her!” - -“Don’t be a fool,” said Gerald; “a smile may not mean anything. Besides, -she’s obviously not a tart and she may be known here. If she is she -won’t want to be seen talking to a stranger. You sit still, like a good -boy, and see if she smiles at you again.” - -Against his will Roland consented. But he had his reward a few minutes -later when she turned her chair to catch the waitress’s attention, and -her eyes, meeting his, smiled at them again--a challenging, alluring -smile, that seemed to say, “Well, are you brave enough?” He was -dismayed, however, to notice that she had turned in order to ask for her -bill. He saw her run her eye down the slip of paper, take some money -from her purse and begin to button on her gloves, long gauntlet gloves -that fastened above the elbow. - -“She’s going! what shall I do?” he asked. - -For answer Marston took a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote on -it: “Meet me at the Café des Colombes to-night at eight-thirty.” - -“Now, walk up to the counter and pretend to choose a cake; if she wants -to see any more of you she will drop her handkerchief, or purse, or at -any rate give you an opportunity of speaking to her; if she does, slip -this note into her hand. If she doesn’t, you can buy me an éclair, and -thank your lucky stars that you’ve been preserved from making a most -abandoned fool of yourself.” - -Roland was in such a hurry to get to the counter that he tripped against -a table and only saved himself from falling by gripping violently the -shoulder of an elderly bourgeois. By the time he had completed his -apologies his charmer had very nearly reached the door. - -“It’s all up,” he told himself; “she thinks me a clumsy fool, that it’s -not worth her while to worry about. I ought to have gone straight up to -her at once”; and he followed with dejected eyes her progress towards -the door. - -She was carrying in one hand an umbrella and in the other a little -velvet bag. As she raised her hand to open the door, the bag slipped -from her fingers and fell upon the floor. There were three persons -nearer to the bag than Roland, but before even a hand had been stretched -out to it he had precipitated himself forward, had picked it up and was -handing it to the lady. She smiled at him with gracious gratitude. So -far all had gone splendidly. Then he began to fumble. The note was in -the other hand, and in the flurry of the moment he did not know how to -maneuver the bag and the note into the same hand. First of all, he tried -to change the bag from the right hand to the left. But his forefinger -and thumb were so closely engaged with the note that the remaining three -fingers failed to grasp the handle of the bag. He made a furious dive -and caught the bag in his right hand just before it reached the floor. -Panic seized him. He lost all sense of the proprieties. He handed the -bag straight to her, and then realizing, before she had had time to take -it from him, that somehow or other the note also had to come into her -possession, he offered it to her between the forefinger and thumb of his -left hand with less secrecy than he would have displayed in giving a tip -to a waiter. The sudden change of the lady’s expression from inviting -kindliness to a surprised affronted indignation threw him into so acute -a fever of embarrassment that once again he endeavored to move the bag -from the right hand to the left. Again he fumbled, but with a different -result. He piloted the bag successfully into the lady’s hands, but -allowed the note to slip from between his fingers. It fell face upwards -on the floor. - -Several ways of escape were open to him. He might have affected -unconcern, and either picked up the piece of paper or left it where it -lay. He might have kicked the note away and walked forward to open the -door. He might have placed his foot on the note till the attention of -the room was once again directed to its separate interests. None of -these things, however, did he do. He did what was natural for him in -such an unexpected situation. He did nothing. He stood quite still and -gazed at the note as it lay there startlingly white against the black -tiles of the floor. The eyes of everyone in the room appeared to be -directed towards it. The features of the startled lady assumed an -expression of horrified amazement. Two waitresses leaned over the -counter in undisguised excitement; another stopped dead with a tray in -her hand to survey the incriminating document. The fat gentleman against -whom Roland had collided began to make some unpleasantly loud remarks to -his companion. An old woman leaned forward and asked the room in general -what was happening. From a far corner came the horrible suppression of a -giggle. - -The lady herself, who was, as a matter of fact, perfectly respectable, -though she liked to be thought otherwise, and had dropped her bag -accidentally, was the first to recover her composure. She fixed on -Roland a glance of which as a combination of hatred and contempt he had -never seen the equal, turned quickly and walked out of the restaurant. -The sudden bang of the door behind her broke the tension. The various -spectators of this entertaining interlude returned to their ices and -their chocolate, the waitresses resumed their duties, the patron of the -establishment fussed up the center of the room, and Gerald, who had -watched the scene with intense if slightly nervous amusement, left his -table, picked up the note, and taking Roland by the arm, led him out of -the public notice, and listened to his friend’s solemn vow that never -again, under any circumstances, would he be induced to open negotiations -with any woman, be she never so lovely, who did not by her dress, her -manner and the places she frequented proclaim unquestionably her -profession. - - * * * * * - -It was hardly surprising that as a result of these adventures a more -developed, more independent Roland returned at the end of his six -months’ tour, a Roland, moreover, with a different attitude to himself, -his future, his surroundings, who was prepared to despise the chrysalis -from which he had emerged. His school-days appeared trivial. - -“What a deal of fuss we made about things that didn’t really matter at -all,” he said to Gerald as they leaned over the taffrail and watched the -dim line that was England grow distinct, its gray slowly whitening as -they drew near. “What a fuss about one’s place in form, one’s position -in the house; whether one ragged or whether one didn’t rag. I can see -all those masters, with their solemn faces, thinking I had perjured my -immortal soul because I had walked out with a girl. They really thought -it mattered.” - -How puny it became in comparison with this magnificent gamble of -finance! What were marks in an exam, to set against a turnover of -several thousands? Duty, privilege, responsibility: what had they been -but the brightly colored bricks with which children play in the nursery; -and as for the fret and fever concerning their arrangement, where could -be found an equivalent for the serious absorption of a child? - -In the same way he thought of his home and the environment of his -boyhood. What a gray world it had been! How monotonous, how arid! He -remembered sitting as a child at the bars of his nursery window watching -the stream of business men hurrying to their offices in the morning, -their newspapers tucked under their arms. They had seemed to him like -marionettes. The front door had opened. Husband and wife had exchanged a -brusque embrace; the male marionette had trotted down the steps, had -paused at the gate to wave his hand, and as he had turned into the -street the front door had closed behind him. Always the same thing every -day. And then in the evening the same stream of tired listless men -hurrying home, their bulky morning paper exchanged for the slim evening -newssheet. They would trot up the white stone steps, the front door -would swing open, again in the porch the marionettes would kiss. It had -amused him as a child, this dumb show, but as a boy he had come to hate -it--and to fear it also. For he knew that this was the life that awaited -him if he failed to turn to account his superior opportunities. - -The fear of degenerating into a suburban business man had been always -the strongest goad to his ambition. But now he could look that fear -confidently in the face. He had won through out of that world of routine -and friction and small economies into one of enterprise and daring and -romance. - -And April: he had not thought very much about her during his six months’ -absence; she belonged to the world he had outgrown, a landmark on his -road of adventure. And it was disconcerting to find on his return that -she did not regard their relationship in this light. Roland had grown -accustomed to the fleeting relationships of school that at the start of -a new term could be resumed or dropped at will. He had not realized that -it would be different now; that six months in Belgium were not the -equivalent of a seven weeks’ summer holiday; that he would be returning -to an unaltered society in which he would be expected to fulfill the -obligations incurred by him before his departure. It was the reversal of -the Rip Van Winkle legend. Roland had altered and was returning to a -world that was precisely as he had left it. - -Nothing had changed. - -On the first evening he went round to visit April, and there was Mrs. -Curtis as she had always been, sitting before the fire, her hands -crossed over her bony bosom. She welcomed him as though he had been -spending a week-end in Kent. - -“I’m so glad to see you, Roland, and have you had a nice time? It must -be pleasant for you to think of how soon the cricket season will be -starting. I was saying to our little April only yesterday: ‘How Roland -will be looking forward to it.’ What club are you thinking of joining?” - -“The Marstons said something to me about my joining their local club.” - -“But how jolly that would be! You’ll like that, won’t you?” - -Her voice rose and fell as it had risen and fallen as long as Roland’s -memory had knowledge of her. The same clock ticked over the same -mantelpiece; above the table was the same picture of a cow grazing -beside a stream; the curtains, once red, had not faded to a deeper -brown; the carpet was no more threadbare; the same books lined the -shelves that rose on either side of the fire-place; in the bracket -beside the window was the calf-bound set of _William Morris_ that had -been presented to April as a prize; on the rosewood table lay -yesterday’s copy of _The Times_. Mrs. Curtis and her setting were -eternal in the scheme of things. - -April, too, was as he had left her. Indeed, her life in his absence had -been a pause. She had no personal existence outside Roland. She had -waited for his return, thinking happily of the future. She had gone to -school every morning at a quarter to nine and had returned every evening -at half-past five. During the Christmas holidays she had read _Nicholas -Nickleby_ and _Vanity Fair_. She was now halfway through _Little -Dorrit_. At the end of the Michaelmas term she had gained a promotion -into a higher form and in her new form she had acquitted herself -creditably, finishing halfway up the class. At home she had performed -cheerfully the various duties that had been allotted to her. But she had -regarded those six months as an interlude in her real life; that was -Roland’s now. Happiness could only come to her through him; and, being -sure of happiness, she was not fretful nor impatient during the delay. -She did not expect nor indeed ask of life violent transports either of -ecstasy or sorrow. Her ideas of romance were domestic enough. To love -and to be loved faithfully, to have children, to keep a home happy, a -home to which her friends would be glad to come--this seemed to her as -much as any woman had the right to need. She felt that she would be able -to make Roland happy. The prospect was full of a quiet but deep -contentment. - -Roland had no opportunity of speaking to her on that first evening; Mrs. -Curtis, as usual, monopolized the conversation. But he sat near to -April. From time to time their eyes met and she smiled at him. And the -next morning when he came round to see her she ran eagerly to meet him. - -“It’s lovely to have you back again,” she said; “you can’t think how -I’ve been looking forward to it!” - -Roland was embarrassed by her eagerness. He did not know what to say and -stood beside her, smiling stupidly. - -She pouted. - -“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she said. And a moment later: “I -shouldn’t have thought, after six months, you’d have needed asking!” - -Roland met her reproach with a stammered apology. - -“I felt shy. I thought you might have got tired of me, all that long -time.” - -“Oh, but Roland, how horrid of you!” And she moved away from him. But he -took her in his arms and made love prettily to her and consoled her. - -“I daresay,” she said, “I daresay. But you didn’t write to me so very -often.” - -“I wanted to, but I thought your mother wouldn’t like it.” - -“Oh, but, Roland, that’s no excuse; she expected you to. There’s an -understanding.” Then with a quiet smile: “Do you remember the row we had -about that understanding?” - -“I was a beast.” - -“No, you weren’t; I was a silly.” - -“I was miserable about it.” - -“So was I. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought you’d never -speak to me again, that you’d gone off in a huff, like the heroes in the -story books.” - -“But the heroes always come back in the story books.” - -“I know, and that’s just why I thought that very likely you wouldn’t in -real life. I was so unhappy I cried myself to sleep.” - -“We were sillies, weren’t we?” - -“But it was worth it,” said April. - -“Worth it?” - -“Don’t you remember how nice you were to me when we made it up?” - -They laughed and kissed, and the minutes passed pleasantly. But yet -their love-making fell short of Roland’s ideal of love. It was jolly; it -was comfortable; but it was little more. He was not thrilled when the -back of his hand brushed accidentally against hers; their kisses were -hardly a lyric ecstasy. Even when he held her in his arms he was -conscious of himself, outside their embrace, watching it, saying to -himself: “Those two are having a good time together,” and being outside -it he was envious, jealous of a happiness he did not share. It was -someone else who was holding April’s hand, someone else’s head that bent -to her slim shoulder. It was an exciting experience. But then had it not -been exciting to walk across Hampstead Heath on a Sunday evening and -observe the feverish ardors of the prostrate lovers? - -He despised himself; he reminded himself that he was extraordinarily -lucky to have a girl such as April in love with him; he was unworthy of -her. Was not Ralph eating out his heart with envy? And yet he was -dissatisfied. The Curtises’ house had become a prison for him; a soft, -warm prison, with cushions and shaded lights and gentle voices, but it -was a prison none the less. He was still able to leave it at will, but -the time was coming when that freedom would be denied him. In a year or -two their understanding would be an engagement; the engagement would -drift to marriage. For the rest of his life he would be enclosed in -that warm, clammy atmosphere. There was a conspiracy at work against -him. His father had already begun to speak of his marriage as an -accomplished fact. His mother was chiefly glad he was doing well in -business because success there would make an early marriage possible. On -all sides inducements were being offered him to marry--marriage with its -corollary to settle down. Marry and settle down, when he was still under -twenty!--before he had begun to live! - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -MARSTON AND MARSTON - - -During the weeks that immediately followed his return, Roland found that -he was, on the whole, happiest when he was at the office. He had less -there to worry him. His work was new and interesting. Mr. Marston had -decided that before Roland went on his tour alone he should acquire a -general knowledge of the organization of the business. And so Roland -spent a couple of weeks in each department, acquainting himself with the -routine. - -“And a pretty good slack it will be,” Gerald had said. “It’s the -governor’s pet plan. He made me do it. But you won’t learn anything -that’s going to be of the least use to you. All you’ve got to do in this -show is to be polite and impress opulent foreigners. You don’t need to -know the ingredients of varnish nor how we arrange our advertising -accounts. And you can bet that the fellows themselves won’t be in any -hurry to teach you. The less we know about things the better they’re -pleased. They like to run their own show. If I were you I should have as -lazy a time as possible.” - -Under ordinary circumstances Roland would have followed this advice. He -had learned at Fernhurst to do as much work as was strictly necessary, -but no more. He had prepared his lessons carefully for his house tutor -and the games’ master, the two persons, that is to say, who had it in -their power to make his existence there either comfortable or the -reverse. He had also worked hard for the few masters, such as Carus -Evans, who disliked him. That was part of his armor. When Carus Evans -had said to him for the third day running, “Now, I think we’ll have you, -Whately,” and he had translated the passage without a slip, he felt that -he was one up on Carus Evans. But for the others, the majority with whom -he was only brought into casual contact, and who were pleasantly -indifferent to those who caused them no trouble, he did only as much -work as was needful to keep him from the detention room. Roland had -rarely been inconvenienced by uncomfortable scruples about duty. - -At any other time he would have spent the days of apprenticeship in -placid idleness--discussion of cricket matches; visits to the window and -subsequent speculation on the prospects of fine weather over the -week-end; glances at his watch to see how soon he could slip from the -cool of the counting house into the hot sunshine that was beating upon -the streets; pleasant absorption in a novel. But Roland was worried by -the family situation; he was finding life dull; he was prepared to -abandon himself eagerly to any fresh enthusiasm. For want of anything -better to do, without premeditation, with no thought of the power that -this knowledge might one day bring him, he decided to understand the -business of Marston & Marston. - -On the first morning he was handed over to the care of Mr. Stevens, the -head of the trade department. Mr. Stevens was a faithful servant of the -firm, and, as is the way with faithful servants, considered himself to -be more important than his employers. - -“They may sit up in that board room of theirs,” he would say, “and they -may pass their resolutions, and they may decide on this and they may -decide on that, but where’d they be without their figures, I’d like to -know. And who gives them their figures?” - -He would chuckle and scratch his bald head, and issue a fierce series of -orders to the packers. He bore no malice against his directors; he was -not jealous; he knew that there were two classes, the governing and the -governed, and that it had been his fate to be born among the governed. - -“There always have been two classes and there always will be two -classes. We can’t all be bosses.” It was a law of nature. And he -considered his performances more creditable than those of his masters. - -“These directors,” he would say, “they were born into the business. -They’ve stayed where they was put; they haven’t gone up and they haven’t -gone down. But I--I started as a packer and I’m now head of the trade -department; and look you here, Jones,” he would suddenly bellow out, “if -you hammer nails into a box at that rate you’ll not only not be head of -a trade department, you’ll blooming soon cease to be a packer!” - -It was natural that Mr. Stevens should, from his previous experience of -Gerald and certain other young gentlemen, regard Roland as an agreeable -trifler on the fringe of important matters. - -“Well, well, sir, so you’ve come along to see how we do things down -here. I expect we shall be able to show you a thing or two. Now, if you -was to go and sit over in that corner you’d be out of the way and you’d -be able to see the business going on.” - -“I daresay, Mr. Stevens, but that won’t help me very far, will it?” - -“I wouldn’t say that, sir; nothing like seeing how the machinery works.” - -“But I might as well go and ask an engine driver how a train worked and -then be told to sit in a corner of the platform at a railway station and -watch the trains go by. I should see how they worked but I shouldn’t -know much about them.” - -Mr. Stevens chuckled and scratched the bald patch on his head -appreciatively. - -“You see, Mr. Stevens,” Roland continued, “I don’t know anything about -this show at all and I know that you’re the only person in the place who -can help me.” - -It was a lucky shot. Roland was not then the psychologist that he was to -become in the days of his power. He worked by intuition. What he had -intended for a graceful compliment was a direct appeal to Mr. Stevens’ -vanity, at the point where it was most susceptible to such an assault. -It was a grief at times to Mr. Stevens that the authorities should -regard him as little more than a useful servant, who carried out -efficiently the orders that they gave him. Mr. Stevens was not -ambitious; the firm had treated him fairly, had recognized his talents -early and had promoted him. He had no quarrel with the firm, but he -knew--what no one else in the building, with the possible exception of -Perkins, the general manager, did know--that for a long time he had -ceased to carry out to the letter the instructions that had been given -him, and that Mr. Marston had only a general knowledge of a department -that he himself knew intimately. He had arranged numerous small -improvements of which Mr. Marston was ignorant, and had exploited highly -profitable exchanges of material with other dealers. Mr. Marston may -have perhaps noticed in the general accounts a gradual fall in packing -expenses, but if he had he had attributed it, without much thought, to -the increased facilities for obtaining wood and cardboard. He did not -know that as the result of most delicate maneuvering and an intricate -system of exchange conducted by Mr. Stevens his firm was being supplied -with cardboard at the actual cost price. - -Mr. Stevens did not tell him. He enjoyed his little secret. Every year -he would consult the figures, scratch his bald head and chuckle. What a -lot he had saved the firm! He looked forward to the day when he should -tell Mr. Marston. How surprised they would all be! They had never -suspected that funny old Stevens was such a good business man. In the -evening hours of reverie and after lunch on Sunday he would endow the -scene with that dramatic intensity that he had looked for but had not -yet found in life. There were other moments, however, when he longed for -appreciation. He wished that someone would realize his importance -without having to have it explained to him. So that when Roland said to -him, “You’re the only person in the place who can help me,” he was -startled into the indulgence of his one weakness. - -“Well, well, sir,” he said, and his face flushed with pleasure, “I -daresay if you put it like that”; and taking Roland by the arm he led -him away into his study and began to explain his accounts, his invoices, -his receipts and his method of checking them. And because he had found -an appreciative audience he proceeded to reveal one by one his little -secrets. “Mr. Marston doesn’t know I do this, and don’t tell him; I’m -keeping it as a surprise; but you can see that by letting the wood -merchants have that extra percentage there, I can get tin-foil cheap -enough to be able to pack our stuff at two per cent. less than it would -cost ordinarily. Think what I must have saved the firm!” - -There could be no question of his value; but what Roland did not then -appreciate--what, for that matter, Mr. Stevens himself did not -appreciate--was the value of this work in relation to the general -business of the firm. Mr. Stevens was a specialist. He understood his -own department but he understood nothing else. He did not realize that -on the delicate balance of that two per cent. it had been possible to -undersell a dangerous rival. - -The same conditions, Roland discovered, existed in several other -departments. Each head worked independently of the other heads. Mr. -Marston, sitting at his desk, coördinated their work. A one-man -business: that was Mr. Marston’s program. One brain must control, -otherwise there would be chaos. One department would find itself working -against another department. He believed in departments because they -stood for the delegation of routine work, but they must be subordinate -departments. There were moments, however, when Roland wondered whether -Mr. Marston’s hold on the business had not relaxed with the years. A -great deal was going on of which he was ignorant. He had started the -machinery and the machinery still ran smoothly, but was the guiding hand -ready to deal with stoppages? Roland wondered. How much did Mr. Marston -really know? Had he kept up with modern ideas, or was he still living -with the ideas that were current in his youth? But more than this even, -Roland wondered how much Perkins knew. - -He did not like Perkins. “A good man,” Mr. Marston had called him, “as -good a general manager as you’re likely to find anywhere. Not a social -beauty; silent, and all that, but a good strong man. You can trust him.” - -Roland did not agree with this estimate. First impressions are very -often right; he was inclined to trust his intuition before his reason, -and his first impression of Perkins was of an embittered, jealous man. -“He hates me,” Roland thought, “because I’m stepping straight into this -business through influence, with every prospect of becoming a director -before I’ve finished; while he’s sweated all his life, and worked from -nothing to a position that for all his ability will never carry him to -the board room.” He was a man to watch. The people who have been -mishandled by fortune show no mercy when they get the chance of revenge. - -Perkins was scrupulously polite, but Roland felt how much he resented -his intrusion, and Gerald was inclined to endorse this opinion. - -“Oh, yes, a sour-faced ass,” he said; “father thinks a lot of him, -though. It’s as well to keep on the right side of him. He can make -things rather awkward if you don’t. He keeps an eye on most of the -accounts, and he watches the travelers’ expenses pretty closely. If he -gets annoyed with you he might start questioning your extras.” - -They laughed, remembering how they had entered under the heading -“special expenses” the charges for a lurid evening at a certain discreet -establishment in the Rue des Colombes. - -On the whole, Roland was happy at the office, but the evenings were -distressing: the bus ride back; the walk up the hot stuffy street -towards his home; the subsequent walk with his father; the same walk -every day along the hard, flag-stoned roads, during which they met the -same dispirited men hurrying home from work. London was horrible in -June, with its metallic heat, its dust, and the dull leaves of the -plane-trees scattering their mournful shadows. How somber, too, were the -long evenings after the wretched two-course dinner, in the small -suburban drawing-room--ill lit, ill ventilated, meanly furnished. It was -not surprising that he should accept eagerly the Marstons’ frequent -invitations to spend the week-end with them in the country; it was -another world, a cleaner, fresher world, where you were met at the -station, where you drove through a long, winding drive to an old -Georgian house, where you dressed for dinner, where you drank crusted -port as you cracked your walnuts. Yet it was not this material -well-being that he so highly valued as the setting it provided for a -gracious interchange of courtesy, for the leisured preliminaries of -friendship, for ornament and decoration. - -Was anything in his life better than that moment on a Friday evening -when from the corner seat of a railway carriage he watched the smoke and -chimneys of London fall behind him, when through the window he saw, -instead of streets and shops and houses, green fields and hedges and -small scattered villages, and knew that for forty-eight hours he could -forget the fretted uneasiness of his home. - -He was invited during August to spend a whole week at Hogstead. Several -others would be there, and there would be cricket every day. - -“We can’t do without you,” Mr. Marston had said, “and what’s more, we -don’t intend to.” - -“Of course, we don’t,” said Muriel; “you’ve got to come!” - -Naturally Roland did not need much pressing. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -LILITH OF OLD - - -Roland made during this week the acquaintance of several members of the -family who had hitherto been only names to him. There was Gerald’s uncle -Arnold, a long mean-faced man, and his wife, Beatrice. Afterwards, when -he looked back and considered how large a part she had played, if -indirectly, in his life, and for that matter in the lives of all of -them, he could not help thinking that his first sight of her had been -prophetic, certainly dramatic. He had just arrived, had been met by -Muriel and Mr. Marston and his brother in the hall, and Muriel had -insisted on taking him away at once to see her rabbits. She had come to -regard him as her special friend. Gerald’s other friends were too stiff -and grown up; Roland was nearer to her own age and he did not patronize -her. - -“Come along,” she said, “you’ve got to see my rabbits before dinner -time.” - -“Will they have grown up by to-morrow?” he asked. - -“Well, they won’t be any younger, will they? They are such dears,” and -she had taken his hand, pulling him after her. They ran down the curving -path that sloped from the house to the cricket field. “I keep them in -that little shed behind the pavilion,” she said. They were certainly -delightful, little brown and white balls of fur, with stupid, blinking -eyes. Roland and Muriel took them out of the cage and carried them on -to the terrace that ran round the field, and sat there playing with -them, offering them grass and dandelions. - -A grass path ran between great banks of rhododendrons from the terrace -towards the garden, and at the end a pergola stretched a red riot of -roses parallel to the field. Suddenly at the end of the path, at the -point where it met the pergola, Roland saw, framed in an arch of roses, -a tall, graceful woman walking slowly on Gerald’s arm, her head bent -quietly towards him. At that distance Roland could not distinguish her -features, but the small oval face set in the mass of light yellow hair -was delicate and the firm outlines of her body suggested that she had -only recently left her girlhood behind her. - -“Who’s that?” asked Roland. - -“That! Oh, that’s Aunt Beatrice.” - -“But who’s Aunt Beatrice?” - -“Uncle Arnold’s wife.” - -“What!” - -Roland could hardly believe it: so young a woman married to that -shriveled, prosaic solicitor. - -“Oh, yes,” said Muriel, “they’ve been married nearly three years now; -and they’ve got such a darling little girl: Rosemary; you’ll see her -to-morrow. She’s got the loveliest hair. It crinkles when you run your -fingers through it.” - -“But--oh, well, I suppose it’s rather cheek, but he’s years older.” - -“Uncle Arnold?” replied Muriel cheerfully. “Oh, yes, I think he must be -nearly fifty.” Then after a pause, light-heartedly as though the -possession of a family skeleton was something of an honor, “I don’t -think they like each other much.” - -“How do you know?” Roland asked. - -“They are always quarreling. I never saw such a couple for it. If -there’s a discussion he’s only got to take one side for her to take the -other.” - -“Well, I don’t see very well how she could be in love with him, he’s -such a....” Roland paused, realizing that it would be hardly good -manners to disparage Muriel’s uncle. But she did not intend him to leave -the sentence unfinished. - -“Yes,” she said, “such a.... Go on!” - -“But I didn’t mean that.” - -“Yes, you did.” - -“No, I didn’t; really I didn’t. I’m sure your uncle’s awfully nice, but -he’s so much older, and you can’t be in love with someone so much older -than yourself.” - -“I see; you’re forgiven”; then after a pause and with a mischievous -smile: “Have you ever been in love, Roland?” - -“Yes.” - -“Oh, how lovely!” and she turned quickly and sat facing him, her knees -drawn up, her hands clasped in front of them. “Now tell me all about it. -I’ve always wanted to have a talk with someone who’s really been in -love, and I never have.” - -“What about Gerald?” - -She pouted. “Gerald! Oh, well, but he laughs at me, and besides---- But -come on and tell me all about it.” - -She made a pretty picture as she sat there, her face alight with the -eagerness of curious girlhood, and Roland felt to the full the -fascination of such a confessional. “It was a long time ago,” he said, -“and it’s all over now.” - -“Never mind that,” Muriel persisted. “What was her name?” - -“Betty.” - -“And was she pretty?” - -“Of course; I shouldn’t have been in love with her if she hadn’t been.” - -Muriel tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh, but how absurd, Roland! -Some of the ugliest women I’ve ever seen have managed to get husbands.” - -“And some pretty hideous-looking men get pretty wives.” - -“But I suppose the pretty wives think their ugly husbands are all -right.” - -“And equally I suppose the handsome husbands think their plain wives -beautiful.” - -They laughed together, but Muriel raised a warning finger. “We are -getting off the point,” she said. “I want to know more about your Betty. -Was she dark?” - -“Darkish--yes.” - -“And her eyes; were they dark, too?” - -“I think so; they were bright.” - -“What, aren’t you sure? I don’t think much of you as a lover.” - -“But I can never remember the color of people’s eyes,” he pleaded. “I -can’t remember the color of my mother’s or my aunt’s, or----” - -“Quick, shut your eyes; what’s the color of my eyes?” - -“Blue,” Roland hazarded. - -“Wrong. They’re green. Cat’s eyes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. -I shall write and tell your Betty about it.” - -“But that’s all over long ago, I told you.” - -“How did it end?” - -“It never began,” laughed Roland: “she never cared for me a bit.” - -Muriel pouted. “How unromantic,” she said; then added with the quick, -mischievous smile, “and how silly of her!” - -As he dressed for dinner that evening Roland wondered what perverse -impulse had made him speak to Muriel of Betty rather than of Dolly; of -either of them rather than of April; of an unsuccessful love affair that -was over rather than of a successful one that was in progress. Muriel -would far rather have heard of April than of Betty. How she would have -pestered him with questions! Where had they met? When had he first known -he was in love with her? What had he said to her? How had she answered -him? It would have been great fun to confide in her. He had been foolish -not to tell her. She was such a jolly girl. She had looked charming as -she had sat back holding her knees, with her clear skin and slim boyish -figure, and her brightly tinted lips that were always a little parted -before her teeth, beautifully even teeth they were, except just at the -corner of her mouth where one white tooth slightly overlapped its -neighbor. She was the sort of girl that he would like to have had for a -sister. He had always regretted that he had not had one, and between -Muriel and himself there could have been genuine, open comradeship. She -would have been a delightful companion. They would have had such fun -going about together to parties, dances and the Oval. She would have -received so charmingly his confidence. - -And yet, on the whole, he did not know why, he was rather glad that he -had not told her about April. - -That night Roland sat next Beatrice at dinner, and was thus afforded an -opportunity of confirming or rejecting his first impression of her. She -was only twenty years old, but she looked younger, not so much on -account of her slim figure and small, delicate, oval face as of her -general pose and the girlish untidiness that made you think that she had -not taken very long over her toilet. Her light yellow hair was drawn -back carelessly from the smooth skin of her neck and forehead. It looked -as though it had been crushed all the afternoon under a tightly fitting -hat, and that when Beatrice had returned from her walk, probably a -little late, she had flung the hat on the bed, and deciding that she -could not be bothered to take down her hair and put it up again had been -content to draw her comb through it once or twice with hurried, -impatient fingers. This negligence, which might have been charming as -the setting for mobile, vivacious features, was out of keeping with the -tranquillity of her face, her quiet gestures and lack of action. She had -not learned how to dress and carry herself, and this was an omission you -would hardly expect in a woman who had been married for three years. - -And yet she was beautiful, or perhaps not so much beautiful as -different. She suggested tragedy, mystery, romance. What, Roland asked -himself, lay behind the wavering luster of her eyes? And, looking at the -meager, uninspired features of her husband, he wondered how she could -have ever brought herself to marry him. He was a very good fellow, no -doubt, of whom one might grow fond--but love--to be held in his arms, to -be kissed by those dry lips! He shuddered, revolted by this dismal -mating of spring and autumn. - -She did not talk very much, though occasionally, when her husband made a -particularly definite statement, she would raise her head and say rather -contemptuously: “Oh, Arnold!” to which he would reply with heavy worded -argument: “My dear girl, what you don’t understand is....” It was -uncomfortable, and Roland, looking round the table, wondered whether the -family was aware of it. They did not appear to be. At one end of the -table Mr. Marston was discussing, in his jovial, full-blooded manner, -the prospects of the cricket week, and, at the other, Mrs. Marston was -informing a member of the Harrow XI. that their opponents of the morrow -had recruited a couple of blues from a neighboring village. Gerald and -Muriel were both laughing and chatting, and the other members of the -party seemed equally not to notice the close atmosphere of impending -conflict. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to it. - -Roland listened carefully to all that Arnold Marston said, both during -dinner and afterwards when the ladies had gone upstairs and the port had -been passed for the second time round the table. He was hard, dogmatic -and, at the same time, petulant in his talk. He quickly assumed that -everyone who did not agree with him was ignorant and a fool. As he -talked his fingers performed small gestures of annoyance; they plucked -at the table cloth, fingered the water bowl, heaped the salt into small -pyramids upon his plate. They were discussing the pull shot, then -something of an innovation, and Roland maintained that it was absurd for -school coaches not to allow boys to hit across long hops. “Why, do you -know that at Fernhurst you are expected to apologize to the bowler if -you make a pull shot.” - -“And quite right, too,” said Mr. Arnold. - -“But, why?” Roland answered him. “The pull’s perfectly safe; it’s a four -every time and you can’t get more than a single if you play back to it -with a straight bat.” - -“I daresay, I daresay, but cricket’s cricket, and you have got to play -it with a straight bat. You’ve got to play according to rules.” - -“But there’s no rule that says you mayn’t hit a long hop with a crooked -bat.” - -Mr. Arnold fidgeted angrily. - -“My dear boy, it’s no good arguing. I’ve been playing cricket and -watching cricket for forty years, and the good batsmen always played a -straight ball with a straight bat.” - -“There are a good many who don’t.” - -“That means nothing. A big man’s a rule to himself. The pull’s a -dangerous stroke; it’s all right in village cricket perhaps, but no one -who doesn’t play with a straight bat would get into a county side.” - -“But isn’t it the object of the game to make runs?” - -“Not altogether--even if you do get four runs from it instead of one, -which I am prepared to doubt. We wear our clothes to keep our bodies -warm, but you wouldn’t be pleased if your tailor made your coat button -up to the throat, and said: ‘It covers more of you, sir; you’ll be -warmer that way, and the object of clothes is to keep you warm.’” - -There was a general laugh at Roland’s expense, and before it had -subsided Mr. Marston had introduced another subject. Roland was annoyed; -he had a distaste for anything that savored of cleverness. He regarded -it as an unfair weapon in an argument. An argument should be a weighing -of facts. Each side should produce its facts, and an impartial witness -should give judgment. It was not fair to obscure the issue with an -untrue, if amusing, simile. And once the laugh is against you it is no -good continuing an argument. Arnold Marston had learned this on his -election platform. He had once been asked what his party proposed to do -for the unemployed; it was an awkward question, that gave many -opportunities for adverse heckling. But he had obscured the issue with a -laugh: “When my party gets in there will be no unemployment.” And the -meeting had gone home with the opinion that he was a jolly fellow--not -too serious--the sort of man that anyone could understand. It was a good -trick on the platform, but it was very annoying at the dinner table, at -least so the discomfited found. And Roland felt even more aggrieved as -they were leaving the room and the silly ass in the Harrow XI. slapped -him on the back and informed him that, “The old man got in a good one on -you there.” He could understand Beatrice hating him. - -He did not have another opportunity of speaking to her that evening, but -as he sat in the big drawing-room among the members of the house party -his attention drifted continually from the agreeable, superficial -conversation that had been up to now so sympathetic to him. These -trivial discussions of cricket, their friends, their careers, and, in a -desultory manner, of life itself, had been invaded by a stern, critical -silence. His eyes kept turning towards Beatrice as she sat in a deep -arm-chair, her hands folded quietly in her lap; they followed her when -she walked to the window and stood there, her arm raised above her head, -looking into the garden. He would have liked to go across the room and -speak to her; but what would he have been able to say? He could not tell -what thoughts were passing beneath the unruffled surface; was she -fretting impatiently at the tedious cricket shop? Was she criticizing -them all?--she, who had seen deeper and farther and come nearer to -tragedy than any of them--or was she what she appeared--a young woman -moved by the poetry of a garden stilled by moonshine? When she turned -away he thought that he detected a movement of her shoulders, a gesture -prompted by some wandering thought or gust of feeling, that would have -been significant to one who knew her, but for him was meaningless. And -that night he lay awake for nearly an hour, a long time for one who -thought little and to whom sleep came easily, remembering her words and -actions, the intonation of her voice, and that movement by the window. -As he began to lose control over thoughts she became transfigured, the -counterpart of those princesses, shut away in high-walled castles, of -whom he had dreamed in childhood; her husband became an ogre, leering -and vindictive, who laughed at him from the turrets of impregnable -battlements. - -Breakfast at Hogstead was a haphazard business. It began at eight and -ended at ten. No one presided over it. There were cold things on the -sideboard to which you helped yourself. As soon as you came down you -rang the bell and a maid appeared to ask you whether you would prefer -tea or coffee and whether you would take porridge. You then sat down -where you liked at the long, wide table. - -When Roland came down the next morning at about a quarter to nine he -found the big rush on; from half-past eight to half-past nine there were -usually six or seven people at the table. Before that time there was -only Mrs. Marston and anyone who had been energetic enough to take a dip -in a very cold pond that was protected from sunshine by the northern -terrace of the cricket field. By a quarter to ten there was usually only -a long table, covered with dirty plates, to keep company with Mr. -Marston, who, strangely enough, was a late riser. There were eight -people in all having breakfast when Roland arrived, or, to be more -exact, there were seven, for Gerald had finished his some time before, -but as he had had a bathe he preferred to remain at the table and inform -everyone of his courage as they came down. - -“I can’t think why everyone doesn’t bathe in the morning,” he was -saying; “makes one feel splendidly fit. I’m absolutely glowing all -over.” - -“So you’ve told us before,” said Muriel. - -“I’ve told you, but I haven’t told Roland. Roland, why didn’t you come -and have a bathe this morning, you old slacker? Do you no end of good.” - -“Puts one’s eye out,” said Roland, repeating the old Fernhurst theory -that cricket and swimming are incompatible. - -“Rot, my dear chap; nothing like a bathe, nothing like it. I bet you I -shall skittle them out this afternoon, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t -make a few runs either.” - -Roland had by this time satisfied the maid’s curiosity as to his -beverage and had helped himself to a plate of tongue and ham. He turned -round with the plate in his hand and looked to see where he should sit. -There was a vacant place beside Gerald to which he would have been -expected to direct himself; there was also a vacant place beside -Beatrice: he chose the latter, and hardly realized till he had drawn -back the chair that Gerald was at the opposite end of the table. - -Several thoughts passed with incredible swiftness through his brain. Had -anyone noticed what he had done? Would they think it curious? More -important still, would Beatrice resent it? From this last anxiety he was -soon freed, for Beatrice, without apparently having observed his -presence, rose from the table and went into the garden. He was left with -an empty chair on either side of him and no one for him to talk to; -Gerald and Muriel were beyond the reach of anything less than a shout. - -He finished his breakfast hurriedly in an enforced silence and walked -out into the garden in the secret hope of finding Beatrice. In this he -soon succeeded. She was playing croquet with her daughter on the lawn. -Roland stood watching them for a moment and then walked slowly across -the lawn. Beatrice glanced up at him and then went on with her game. She -did not even smile at him. It would have been too much perhaps to have -expected her to ask him to join them, but she might surely have made -some sign of comradely recognition. After all, he had the night before -taken her down to dinner; he had endeavored to be as nice as he could to -her, and it annoyed him and, at the same time, attracted him to feel -that he had made absolutely no impression on her. - -Roland was not one of those who analyze their emotions. When he was -attracted by some new interest he did not put himself in the -confessional, and he did not now ask himself why or how Beatrice had -appealed to him. - -As a matter of fact, she did not attract him physically. Her beauty -added to the glamor that enriched her loneliness, but did not touch him -otherwise. It was interest he felt for her, a compelling interest for -someone outside the circle of his own experience, who was content to -disparage what he admired and had filled her own life with other -enthusiasms. She was remote, inscrutable. She lived and ate and talked -and moved among them, but she had no part there. And because he was so -interested in her he was desperately anxious that she should feel some -interest in him. She was a mystery for him, but he was not content she -should remain a mystery; he wanted to understand her, to become friends, -so that in her troubles she should turn to him for sympathy and -guidance. How wonderful that would be, that this aloof and beautiful -woman should share with him an intimacy that she denied her husband. He -would watch her as he had watched her the previous evening moving among -her friends, indifferent and apart from them, and they would sit, as -they had sat, hardly noticing her, talking of their own affairs, perhaps -casting towards her a glance of casual speculation: “What is she -really?” they would say, and then put her from their mind and return to -their bridge and their billiards and their cricket shop. But he would -know, and as she turned from the window he would appreciate the -significance of that little movement, that hesitation almost of the -shoulders, and she would turn her eyes to him, those sad, disdainful, -dove-colored eyes of hers, that invited nothing and offered nothing, but -would become for him flooded with sympathy and gentle friendship; there -would be no need for words--just that meeting of the eyes across a -crowded drawing-room. - -Immersed in reverie, he walked up and down the long grass path that ran -from the cricket field to the rose garden, and when his name was shouted -suddenly, shrilly and from very close, he approximated to that condition -of dismay that the vernacular describes as “jumping out of one’s skin.” -He turned, to see Muriel standing two yards behind him, her hands upon -her hips, shaking with laughter. - -“I have been watching you for ten minutes,” she said as soon as she had -recovered her breath, “and it’s the funniest sight I’ve seen; you’ve -been walking up and down the path with your head in the air, and your -hands clenched together behind your back, and your lips were moving. I’m -certain you were talking to yourself. I couldn’t think what you were -doing. I sat behind that bush there and watched you going up and down -and up and down, your hands clenched and your head flung back, and your -lips moving, and then at last I guessed----” - -“Well, what was it?” - -“You were composing poetry. Now, don’t laugh, I’m serious, and I want to -know who you were composing it for.” - -“Well, who do you think it was?” - -“That girl, of course.” - -“What girl?” - -“Why, the girl you told me about yesterday!” - -“Oh, that----” - -“Yes; oh, that! But you were now, weren’t you?” - -“No, I wasn’t. You can’t see me wasting my time on poetry. Besides, I -couldn’t do it.” - -“Then, what were you doing?” - -“Thinking.” - -“Who about?” - -“You, of course.” - -“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head, the light hair scattering in the -sunlight. “Oh, no, no, no! If you had been thinking about me, it might -have occurred to you that I had no one in this large party to amuse me -and that I might very likely be lonely. And if you had thought of that, -and had gone on thinking that, with your head flung back----” - -“Yes, I know all about that head.” - -“Well, if you had been thinking of me all that time, and hadn’t -considered it worth your while to come and see what I was doing, I -should be very cross with you. But as I know you weren’t I don’t mind. -But come along now; what was it all about?” And, sitting down on the -garden seat, she curled herself into a corner and prepared herself for -catechism. “Now, come on,” she said, “who was it?” - -“Well, if you want to know, it was your Aunt Beatrice.” - -Muriel pouted. - -“Her! What do you want to think about her for?” - -“I don’t know. She’s rather interesting, don’t you think?” - -“No, I don’t,” and Muriel spoke sharply in a tone that Roland had never -before encountered. - -“But----” he began. - -“Oh, never mind,” she said, “if you’ve been thinking about Aunt Beatrice -for the last ten minutes you won’t want to talk about her now. Come and -have a game of tennis.” - -And she jumped up from her seat and walked up towards the house. Roland -felt, as he prepared to follow her, that it was an abrupt way to end a -conversation that she had forced on him. - -And that night, as he undressed, Roland had to own to himself that -altogether it had not been a satisfactory day. There had been the -incident at the breakfast table, the rebuff on the croquet lawn, the -coldness that had arisen between himself and Muriel, and then, although -he had done fairly well in the cricket match, he had not achieved the -goal which, he had to confess, had been his great incentive to -prowess--namely, the approval of Beatrice. - -He had made twenty-seven in the first innings--a good twenty-seven, all -things considered. He had had two yorkers in his first over. He had -played a large part in the gradual wearing down of the bowling, that had -paved the way for some heavy hitting by the tail. He had made several -very pretty shots. There had been that late cut off the fast bowler--a -beauty; he had come down on it perfectly, and it had gone past second -slip out of reach of the third man for three; and then there had been -that four off the slow bowler who had tied up Gerald so completely; he -had played him quite confidently. Mr. Marston had, indeed, complimented -him on the way he had placed the short-pitched balls in front of -short-square for singles. It had been a pretty useful innings, but -though he had kept turning his eyes in the direction of the pavilion, -and especially to the shaded side of it, where the ladies reclined in -deck-chairs, he had failed to discover any manifestation of excitement, -pleasure or even interest on the part of Beatrice in his achievements. -True, he had once seen her hands meet in a desultory clap, but that clap -had rewarded what was, after all, a comparatively simple hit, a -half-volley outside the off stump that he had hit past cover to the -boundary, and as that solitary clap came a full thirty seconds after the -rest of the pavilion had begun clapping, and ceased a good thirty -seconds before anyone else clapping in the pavilion ceased, he was -obliged to feel that the applause was more the acquittal of a social -duty than any recognition of his own prowess, and when he was finally -given leg before to a ball, that would certainly have passed a foot -above the stumps, she did not smile at him with congratulations nor did -she attempt to console him, though he gave her every opportunity of -doing so had she wished by walking round three sides of a rectangle, and -reaching the dressing-room by means of the shaded lawn on the left of -the pavilion. No. His cricket had not interested her in the least, and -it was exasperating to see her face kindle with enthusiasm when the -wicket keeper and the slow bowler put on fifty runs for the last wicket -through a series of the most outrageous flukes that have ever disgraced -a cricket field. - -Not a single ball was hit along the ground and only rarely did it follow -the direction in which the bat was swung. Length balls on the off stump -flew over the head of mid-on, of point, and second slip, to fall time -after time providentially out of reach. The fielding side grew -exasperated; slow bowlers tried to bowl fast and fast bowlers had a shot -with lobs; full pitches even were attempted, and these, too, were -smitten violently over the heads of the instanding fieldsmen and out of -reach of the deeps. It was a spectacle that would at ordinary times have -flung Roland into convulsions of delight, but on this occasion it -annoyed him beyond measure. He felt as must a music-hall artist whose -high-class performance has been received with only mild approval when he -watches the same audience lose itself in caterwauls of hilarious -appreciation at the debauched antics of a vulgar comedian with a false -nose and trousers turned the wrong way round who sings a song about his -“ma-in-law and the boarding-house.” For there was Beatrice, who had -hardly taken the trouble to watch his innings, laughing and clapping the -preposterous exhibition of this last wicket pair. It was a real relief -to him when the slow bowler, in a desperate effort to hook an off ball -to the square by boundary, trod on his middle stump and nearly collapsed -amid the débris of the wicket. - -Altogether it had been an unsatisfactory day and it was typical of the -whole week. He had looked forward to it eagerly; he had meant to enjoy -himself so much--the quiet mornings in the garden, the inspection of the -wicket, the change into flannels, the varying fortune of cricket, the -long enchantment of a warm, heavy afternoon, and afterwards the good -dinner, the comradeship, the kindly interplay of talk, till finally -sleep came to a mind at harmony with itself and full of agreeable -echoes. How good these things had seemed to him in imagination. But, -actually, there was something missing. The weather was fine, the cricket -good, the company agreeable, but the harmony was broken. He was -disquieted. He did not wake in the morning with that deep untroubled -sense of enjoyment; he had instead, a belief that something was going to -happen; he was always looking to the next thing instead of abiding -contentedly in the moment. - -And this mental turmoil could only be attributed to the presence of -Beatrice. She disturbed him and excited him. His eyes followed her about -the room. Whenever he was away from her he wondered what she was doing -and wished she would come back; but in her presence he was unhappy and -self-conscious. He hardly joined in the general conversation of the -table for shyness of what she would think of him. On the few occasions -when he sat next to her he could think of nothing to say to her, -nothing, that is to say, that was individual, that might not have been, -and as a matter of fact probably had been, said to her by every other -young man in the room. - -He would hazard some remark about the weather--it was rather hot; did -she think there was any danger of a thunderstorm? - -“I hope not,” she would answer; “it would spoil everything, wouldn’t -it?” She assumed the voice of a mother that is endeavoring to reassure a -small child. Cricket was like a plaything in the nursery. “That is what -she takes me for,” he said to himself--“an overgrown schoolboy”; and he -prayed for an opportunity of saying something brilliant and evocative -that would startle her into an interest for him. If only he could lead -the conversation away from heavy trivialities to shadowy conjectures, -wistful regrets; if only they could talk of life and its -disenchantments, its exquisite gestures; of sorrow, happiness and -resignation. But how were they to talk of it? If she thought about him -at all, which was doubtful, or in any way differentiated him from the -other young men of the party, she would probably consider that he was -flattered by her gracious inquiries about his batting average. How was -she to know what he was feeling; and how was he to introduce so -portentous a subject? He recognized with a smile what a sensation he -would cause were he to lean across to her and say: “What do you, Mrs. -Arnold, consider to be the ultimate significance of life?” His question -would be sure to coincide with one of those sudden silences that occur -unexpectedly in the middle of a meal, and his words would fall into that -pool of quivering silence, scattering ripples of horror and dismay. Mr. -Marston would stare at him, Muriel would giggle and say she had known -all the time he was a poet, and the other members of the party would -gaze at him in astonished pity. “Poor fellow!” their glances would say; -“quite balmy!” And Beatrice? she would dismiss the situation with an -agreeable pleasantry that would put everyone save Roland at his ease. He -did not in the least see how he was to win her confidence. - -His looks had not impressed her, as, indeed, why should they? His -features were neither strikingly handsome nor strikingly ugly; they were -ordinary. He was not clever, at least his cleverness did not transpire -in conversational brilliance and repartee; and she was not interested in -cricket. He envied the ease with which Gerald talked to her, the way -they laughed and ragged each other. They were such good friends. It had -been in Gerald’s company that he had first seen her. Was Gerald in love -with her, he wondered. Gerald had never confided to him any recent love -affair, and perhaps this was the reason. It was not unlikely. She was -young, she was lonely, she was beautiful. He asked Muriel whether she -thought there was any cause for his anxiety. - -“What!” she said. “Gerald and Aunt Beatrice in love with each other!” - -“Yes; why not. She’s not in love with her husband, and I don’t see why -at all----” He stopped, for Muriel was fixing him with a fierce and -penetrative glare. - -“No,” she said, “there’s not the least danger of Gerald falling in love -with Aunt Beatrice, but if you aren’t very careful, someone else will be -very soon!” - -He laughed uncomfortably. - -“Oh, don’t be silly!” - -“So you know who I mean, don’t you?” - -“You mean me, I suppose.” - -“Of course.” - -He tried to dismiss the subject with a laugh. - -“And that would never do, would it?” - -It was not successful. Muriel looked more annoyed than he had ever seen -her before. It was absurd of her. She must know that he was only -ragging. They had always been so open with one another, so charmingly -indiscreet. - -“No, it wouldn’t,” she said. - -He waited, thinking she was going to add some qualification to this -plain denial. Her lips indeed began to frame a syllable, when in -response to some swift resolution she shook her head. “Oh, well,” she -said, “it doesn’t matter.” - -There was no use denying it: it had not been the week he had expected. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -THE TWO CURRENTS - - -Roland returned home dissatisfied with himself and anxious to vent the -dissatisfaction on someone else. He was in a mood when the least thing -would be likely to set him into a flaring temper, and at dinner his -father provided the necessary excitant. They were considering the -advisability of having the dining room repapered and Mr. Whately was -doubting whether such an expensive improvement would be possible for -their restricted means. - -“I don’t know whether we can manage that just now,” he said. “We have -had one or two little extras this last year or so; there was the new -stair carpet and then the curtains on the second landing. I really think -that we ought to be a little careful just now. Of course later on, when -Roland and April are married----” And he paused to beam graciously upon -his son before completing the sentence. “As I was saying, when Roland -and April----” But he never completed the sentence. It remained forever -an anacoluthon. It was that beam that did it. It exasperated Roland -beyond words. Its graciousness became idiocy. - -“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, father,” he said. “We’ve heard that -joke too often.” - -There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Whately was for a moment too -surprised to speak. He had made that little pleasantry so often that it -had become part of his conversational repertory. He could not understand -Roland’s outburst; at first he was hurt; then he felt that he had been -insulted, and, like all weak men, he was prone to stand upon his -dignity. - -“That’s not the way to talk to your father, Roland.” - -“I’m sorry, father, but oh, I don’t know, I....” Roland hesitated, and -the matter should then have been allowed to drop. Mrs. Whately had -indeed prepared to interfere with an irrelevant comment on a friend’s -theory of house decoration, but Mr. Whately, having once started on an -assault, was loath to abandon it. “No, Roland, that’s not at all the way -to speak to me, and I don’t know what you’ve got to be impatient with me -about. You know quite well that you’re going to marry April in time.” - -“I know nothing of the sort.” - -“Don’t be absurd; of course you do; it was arranged a long time ago.” - -“No, it wasn’t; nothing’s been arranged. We’re not engaged, and I won’t -have all this talk about ‘when Roland and April are married.’ Do you -hear? I will not have it!” - -It was a surprising outburst. Roland was usually so even tempered, and -the moment afterwards he was bitterly ashamed of himself. - -“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was saying.” - -For a moment his father did not answer him. Then: “It’s all right, -Roland,” he said; “we understand.” - -But Roland saw quite clearly he was not forgiven, that his behavior had -increased the estrangement that had existed between his father and -himself ever since, without asking parental advice, he had abandoned -the idea of the bank. They did not talk much after dinner, and Mr. -Whately went to bed early, leaving Roland and his mother alone. It was -easier now that he had gone. - -“I feel such a beast,” Roland said. “I don’t know what made me do it. I -was worried and tired. I didn’t enjoy myself as much as I had hoped to -down at Hogstead.” - -“I know, dear, I know. We all feel like that sometimes, but I don’t see -why that particular thing should have upset you. After all, it’s a very -old joke of father’s; you’ve heard it so often before.” - -“I know, mother, I know. I don’t know what it was.” - -He could not make clear to her, if she was unable to appreciate through -her intuition, his distaste for this harping on his marriage, this -inevitable event to which he had to come, the fate that he could in no -way avoid. - -“Really, dear,” his mother went on, “I couldn’t understand it. You -haven’t had any row with April, have you?” - -“Oh, no; nothing like that, nothing.” - -“Then really, dear----” - -“I know, mother, I know.” - -It was no good trying to explain to her. Could anyone ever communicate -their grief, or their happiness for that matter, to another? Was it not -the fate of every human soul to be shut away from sympathy behind the -wall he himself throws up for his defense? - -“And, dear, while we’re on the question,” his mother was saying, “both -father and I have been thinking that--well, dear, you’ve been spending -rather a lot of money lately, and we thought that, though you have such -a certain post, you really ought to take the opportunity of putting by -a little money for setting up your house later on. Don’t you think so, -dear?” - -“I suppose so, mother.” - -“You see you’ve got practically no expenses now. I know you pay us -something every week, and it’s very good of you to, but you could quite -easily save fifty pounds a year.” - -“Yes, I suppose so.” - -“And don’t you think you ought to?” - -“I’ll try, mother, I’ll try.” - -She rose from her chair, walked across to him, and, bending down, kissed -his forehead. - -“We do feel for you, dear,” she said, “really we do.” - -“I know you do, mother.” - -For a long while after she had left him Roland remained in the -drawing-room; he was burdened by a confused reaction against the -influences that were shaping his future for him. He supposed he was in -love with April, that one day he would marry her; but was there any need -for this insistence upon domesticity? Could he not be free a little -longer? His eyes traveled miserably round the small, insignificant -drawing-room. The window curtains had long since yielded their fresh -color to the sunshine and hung dingily in the gaslight. The wall paper -was shabby and tawdry, with its festooned roses. The carpet near the -door was threadbare; the coverings to the stiff-backed chairs were dull -and crinkly. This was what marriage meant to men and women in his -position. He contrasted the narrow room with the comfort and repose of -Hogstead. What chance did people stand whose lives were circumscribed by -endless financial difficulties, who could not afford to surround -themselves with deep arm-chairs and heavy carpets and warm-colored wall -papers? It was cruel that now, at the very moment when he had begun to -escape from the drab environment of his childhood, these fetters should -be attached to him. It was cruel. And rising from his chair he walked -backwards and forwards, up and down the room. The days of his freedom -were already numbered. They would be soon ended, the days of -irresponsible, unreflecting action. It was maddening, this semblance of -liberty where there was no liberty. He recalled a simile in a novel he -had once read, though the name of the book and of the author had escaped -his memory, in which human beings were described as fishes swimming in -clear water, with the net of the fisherman about them. He was like that. -He was swimming in clear water, but at any moment the fisherman might -lift the net and he would be gasping and quivering on the bank. - -Next day, in pitiful reaction, he presented to Mr. Marston a request to -be allowed to commence his foreign tour immediately instead of, as had -been previously arranged, in the beginning of the autumn. - -“But, my dear fellow,” Mr. Marston expostulated, “you surely don’t want -to go in the very middle of the cricket season, when you’re in such -splendid form? Think what games you’ll be missing. There’s the -Whittington match in August. We simply can’t do without you. And then -there’s that game against Hogstead in September, in which you did so -splendidly last year. It’s no good, my dear fellow, we simply can’t -spare you.” - -But Roland was stubborn. - -“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, “but I do feel that I ought to be going -out there soon, and July and August will be slack months--just the time -to see people and form alliances. In the autumn they would be too busy -to worry about me.” - -Mr. Marston shrugged his shoulders. It was annoying, but still the -business came first, he supposed. - -“All right, my dear fellow. I daresay you are right. And I am glad to -see you are so keen on your work. I only wish Gerald was.” - -“Oh, but I think he is really, sir,” said Roland, who, for one horrible -moment, had a feeling that he was playing a mean trick on Gerald. At -school he had resented the way that little Mark-Grubber Shrimpton had -gone up to Crusoe at the end of the hour to ask his questions. He had -found a nasty name for such behavior then, and was there so much -difference between Shrimpton’s thirst for knowledge and his own desire -to travel when he might have been playing cricket? But Mr. Marston -speedily reassured him. - -“Oh, yes; Gerald--he’s keen enough of course, and, after all, he’s -rather different. He’s known all along there was no necessity for him to -over-exert himself, and I daresay he’s heard so much shop talked that -he’s got pretty sick of the whole thing. You have come fresh to it.” - -“Then I may go, sir?” - -“Yes, yes, if you want to. I’ll ask Mr. Perkins to make an arrangement. -I expect we’ll be able to get rid of you next week.” - -And so it was arranged. - - * * * * * - -Two days before his departure, as he was bounding downstairs on his way -to lunch, Roland was suddenly confronted at the turn of the staircase -below the second landing by a tall, graceful figure, in a wide-brimmed -hat and light crinkly hair. He gave a surprised gasp. “I am so sorry,” -he began; then saw that it was Beatrice. “Oh, how do you do, Mrs. -Arnold?” It was rather dark and for a moment she did not recognize him. - -“Oh, but of course--why, it’s Mr. Whately! And how fortunate! I was -wondering how I should ever get to the top of these enormous stairs. I -can’t think why you don’t have a lift. I’ve come to see Gerald. Do you -think you could run and tell him I’m here? I suppose I should have gone -and asked one of your clerks, but they do so embarrass me. Oh, thank you -so much. It is kind.” - -Within a minute Roland had returned with the news that Gerald had -already gone out to lunch, that his secretary did not know where he had -gone, but that he had left a message stating that he was not to be -expected back before three. - -A look of disappointment crossed her face. - -“Oh, but how annoying!” she said. “And I had wanted him to take me out -to lunch. We haven’t seen each other for such a long time. I suppose -it’s my own fault. I ought to have let him know. All the same, thank you -so much, Mr. Whately.” - -She had half turned to go, when Roland, with one of those sudden -inspirations, of which a moment’s thought would have rendered him -incapable, suggested that she should come out and lunch with him -instead. “It would be so delightful for me if you would.” - -As she turned towards him, her features expressing an obvious surprise, -he wondered how on earth he had had the courage to ask her. He had never -seen her look more beautiful than she did, standing there in the half -light of the staircase, her pale blue dress silhouetted against the dull -brown of the woodwork, and one arm flung out along the banister. For a -moment he thought that she was going to refuse, when suddenly the look -of surprise passed into a gracious smile. - -“But how kind of you, Mr. Whately; I should love to.” - -He took her to a smart but quiet restaurant that was mostly used by city -men wishing to lunch unobtrusively with their secretaries, and they were -lucky enough to find a corner table. At first he found conversation a -little difficult; the waiter was so slow bringing the dishes. There were -uncomfortable pauses in their talk. But by the time they had finished -their fish, and drunk a little wine, Roland’s nervousness had passed. It -was a delight to look at her, a delight to listen to the soft -intonations of her voice; and here in the quiet intimacy of the -restaurant he was able to appreciate even more acutely than at Hogstead -the mystery and romance that surrounded her. The pathos of her life was -actual to him; they were discussing a new novel that had been much -praised, but of which she had complained a falsity to life. - -“But then you are so different from the rest of us,” he had said. - -“Ah, don’t say that,” she replied quickly. “I’m so anxious to be the -same as all of you, to live your life and share your interests. It’s so -lonely being different.” - -She made him talk of himself, of his hopes and his ambitions. And he -told her that in two days’ time he would be going abroad. - -“In the middle of August! Before the cricket season’s over! What horrid -luck!” - -“Oh, no, I wanted to go,” said Roland. “I was getting tired of things. I -wanted a change.” - -She looked at him with curiosity, a new interest for him in her deep -dove-colored eyes. - -“You, too!” she said. - -“I don’t know what it is,” Roland continued. “I feel restless; I feel I -must break loose. It’s all the same, one day after another, and what -does it lead to?” - -She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her face resting upon the -backs of her hands. - -“Ah, don’t I know that feeling,” she said; “one waits, one says, -‘Something is sure to happen soon.’ But it doesn’t, and one goes on -waiting. And one tries to run away, but one can’t escape from oneself.” -Their eyes met and there seemed to be no further need for words between -them. Roland’s thoughts traveled into spaces of vague and wistful -speculation. A profound melancholy consumed him, a melancholy that was -at the same time pleasant--a sugared sadness. - -“What are you thinking of, Roland?” The use of his Christian name caused -no surprise to him; it was natural that she should address him so. He -answered her, his eyes looking into hers. - -“I was thinking of how we spend our whole lives looking forward to -things and looking back to things and that in itself the thing is -nothing.” - -She smiled at him. “So you’ve found that out too?” she said. Then she -laughed quickly. “But you mustn’t get mournful when you are with me. -You’ve all your life before you and you’re going to be frightfully -successful and frightfully happy. I shall so enjoy watching you. And now -I must really be rushing off. You’ve given me a most delightful time”; -and she began to gather up her gloves and the silk purse that hung by a -gold chain from her wrist. - -Roland could do little work that afternoon; his thoughts wandered from -the ledger at his side and from the files of the financial news. And -that evening he was more acutely aware than usual of the uncolored -dreariness of his home. For him Beatrice was the composite vision of -that other world from which the course of his life was endeavoring to -lead him. She represented, for him, romance, adventure, the flower and -ecstasy of life. - -But two days later he felt once again, as he leaned against the taffrail -to watch the English coast fade into a dim haze, that he was letting -drop from his shoulders the accumulated responsibilities of the past six -months. Did it matter then so much what happened to him over there -behind that low-lying bank of cloud if he could at any moment step out -of his captivity, relinquish his anxieties and enter a world that knew -nothing of April or of his parents, that accepted him on his own -valuation as a young man with agreeable manners and a comfortable -independence? Who that held the keys of his dungeon could be called a -prisoner? - - - - -PART III - -THE FIRST ENCOUNTERS - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -SUCCESS - - -He felt less certain of his freedom when he watched, three months later, -the white coast of England take visible shape on the horizon. He should -have been feeling very happy. He was returning to his friends, his home, -his girl. And he was returning with credit. He had not made, it is true, -large profits for the firm, but that had not been expected of him. He -had done what he had been told to do. He had established important -connections, made friends with two large business men, and, -incidentally, brought several thousand pounds’ worth of business to the -firm of Marston & Marston. He had done better than had been expected. -When he had written home and told Mr. Marston that M. Rocheville was -prepared to sign a contract for varnish on behalf of the Belgian -Government, Mr. Marston had dropped the letter on his desk and had sat -back in his chair amazed at this good fortune; and when, a fortnight -later, the news arrived of a possible combination with the German firm -of Haupsehr & Frohmann, Mr. Marston had jumped from his seat and walked -backwards and forwards, up and down the office. And for two days he -disconcerted his secretary by muttering in the middle of his dictation: -“Marvelous boy! marvelous boy!” - -And he had been marvelous both in his fortune and in his audacity. He -had met M. Rocheville under circumstances of ridiculous improbability. -He was dining at a small restaurant in Antwerp; he had just ordered his -meal and had commenced his study of the wine list when he became -conscious of a commotion at the table on his left. There was a mingling -of voices, reproachful, importunate, and one in particular feebly -explanatory. Roland listened, and gathered from the torrent of words -that the owner of the feeble voice had lost his purse and was trying to -explain that he had friends in the town and would return and settle the -account on the next day. But the proprietor, from a long experience of -insolvent artists, actors, courtesans and other dwellers on the fringe -of respectability, demanded a more substantial guarantee than the card -which the subject of the misfortune was offering him. - -“No, no,” he was saying, “it is not enough; you will leave me your watch -and that ring upon your second finger and you may go. Otherwise----” And -he shrugged his shoulders. To this the prosperous little gentleman, whom -an empty bucket beneath the table proved to have dined expensively, -would not agree. It was a personal affront, an insult to his name, and -he brandished his card in the face of the proprietor; it availed little, -and the intervention of the police was imminent when Roland heard the -name “Rocheville” flung suddenly like a spear among the waiters. - -On the waiters it had no effect; they winked, nodded, smiled to one -another. They had heard that tale before. Many indignant customers had -flourished the trade-mark of their reputation. Had not a poet produced -once from his pocket the review of his latest book as a proof of his -nobility? To the waiters the word “Rocheville” meant nothing; to Roland -it meant much. The most important man in the Army Ordnance Department -was named Rocheville. He might not be the same man, of course, but it -was worth the experiment; certainly it was worth the loss of fifty -francs that he would charge to the firm as a “special expense.” - -He rose from his seat and walked across to M. Rocheville. - -“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I trust you will forgive me if I am -committing an impertinence, but from what I overheard I gathered that -you had lost your purse. If that is so, please allow me to lend you -whatever you may need to settle your account.” - -“But, sir--no, really I couldn’t; it would be an unthinkable liberty.” - -But Roland insisted. And having appeased the proprietor, who retired in -a profusion of bows, he turned again to meet M. Rocheville’s thanks. - -“But it was nothing, sir, really it was nothing, and I could not endure -the sight of a gentleman being submitted to such an inconvenience.” - -Monsieur Rocheville executed an elaborate bow. - -“It is too kind of you, and if you will give me your address I will see -that a cheque is sent to you to-morrow.” - -“But I’m afraid that I go to Brussels first thing to-morrow, and I am -not certain at which hotel I shall be stopping. But it does not matter.” - -“But it does, of course it does,” M. Rocheville expostulated. “How shall -we manage it?” - -For a moment he paused, his hand raised to his forehead, essentially, -Roland thought, the gesture of a bureaucrat. - -“Yes, yes, I have it,” said M. Rocheville: “you will come back with me -to some friends of mine that live here and we will arrange it.” - -“Well, then,” said Roland, “if that is so, will you not do me the honor -first of sitting at my table while I finish my meal and sharing a bottle -of wine with me?” - -M. Rocheville had already drunk a full bottle of champagne, but he had -lived on perquisites for so long that he could not resist the temptation -of accepting any offer that put him under no pecuniary obligation. And, -besides, this was a confoundedly pleasant young man, who had saved him -from an undignified situation, and in whose company he would no doubt -pass agreeably a couple of hours. - -“I should be delighted,” he said; “and do you know my name?” - -“I’m afraid not,” said Roland. - -With a slightly diffident flourish M. Rocheville handed his card to his -young companion. It was for this moment that Roland had arranged his -dramatic sequence. He examined the card carefully, then looked up with a -surprised, half-modest, half-excited expression on his face. - -“You aren’t--you aren’t _the_ Monsieur Rocheville?” - -A slow smile spread itself over the ample features of the bureaucrat. It -was a long time since his vanity had been so delicately tickled, and -after the insults he had received from the waiter this recognition of -his value was very pleasant. - -“Yes,” he said, “I suppose I am.” - -“The Monsieur Rocheville who manages the Ordnance administration?” -Roland persisted. - -It was a sweetly sugared pill. To think that this young foreigner should -know all about him. He, himself, was perhaps more important than he had -been led to think--a prophet in his own country; but abroad, in -England, they estimated truly the value of his services. He was inclined -to agree with them; too much praise was given to the Generals and -Commanders of Army Corps. He always experienced a slight impatience when -he heard eulogies of the exploits of Malplaquet and Marshal Ney and -Turin. They had done the spectacular work. The light of popular approval -had to be focused somewhere, but that in itself proved nothing. Mankind -was an ass. Was not authority delegated? Was not the private soldier -less valuable than the colonel? Was not the colonel less valuable than -the general? In the same way might not the general be less valuable than -the organization which provided him with food, with cannons, with -rifles, with ammunition, and, as far as that went, with his army too? -The farther one was from the firing line the more important one became. -The organization, was it not himself? A sound line of argument. And he -sat back contentedly in the chair that Roland offered him and lifted the -glass that Roland had filled for him. - -He raised it to the light, then gently, very gently advanced his lips to -it. He rolled the rich, heavy Volnay on his tongue. It was good. A -little shudder ran through his body. The wine had warmed him. He sat -back in his chair and smiled. It was good to be appreciated. And Roland -in this respect accommodated him to the full. By the time Roland had -finished his dinner the old man was in a state of maudlin self-pity and -self-complacency. “I am not understood”; that was the burden of his -complaint. - -And then, very carefully, very gently, Roland introduced his own -subject--the sale of varnish. Monsieur Rocheville lamented the -inferiority of the Belgian species. It would not polish and it was so -dear. But what would you! The Belgians were interested only in husbandry -and food and wantonness. Monsieur Rocheville’s eyes glistened as he -brought out the word, and in another minute Roland would have been -forced to attend to a recital of the Rocheville enterprises in the lists -of gallantry; this, however, he evaded. If varnish in Belgium was so -dear, why did he not send for it elsewhere--to Germany, or France, or -Italy? He had heard there was very good varnish to be obtained in Italy. -And when M. Rocheville advanced the theory that one should encourage -national industries, Roland persuaded him that there was nothing that -could better encourage the Belgian varnish industry than a removal of -the Government’s patronage. - -“If they think they are certain of your custom they won’t work. Why -should they? Commerce is competition. You stimulate competition and -you’ll find your industry is a hundred per cent more healthy in five -years’ time than it will be if you let it go on on the old lines: buying -dear and buying bad.” M. Rocheville agreed. How true it all was and how -clearly this young man understood it--a delightful young man, on the -whole the most delightful young man he had ever met. It was a pity that -he insisted on talking about varnish all the time. There were so many -much more interesting things that they could have found to discuss -together. Still, it was all very warm and nice and comfortable. - -Looking back the next day, and trying to reconstruct the sequence of -their conversation, M. Rocheville found it impossible to recall the -exact moment at which Roland had stated his interest in Marston & -Marston’s varnish and made his proposal that the Belgian Government -would do well in the future to deal with his firm direct. As far as he -could remember, there had been no such exact statement in so many words. -They had discussed varnish from every point of view--from the -international standpoint, from the financier’s standpoint; they had even -touched on the vexed question of retail business, and also the -refractory behavior of trade unions. They had discussed varnish indeed -so thoroughly that it was impossible to recall what had, and what had -not, been said. One thing alone M. Rocheville could recall with painful -distinctness--that there had come a point in the conversation when he -had realized that this engaging young man was offering to sell him a -very large quantity of varnish--good varnish--better than the Belgian -firms could supply and at the same price. There was no question of buyer -or seller, no bargaining, no haggling. It was altogether different from -his usual harsh business interviews, that were so distressing to a man -of taste. In the same way that this young man had rendered him -assistance in that trying altercation with the proprietor, so did he now -in this matter of varnish lay his undoubted talents and experience at -his disposal. It was a charming, friendly action, and the young man was -so business-like. He had produced from his pocket a printed contract in -which he had made certain alterations “between friends,” he had called -it, the cancellation of two or three small clauses; he had spread the -document on the table for him to sign. He had then given M. Rocheville a -similar agreement signed by his firm, and he had then ordered another -glass of Benedictine, and the conversation turned from varnish into more -intimate channels. He could not remember about what he had talked, but -he felt that, at such an hour, their comments on whatever topic they -had chosen to discuss must have been profound. In describing the -occasion to a friend he waved a hand vaguely: “For two hours, he and I, -we talked of life.” - -Then they had visited a M. Villeneuve to settle the matter of the loan. -Roland had demurred, but M. Rocheville had insisted. And this part of -the evening, owing to the sudden change of air, he could recall more -clearly. Monsieur Villeneuve was in bed when they arrived and did not -extend to him a very cordial welcome. But the loan was at last -successfully negotiated, and Roland then discovered that in five hours’ -time he would have to catch a train and that it would be agreeable to -spend those five hours in sleep. But M. Rocheville was very loath to -part with him. For a long while he stood in the porch and, as far as -Roland could discern any clear intention behind his confused utterances, -appeared to be suggesting that Roland should still further trespass on -the hospitality of M. Villeneuve. - -“Then, perhaps, if you cannot do that,” M. Rocheville persisted, “you -will come and spend a week-end with me before you return. You have my -card. I have a nice house in Brussels, very quiet and comfortable. I am -not married.” - -But Roland had reminded him that he was very busy, and that he did not -know if he would have time, but that he would certainly try to arrange a -lunch at their next visit. - -“And in the meantime I will see that you get that varnish.” - -“Ah! that varnish,” said M. Rocheville. And observing that he was now -standing alone in the porch, with no one to whom he might address his -profound reflections upon the mortality of man, he walked slowly -towards the gate, a little puzzled by Roland’s conduct and by his own. - -“A delightful young man,” he said, then paused as though he must qualify -this estimate, but his Latin cynicism saved him. “Well, well,” he said, -“an agreeable interlude.” - -That was Roland’s first triumph, and the other, if less adroitly -stage-managed, was more audacious, and owed its success to skill quite -as much as to good fortune. - -Haupsehr & Frohmann directed one of the largest polish factories in the -south of Germany; they supplied, indeed, practically the whole of the -Rhineland with their goods, and Roland had considered that a meeting -between them might prove profitable. He found, however, that it was -impossible to obtain an interview with either Herr Haupsehr or Herr -Frohmann. “They will not look at English goods.” That was what everyone -told him, and a carefully worded request for an interview that he -addressed to the head of the firm was answered by return of post with a -bald statement that Herren Haupsehr and Frohmann did not consider a -personal interview would further the interests of either Mr. Roland -Whately, representative of Marston & Marston, or of themselves. And -Roland was thus driven to the reluctant conclusion that his advisers -were correct. If he were to effect an introduction it would have to be -done by guile. - -He awaited his opportunity, and the opportunity came to him in the -passport office. He had gone to fulfill some trifling by-law concerning -the registration of aliens. For a long time he had sat in a draughty -corridor, and then for a long time he had stood beside a desk while a -busy bureaucrat attended to someone else’s business, and when at last -he had succeeded in making his application a bell rang in the next room, -and without an apology his interlocutor rose from his chair and hurried -to the next room. - -“How terrified they are of their chiefs,” Roland thought. He had by now -become accustomed to the trepidation of officials. How typical was that -desk of the words that were written and the sentences framed at it; -precise, firm, tabulated and impersonal: the plain brass inkstand, with -red and black ink-pots; the two pens, the blotter, the calendar, the -letter files, the box for memoranda; and the mind of that fussy little -official was exactly like his desk, and, leaning over, Roland tried to -see to whom the letter on the blotter was addressed. - -As he did so, his eye fell on a slip of pasteboard that had been put -behind the inkstand. It was a calling card, the calling card of a Herr -Brumenhein, and on the top, in handwriting, was inscribed the words: “To -introduce bearer.” The name Brumenhein was familiar to Roland, though in -what connection he could not recall. At any rate, the fact that he -recollected the name at all proved that it was the appendage of an -important person, and as it was always useful to possess the means of -being introduced under the auspices of a celebrity, Roland picked up the -card and placed it in his pocketbook. - -When he returned to the hotel he made inquiries about the unknown -patron, and learned that Herr Brumenhein was a very distinguished -Prussian minister, and one who was honored by the confidence of the -Crown Prince. “He will be a great man one day,” said the hotel -proprietor. - -“As great as Griegenbach?” - -“Who knows?--perhaps, and it is said the Crown Prince is not too fond of -Griegenbach.” - -And then Roland’s informant proceeded to enlarge on the exaggerated -opinion Griegenbach had held of his own value since his successful -Balkan diplomacy. “He thinks he is indispensable and he makes a great -mistake. No one is indispensable. The post of minister is more important -than the man who fills it.” - -Roland, of course, agreed; he always agreed with people. It was thus -that he had earned the reputation of being good company, and at this -moment, even if he had held contrary opinions as to the relations of the -moment and the man, he would have been unable to develop them in an -argument. He was too busy wondering how best he could turn this -discovery to his advantage. And it was not long before the thought was -suggested to him that this card might very easily procure him the -desired interview with Herr Haupsehr. It was a risky game of course, but -then what wasn’t risky in high finance? It was quite possible that -Herren Haupsehr and Brumenhein were the oldest of friends, that awkward -questions would be asked and his deceit discovered. But, even if it was, -he could, at the worst, only be kicked downstairs, and that was an -indignity he could survive. It would destroy for ever the possibility of -any negotiations between himself and the German firm, but that, also, -was no serious drawback, for, as things were, there seemed little enough -prospect of opening an account. He could not see how he would be in any -the worse position were he to fail--whereas if he brought it off.... It -was a dazzling thought. - -And so at eleven o’clock next morning Roland presented himself at the -entrance of Herr Haupsehr’s office. He asked no questions; he made no -respectful inquiry as to whether at that moment Herr Haupsehr was, or -was not, engaged. He assumed that whatever occupied that gentleman’s -attention would be instantly removed on the announcement that a friend -of Herr Brumenhein’s was in the building. Roland said nothing. He -flourished his card in the face of the young lady who stood behind the -door marked “Inquiries.” - -“You wish to see Herr Haupsehr?” - -Roland bowed, and the young lady disappeared. She returned within a -minute. - -“If you will please to follow me, sir.” - -He was conducted through the counting-house and into the main corridor, -up a flight of stairs, along another corridor, till they reached a door -marked “Private,” before which the young lady stopped. Roland made an -interrogatory gesture of the hand toward it. - -“If you please, sir,” she said. - -Roland did not knock at the door. He turned the handle and entered the -room with the gracious condescension of a general who is forced to visit -a company office. It was a large room, with a warm fire and easy chairs -and an old oak desk. But Herr Haupsehr was not sitting at his desk; he -had advanced into the center of the room, where he stood rubbing his -hands one against the other. Some men reach a high position through -truculence, others through subservience, and Herr Haupsehr belonged to -the second class. He was a little man with a bald head and with heavy -pouches underneath his eyes. He fidgeted nervously, and it was hard to -recognize in this obsequious figure the dictator of that letter of stern -refusal. - -“Yes,” he said, “you are a friend of Herr Brumenhein?” In the eyes of -Herr Haupsehr had appeared annoyance and a slight distrust at the sight -of so young a visitor, but the sound of the magic name recalled him to -servility. - -“Yes,” he repeated, “yes; and what is it that I may have the honor to do -for a friend of Herr Brumenhein?” - -Roland made no immediate reply. He drew off his gloves slowly, finger by -finger, and placed them in the pockets of his great-coat, which garment -he then proceeded to remove and lay across the back of one of the -comfortable, deep arm-chairs. He then took out his pocket-book, -abstracted from it a card and handed it to Herr Haupsehr. So far he had -not spoken a word. Herr Haupsehr examined the card carefully, raising it -towards the light, for he was shortsighted, and found the unusual -English lettering trying to his eyes. He read out the words slowly: “Mr. -Roland Whately, Marston & Marston, Ltd.” He stretched his head -backwards, so that his gaze was directed towards the ceiling. “Mr. -Roland Whately, Marston & Marston, Ltd....” The name was familiar, but -how and in what connection? There were so many names. He shook his head. -He could not remember, but it did not matter. Roland had watched him -anxiously; he had mistrusted that gaze towards the ceiling, and it was a -big relief when Herr Haupsehr stretched out his hand and indicated one -of the large arm-chairs--“And what is it that I can do for you?” - -Roland then began to outline the scheme that had suggested itself to -him. The scheme was to the advantage of the German as well as to -himself. Haupsehr & Frohmann were the biggest dealers in polish in South -Germany. That was granted. But there were rivals, very dangerous rivals, -the more dangerous because they were specialists, each of them, in one -particular line of polish, and a specialist was always better, if more -expensive, than a general dealer. Now what Roland suggested was that -Haupsehr should devote his attention solely to metal polish, should -become specialists in a large sense, and that he should rely for the -varnish solely on Marston & Marston. - -“Don’t worry about varnish,” Roland said: “we’ll let you have it a lot -cheaper than these rivals of yours can produce it at. There won’t be -much actual profit in it for you, not directly, but it will allow you to -put all your capital into the metal polish and, by smashing your rivals, -it’ll leave you with a clear market.” - -The German considered the plan. It was a good one, he could see its -advantages. He would be trading, of course, with a nation for which he -had no great affection, but, even so, Herr Brumenhein apparently thought -well of it. - -“Oh, yes, he thought it a capital idea,” said Roland. “He’s most anxious -to see trade alliance between Great Britain and Germany. He’s so afraid -there may be ill-feeling. I told him that that was, of course, absurd, -but still----” - -“Yes, yes,” said Herr Haupsehr, “I see, of course; but there are -difficulties, grave difficulties.” - -Roland could see that he was beginning to waver, that he was anxious to -postpone his decision, and that would, of course, be fatal. Roland had -learned early that when a man says to you: “Look here, I can’t decide -now, but I’ll write and let you know in a day or two,” he has already -decided against you. And so Roland played Herr Brumenhein for all he was -worth. Having discovered that Herr Haupsehr had never met the great man, -Roland felt himself at liberty to tell his story as amply as possible. - -“But you should meet him,” he said; “a most charming companion. He -comes over and stays with us nearly every summer.” - -“Really! Every summer?” - -“Oh, yes, nearly always. And he’s the coming man, of course. Not a doubt -of it. Griegenbach’s day is done.” - -Herr Haupsehr affected surprise. He respected every minister till he was -out of office. - -“Oh, yes, not a doubt of it. He thinks he’s more important than his -job--a big mistake. A minister’s post is more important than the man who -fills it.” - -With that Herr Haupsehr agreed. Himself had revered authority all his -life. This young man showed considerable sagacity. The job was bigger, -always bigger, than the man. - -“Yes, he’s the coming man,” Roland went on; “we can see it more clearly -over in England perhaps than you can over here. If I were a German I -would back Herr Brumenhein with every bit of influence I possessed.” - -And, indeed, so admirably did he present the future greatness of Herr -Brumenhein that Herr Haupsehr got the impression that he had only to -agree to these varnish proposals to be offered an important post in the -ministry. It was not stated in so many words, but that was the -suggestion. And, in the end, preliminary arrangements were drawn up and -a contract signed. Herr Haupsehr showed Roland to the door with intense -civility. - -“And I was wondering,” he said, “do you think it would be altogether -wise if I were to write personally to Herr Brumenhein and tell him that -I have met you and agreed to your plan? Would it be wise?” And he stood -nervously fidgeting from one foot to the other--the eternal sycophant. - -Roland scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then, after a moment’s -deliberation: - -“No,” he said. “On the whole, no. I don’t think it would be wise. Herr -Brumenhein is very busy. I think it would be better to wait till he -visits us again in England and I shall tell him----” - -“You will tell him all about me and my willingness, yes?” - -“Of course, of course.” - -“You are too kind, sir; too kind.” - -“Aufwiedersehn.” - -“Aufwiedersehn.” - -Hands were shaken, the door closed, and Roland was in the passage, the -contract safe in his breast pocket. - -With two such feats accomplished Roland should certainly have been -returning home with a light heart. He would be praised and made much of. -For at least a fortnight conversation would center round his exploits. -His return was that of a general entering his city after a successful -battle--a Roman triumph. But for all that he was dispirited. On his -journey out he had experienced the exhilaration of freedom, and on his -return he was obsessed by the gloom of impending captivity. To what, -after all, was he coming back?--worries, responsibilities, the continual -clash of temperaments. How fine had been the independent life of -vagabondage that he had just left, where he could do what he liked, go -where he liked, be bound to no one. There had been a time when the -sights and noises of London had been inexpressibly dear to him. His -heart had beaten fast with rapture on his return from Fernhurst, when he -had watched the green fields vanish beneath that sable shroud of roofs -and chimney-stacks. But now there was no magic for him in the great -city through which he was being so swiftly driven. Autumn had passed to -winter; the plane-trees were bare; dusk was falling; the lamp-lighter -had begun his rounds. For many it was a moment of hushed wonderment, of -peace and benediction, but Roland stirred irritably in the corner of his -cab, and there was no pleasure for him in the effusive welcome his -mother accorded him. He did his best to respond to it, but it was a -failure, and she noticed it. - -“What’s the matter, darling? Wasn’t it a success? Didn’t you do well -over there?” - -And behind her evident anxiety Roland detected, or fancied that he could -detect, the suggestion of a hope that he had not done so well as he had -expected to do. - -“She would like to have comforted me,” he thought. “Her husband has been -a failure; he has had to depend upon her and so she has kept his love. -She would like me to be the same.” And this attitude, although he could -understand it, exasperated him. He was aware that through his new -friends he had become alienated from her, that she must be lonely now. -But what would you? Life went that way. - -They had tea together, and though Roland spoke amusingly and with -animation about his experiences abroad, their talk was not intimate as -it had been. There was nothing said behind and apart from their actual -words, and Mrs. Whately imagined that he was impatient to see April. - -As soon as they had finished tea she suggested that he should go round -to her. - -“I’m sure you must be longing to see her.” - -And when he had gone, she sat for a little while in front of the -unwashed tea things, thinking how hard it was that a mother should have -to yield her son to another woman. - -She need not have. Roland, at the moment when she was thinking of him -with melancholy regret, was far from being “dissolved in pleasure and -soft repose.” He was sitting, as he had so often sat before, on the -chair beside the window-seat, in which April was forlornly curled, while -Mrs. Curtis expressed, to complete his depression, her opinion on the -economic situation in Europe. Soon she abandoned these matters of high -finance and reverted to simple matters of to-day--namely, her son and -her daughter. It was “dear April” and “dear Arthur”; and Roland was -reminded vividly of a bawdy house in Brussels and the old woman who had -sat beside the fire, exhibiting her wares. That was what Mrs. Curtis was -at heart. He could see her two thousand years earlier administering in -some previous existence to the lusts of Roman soldiery: “Yes, a dear -girl, Flavia; and Julia, she’s nice; and if you like them plump Portia’s -a dear, sweet girl--so loving. Dacius Cassius said to me only -yesterday....” Yes, that was what she was, and beneath her -sentimentality how cold, how hard, how merciless, like that woman in -Brussels who had taken eighty per cent of the girls’ money. He was -continuing to draw comparisons with a vindictive pleasure when he -observed that she was collecting her knitting preparatory to a move. - -“But I know you two’ll want to be together. I won’t be a troublesome -chaperon,” she was saying; “I’ll get out of your way. I expect you’ve -lots to say to each other.” - -And before Roland quite knew what was happening he was alone with April. -He turned towards her, and as her eyes met his she blushed a little and -smiled, a shy, wavering smile that said: “I am here; take me if you -want me, I am yours”--a smile that would have been to anyone else -indescribably beautiful, but that to Roland, at that moment, appeared -childish and absurd. He did not know what to say. He was in no mood for -protestations and endearments. He could not act a lie. There was an -embarrassing pause. April turned her face away from him. He said -nothing, he did nothing. And then very distinctly, very slowly, like a -child repeating a lesson: - -“Did you have a good crossing?” The tension was broken; he began to talk -quickly, eagerly, inconsequently--anything to prevent another such -moment. And then Mrs. Curtis came back and the conversation was -monopolized, till Roland reminded her that it was seven o’clock and that -he would have to be getting back. - -“I haven’t seen my father yet.” - -“Of course, of course. We mustn’t keep him, must we, April?” - -Roland took his leave, but April did not, as was usual, follow him to -the door. She remained huddled in the window-seat, and did not even turn -her head in his direction. She was angry with him, and no doubt with -good cause, he reflected; but Mrs. Curtis had gone so suddenly; he had -been taken off his guard. Heavens! but what a home-coming! - -He felt happier though next morning when he walked into the office of -Marston & Marston. Everyone was pleased to see him back; the girls in -the counting-house smiled at him. He was informed by the lift-boy that -his cricket had been sadly missed during the latter half of the season, -and Mr. Stevens literally leaped from his desk to shake him by the hand. -It was ripping to see Gerald again, to come into his room and hear that -quietly drawled: “Well, old son,” and resume, as he had left it, their -old friendship. - -“The governor’s awfully pleased with you,” said Gerald, “never seen the -old boy so excited over anything before. He’s been talking about nothing -else. He keeps on saying: ‘The fellow who can make fifty runs in half an -hour can run a business.’ But I’m damned if I know how you did it. I’ve -gone over there with carefully prepared introductions and had a chat -with a few johnnies, but you seem to have gone pirating about, holding -up Government officials and boosting into financiers’ offices. How’s it -done?” - -Roland laughed. - -“That’s my secret.” - -“You are welcome to it,” said Gerald; “and tell me, did you have any -real adventures?” - -“One or two.” - -“Where? Good ones?” - -“Not bad. Brussels, the usual place.” - -Gerald shook his head. “You should give it up, old son, it isn’t worth -it.” - -Roland laughed. “I like your talking! Why, I never knew such a fellow as -you for women.” - -“For women, yes, but not professionals.” - -“That’s much worse.” - -But Gerald shook his head. “No, it isn’t, my son. No man ever got any -good yet out of going with professionals.” - -But before Roland had had time to elucidate this riddle Mr. Marston had -entered the room. He took Roland’s hand in his and shook it heartily. - -“This is splendid, my dear fellow, splendid! They told me you’d come -back and I knew where I should find you. It’s good to have you back, and -you’ve done splendidly--far better, I don’t mind telling you, than any -of us expected. We all looked on this as a sort of trial. But, my word, -you’ve brought it off.” - -“I’ve been telling him, father, that you’ve been going round London -saying that the man who can make fifty runs in half an hour is sure to -be able to run a business.” - -“And it’s true,” said Mr. Marston, “it’s true. If a man’s got the pluck -to face a ticklish situation at cricket, he can do anything. Business is -only bluff, like cricket, making the bowler think you’re set when you’re -really expecting every ball will be your last. If I’ve said it to Gerald -once I’ve said it fifty times. ‘My boy,’ I’ve said, ‘if you don’t do -another stroke of work in your life you’ll be worth a salary of five -hundred pounds a year for having brought young Whately to us.’ Now come -along and let’s go over those accounts.” - -They spent over an hour together, and at the end of it Mr. Marston rose -from his desk perfectly satisfied. - -“As far as I can see you haven’t made a slip. It’s first class -absolutely. Now, you run along to Perkins and settle up your personal -accounts with him, and then we’ll go out and have lunch somewhere -together, the three of us, and you can spend the afternoon at home. I -daresay your girl’s been missing you.” - -“I haven’t got a girl, sir.” - -“What! a young fellow like you not got a girl! We shall have to see -about that. Why, at your age I seem to remember....” And the old man -winked his eye and chuckled gayly. - -Perkins received Roland with considerable politeness, mingled for the -first time with respect, also, Roland suspected, with a more deep -dislike. - -“Well, so you’re back, are you? And they all tell me you’ve been doing -great things--interviewing Government officials.” - -“I’ve had a bit of luck.” - -“Useful luck?” - -“I suppose so.” - -“And now you want me to have a look at the accounts?” - -“That’s it.” - -“Right; bring them along.” - -Roland laid out his personal accounts, his hotel bills, his railway -fares, his entertaining expenses. - -“And, as far as I can see,” he said, “there’s a balance of about -thirteen pounds in your favor.” - -“We’ll have a look and see,” said Mr. Perkins, and he began to -scrutinize the accounts carefully, adding up every bill, and checking -the amount of the German balance-sheet. Roland had taken a great deal of -trouble over these accounts. He would not have minded making a few slips -in the figures he had placed before Mr. Marston, but he was desperately -anxious to present no weak spots to Perkins. - -“Yes, yes,” said Perkins, “these seem to be all right, and there’s a -balance, as you say, of thirteen pounds, five and threepence.” - -“Right,” said Roland, and began to count out the money. - -“Yes, but as far as I can see, there aren’t any--well, how shall I put -it?--any special expense accounts here. I usually let one or two of them -through all right.” - -“No, I’ve stated what all my charges are for.” - -“Well, then, aren’t there one or two little things? Usually you young -gentlemen like to have a few extras put down.” And his face, that was -turned to Roland’s, assumed a cunning, knowing smile, an unpleasant -smile, the smile of a man in a subservient position who enjoys the -privilege of being able to confer a favor on his superior, and at the -same time despises his superior for asking it. Roland had known that it -was in exactly this way that Perkins would offer to slip through a -special expense account. He knew that by accepting this offer he would -place himself eternally in Perkins’s debt. That, as in Gerald’s case, -there would be between them an acknowledged confederacy. This he would -never have. He had, as a matter of fact, incurred very few of the -special expenses to which Perkins referred. He had worked hard; he had -been alone. Solitary indulgence is never very exciting; one wants -companionship, as in everything, and so he had confined his excesses to -a couple of visits to a discreet establishment in Brussels, of which he -had decided to defray the cost himself. - -He was able, therefore, to meet Perkins’s leer with a look of puzzled -interrogation. - -“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Perkins. I think you’ve all my accounts -there, and I owe you thirteen pounds, five shillings and threepence; -perhaps you’ll give me a receipt.” - -In the look that they exchanged as Mr. Perkins respectfully handed -Roland the receipt, each recognized the beginning of a long antagonism. - -“Thanks very much, Mr. Perkins.” - -Roland walked out of the room jauntily. He had had the best of the first -skirmish. - -This victory put him on excellent terms with himself, and, later, a -bottle of excellent Burgundy at lunch wooed him to so kindly a sympathy -for his fellow-beings that any leader of advanced political opinions -would have found him an easy victim to any theory of world-brotherhood. -As, however, no harbinger of the new world accosted him on his way from -the City to Charing Cross Station, Roland was free to focus his entire -sympathy upon the forlorn figure of April. He thought of her suddenly -just outside Terry’s Theater, and the remembrance of his behavior to her -on the night before caused him to collide violently with an elderly -gentleman who was walking in the opposite direction. But he did not stop -to apologize; his sentimentality held a minor to his guilt. What a -selfish beast he had been. How miserable he must have made her. She must -have so looked forward to his return. He had hardly written to her while -he had been away. Poor little April, so sweet, so gentle. A wave of -tenderness for her consumed him. They had shared so much together; he -had confided in her his hopes and his ambitions. He worked himself into -a temper of self-abasement. He must go to her at once and beg -forgiveness. - -He found her sitting in the arm-chair before the fire. She raised her -eyes in mild amazement, surprised that he should visit her at such a -time. She did not know how she should comport herself. Her dignity told -her that she should rise and receive him coldly, but her instinct -counseled her to remain seated and hear what he had to say. She obeyed -her instinct. Roland flung his hat and stick on the cushioned -window-seat and precipitated himself at her feet. She tried to push him -away, but his voice murmuring the word “darling” overmastered her, and -she let him put his arms round her and draw her head upon his shoulder. - -“I feel such a beast, April, such a beast. All the day I have been -cursing myself and wondering what on earth possessed me. I don’t know -what it was. But all the time I’ve been away I’ve been so looking -forward to seeing you again. When I was all alone and unhappy I said to -myself: ‘Never mind, April’s waiting,’ and I thought how wonderful to -see you again, and then---- Oh, I don’t know, but when I came here last -night and found your mother here--I don’t know! All the time I was dying -to speak to you, and she would go on talking, and I got more and more -annoyed. And then, I don’t know how it happened, but I found myself -getting angry with you because of your mother.” - -“But you mustn’t, Roland, really you mustn’t. You shouldn’t speak of -mother like that; you know how good she’s been to us.” - -“Oh, yes, I know it, of course I do. But can’t you see what it was like -last night for me coming back to you, and wanting you, and then to hear -only your mother; and by the time she left us alone I had got so bad -tempered that----” - -“Yes, you weren’t very nice, were you?” - -And he had begun to pour out a further torrent of explanation when he -saw that a sly, mischievous smile was playing round the corners of her -mouth and that she was no longer angry. - -“Then you’ll forgive me?” he said. - -“But I don’t know about that.” - -“Oh, but you have, haven’t you? I know you have.” - -She began to remonstrate, to say that she had not forgiven him, that he -had been most unkind to her, but she made no resistance when his hand -slipped slowly round her neck and turned her face to his. And as he -raised it, she pouted ever so slightly her lips toward those that sank -to meet them. As their mouths met she passed one hand behind his head -and pressed it down to her. It was a long embrace, and when she drew -back from it, the luster of her eyes had grown dimmed and misty. - -“You’ve never kissed me like that before,” she said. - -“Perhaps I’ve never really loved you before.” - -“Oh, but I should hate to think that.” - -“But why?” - -“Oh, I don’t know. I’m silly, but if you only love me now, then -before--oh, it doesn’t matter, you love me now, don’t you?” - -And he answered her in the only possible way. - -One hour they had together, an hour of rich enchantment. The blinds were -drawn, the lamp unlighted; she sat on the floor with the firelight -playing over her, leaned back against him while he told her of Bruges -and its waterways, the proud boulevards of Brussels, the great cathedral -at Köln, the noble sweep of the Rhine and the hills on either side of -it. She followed little of what he said to her; it was enough for her, -after three long months, to be soothed by his presence, to hear his -voice, to hold his hand in hers, and to feel from time to time his -breath grow warm upon her neck and cheek as he bent to kiss her. It was -the tenderest hour their love had brought to them. - -But for Roland it was followed by a reaction. He felt, in a confused -manner, that he had been playing a part, that he had said what was but -half true. He had certainly been exasperated by Mrs. Curtis’s -conversation, but it was her talk, the supreme futility of her talk, -that had exasperated him. It had annoyed him in itself and not as being -a barrier between himself and April. He had told a lie. - -And it was not for the first time, he reminded himself. Half lies had -been an essential part of their love-making. At every crisis of their -relationship he had tampered with the truth. He had told her he had only -made love to Dolly because she had rejected him that evening at the -ball. He had told her that it was her belief in him that had inspired -his success at Hogstead. He had mistaken the fraction for the whole. -Were they never to meet on terms of common honesty? What was their love -worth if it had to live on lies? - -He returned home to find the drawing-room fire almost out. - -“Will these servants never do their work?” he grumbled. - -That evening the soup plates happened to be cold and the joint overdone. - -“It gets worse every day,” he said. “I don’t know what that girl thinks -she’s paid for. She never does anything right.” - -And when he went upstairs to turn on a bath he discovered that all the -hot water had been used in washing up the plates. He returned to the -drawing-room in a fury of impatience. - -“I do wish, mother,” he said, “that you’d explain to Lizzie that there’s -no need for her to wash herself as well as the plates in that sink of -hers.” - -“And I wish you wouldn’t grumble the whole time, Roland,” his mother -retorted. “Lizzie’s got a great deal to do. She has to do the cooking as -well as the housework. I think that, on the whole, she manages very -well.” - -“I am glad you think so,” said Roland, and walked out of the room. - -Next morning he found on his plate a letter from Mrs. Marston, inviting -him down for the week-end. - -“It seems such a long time since that cricket week,” she wrote, “and we -all want to congratulate you on your splendid work. So do come.” - -He handed the letter across to his mother. - -She raised her eyebrows interrogatively. - -“Well, dear?” - -“Of course I shall go.” - -She did not answer him, and he read in her silence a disapproval. - -“You don’t want me to,” he said. - -“I don’t mind, dear. It’s for you to decide.” - -“But you’d rather I didn’t?” - -“Well, dear, I was only thinking that as you’ve been away from us for -three months, and....” - -“Yes, mother, and what?” - -“Well, dear, to go away, the very first week-end.” - -“But you’ll be seeing lots of me all the week.” - -“I wasn’t thinking of us, though of course we like to have you here. It -was April; don’t you think it might rather hurt her feelings?” - -“Oh, bother April!” - -“But, dear....” - -“I know, mother, but it’s April this and April that; it’s nothing but -April.” - -His mother raised to him a surprised, grieved face, but she made no -answer, and Roland, standing beside the table, experienced the sensation -of an anxious actor who has finished his speech in the middle of the -stage and does not know how to reach the wings. - -“You see, mother,” he began, but she raised a hand to stop him. - -“No, dear, don’t explain: I understand.” - -He cursed himself, as he walked to the bus, for his ill-temper. What a -beast he was--first to April, then to his mother; the two people for -whom he cared most in the world. What was wrong? Why was he behaving -like this? It had not been always so. At school he had had a reputation -for good-naturedness--“a social lubricant,” someone had called him--and -at Hogstead he was still the same, cheerful, good-humored, willing to do -anything for anyone else. He became his old self in the company of -Gerald and his father and the light-hearted, irresponsible Muriel. It -was only at Hammerton that he was irritable and quick to take offense. -His ill-humor fell away from him, however, the moment that he reached -the office. - -“Well, old son,” said Gerald, “and did you get a letter from the mater -this morning?” - -“Yes.” - -“And you’re coming?” - -“Well, I don’t know yet.” - -“Oh, but of course you are. They’ll all be fearfully annoyed if you -don’t, especially Muriel----” - -“Muriel! Why, what did she say?” - -“Nothing particular as far as I remember, but she seemed frightfully -keen. She says you’re the only one of my friends she’s any use for. She -finds them too stuck up--middle-aged at twenty she calls them. So you’ll -have to come.” - -“I suppose I shall.” - -“Of course you will. Sit down and write a note this minute, so that -there’s no chance of your thinking better.” - -When Roland returned home that night his mother made no reference to the -scene at the breakfast table. They spoke at dinner of indifferent -things, politics and personalities; but there was a brooding atmosphere -of disquiet. Not until nearly bedtime did Roland announce his intention -of going down to Hogstead. His mother’s reply expressed neither -reproach nor disappointment. - -“Yes, dear,” she said; “well, I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.” - -And just because her voice was even and unchallenging, Roland felt that -he had to give some explanation. - -“You see, mother, Mr. Marston is, after all, my boss, and these -visits--well, they’re rather a royal command. They’d be a bit annoyed if -I didn’t go.” - -“Of course, dear, of course. We only want you to do what you think -best.” - -But he knew that she was disappointed. She was right, too. He supposed -he ought really to have stayed at home and gone for a walk with April. -He felt guilty in his attitude towards April, guilty and, in a way, -resentful, resentful against these repeated demands on his time and -energy, against this assumption of an unflagging passion, an eternal -intoxication. And yet he did feel guilty. Was he treating her as a boy -ought to treat his girl? How rarely, for example, had he ever taken her -anywhere. Ah, well, that at least he could remedy. - -Next day, during his lunch hour, he went round to the box office of the -Adelphi and bought three stalls for Thursday night. He returned home -with the happy air of one that carries a delightful surprise in his -pocket. - -“Mother,” he said, “what are you doing on Thursday night?” - -“Nothing, dear, as far as I know.” - -“Well, would you like to come out somewhere with me?” - -“You know I always like to go out anywhere with you.” - -“And April?” - -“Of course, dear.” - -“Well, then, what do you say to a dinner in Soho and the Adelphi -afterwards?” - -“But, dear--oh, you don’t mean it?” - -“Yes, I do, mother. I wanted to celebrate my return, so I got the three -seats. I’ve booked the table, and there we are.” - -Her face flushed with pleasure. - -“Oh, but you shouldn’t have, really you shouldn’t, and you don’t want -me.” - -“Of course we do, mother, and anyhow we could hardly go alone.” - -“And have you told April?” - -“No, I’m just off to tell her.” - -He bent down, kissed her, then straightened himself and ran out of the -room. She heard his footsteps clatter on the stairs, then move about in -the bedroom above her, and then once more clatter on the stairs. She -sighed, her eyes dimming a little, but glad, inexpressibly glad, that he -should still need her in his happiness. - -Roland found April alone. - -“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said. - -“What is it?” - -“What do you think?” - -“A box of chocolates.” - -“Do you want a box of chocolates?” - -“I should like one.” - -“Right! Then I’ll go and get you one.” And he turned towards the door, -but she ran after him and caught him by the sleeve of his coat. - -“Don’t be silly,” she said; “come back!” - -“But you said you wanted a box of chocolates.” - -“But I want to know what your surprise is first?” - -“Well, then, have a look in my pockets and see if you can find it.” - -She put both her hands in his coat pockets, and quickly, before she knew -what he was doing, his arms were round her, and he had drawn her close -to him. Her hands were prisoners in his pockets and she was powerless. -Slowly he put his face to hers and kissed her. - -“That’s not fair,” she said. - -“It’s very nice.” - -“I daresay, but I want to know what your surprise is?” - -For answer he placed the envelope in her hand; she looked puzzled, but -when she had opened it she gave a little cry of delight. - -“Oh, Roland, how dear of you!” - -“Then you’ll come?” - -“Of course. Oh, Roland, dear! It’s years since I went to a theater. I -shall love it.” - -He was delighted with the success of his plan. He felt happy and -confident. How pretty, how charming April was; how much he was in love -with her. He took her on his knee and insisted on rearranging her hair. - -“But you’re only making it worse, Roland,” she complained. - -“Oh, no, I’m not; I’m getting on splendidly. You just wait and see,” and -he continued to stroke her hair, dividing it so that he could kiss her -neck. - -“It’s in an awful state,” she said, “and someone is sure to come before -I can tidy it.” - -“Don’t you worry,” he said, drawing his fingers along the curved roll of -hair. And then suddenly it all came down; the long tresses fell in a -cascade about them, covering them in a fine brown net. - -“Oh, you beast, you beast!” she said, struggling to get up. - -But he held her close. - -“Oh, no; it’s ripping like that. You look lovely.” - -“Do I?” - -“And, look, I can kiss you through your hair,” and he drew a thin curl -across her mouth and laid his upon it, moving his lips slightly up and -down till he had drawn the hair into their mouths and their lips could -meet. - -“But you did it on purpose, I’m sure you did. It couldn’t have happened -like that of its own, all of a sudden.” - -“Well, what if it didn’t! You look simply ripping.” - -She laughed happily, hiding her face upon his shoulder. - -“It’s very wrong of you, though.” - -“What! wrong to make you look pretty!” - -And she could not refrain from kissing him. - -“What would mother say?” - -“She’s out.” - -“But if she came in?” - -“She won’t.” - -“Well, at any rate, I shall have to go and put it up.” - -“No, please don’t.” - -“But suppose someone comes in?” - -“They won’t. And besides, if they did, they ought to think themselves -jolly lucky; you look simply lovely!” - -“Do I?” The words came in a soft whisper from lips almost touching his. - -“As always.” The hand that lay in his pressed tightly. “You’ll stay like -that, won’t you?” - -“If you’re good.” - -“Darling!” - -He did not tell her about the dinner. He suggested that he should call -for her at six, and she was too excited at the time to take into account -so material a consideration as food. But her eyes sparkled with pleasure -when he took her into the little Soho restaurant where he had booked a -table. She had never been in such a place before and her delight in the -unfamiliar room and food was joy to Roland. For her it was a place of -mystery and enchantment. She asked him hurried, excited questions: What -sort of people came here? Did he think the lady in the corner was an -actress? Who had painted the brightly colored fresco? He persuaded her -to take half a glass of wine; she sipped at it in a fascinating, nervous -manner, with little pecks, as though she thought it were going to burn -her, and between each sip she would smile at Roland over the rim of the -wine glass. As she sat she flung to left and right quick, eager glances -at the waiter, the hangings, the occupants of the other tables. Her -excitement charmed Roland. It was like seeing a child play with a new -toy. In a way, too, it was an excitant to his vanity, a tribute to his -manhood, to his superior knowledge of the world. And in the theater, -when the light was turned out, he sat close to her and held her hand -tightly at the moments of dramatic tension; and when she marveled at the -beauty of the heroine he whispered in her ear: “Nothing like as pretty -as you are!” And Mrs. Whately, sitting on the other side of Roland, -glanced at them from time to time with a kind indulgence, remembering -her youth, and her early love-making. It was a memorably happy evening. -When Roland walked back with April and kissed her good-night in the -doorway she said nothing, but her hand clenched tightly on the lapel of -his coat. And when he returned home he saw in his mother’s eye an -expression of love and gratitude that had not been there for a long -while. - -He walked upstairs in a mood of deep contentment. After he had undressed -he stood for a moment at the open window, looking out over the roofs and -chimney stacks of London. Behind a few window panes glowed the faint -light of a candle or a lamp, but the majority of the houses were -obscured in darkness. Hammerton was asleep. But the confused murmur of -traffic and the faint red glow in the sky reminded him that the true -London, the London that he loved, was only now waking to a night of -pleasure. Ah, well, to-morrow he would be at Hogstead. He flung back his -arms with the proud relief of one who has fulfilled his obligations and -is at liberty to take his own enjoyment. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -LILITH AND MURIEL - - -Roland was in the true holiday mood as he stepped into the afternoon -train to Hogstead. He had before him the prospect of sixty hours of real -happiness. He would be made much of, he would be congratulated, he would -be able, on occasions, to lead the conversation. It was no small feat -that he had accomplished. He had won the appreciation of a family that -was satisfied with itself and was inclined to regard its own -achievements as the summit of human ability and ambition. It had been -simple in comparison to make an impression on April--a dinner in a Soho -restaurant. Muriel and Beatrice would have accepted such an evening as a -matter of course, an affair of everyday occurrence. His heart beat -quickly as he thought of Beatrice. Would she be there, he wondered. -Would she have heard of his success? What effect would it have made on -her? She might regard it as much or little. One never knew. Muriel, -though, had been impressed; that he knew for certain. It would be great -fun receiving her congratulations. He thought of her as he had left her -four months ago, a tousle-headed Muriel, a little girl who had charmed -him with her chatter and had been so unexpectedly petulant when he had -questioned her about her aunt. He had not realized that at seventeen -four months make a big difference with a girl. No one had told him that -she had put her hair up and that her skirts would only reveal the instep -of her ankle. He had left her a girl and she had become a woman. - -She was the first person he saw on his arrival. A footman had just taken -his bag and was helping him off with his coat when the drawing-room door -opened, there was a rustle of skirts, and Muriel came impulsively to -greet him. - -He drew back in surprise at the sight of her tall, graceful figure, with -the long, tightly fitting skirt and hair no longer tossing mischievously -about her shoulders, but gathered behind her neck in a long, wide curve. - -“What’s the matter, Roland?” she asked. - -“But, Muriel,” he said. - -“Well?” - -“You are so changed.” - -She broke into a peal, a silvery peal, of laughter. - -“So you have noticed it? We wondered whether you would. Mother thought -you would, but I said you wouldn’t. And Gerald had a bet with father -about it and he’s won, so he’ll have to take us all to a theater. Come -and tell them about it.” - -Roland followed her in amazement. The change in her was so unexpected. -He had always looked on her as a little girl whom he had teased and -played with, and now, suddenly, in a night, she had grown up into a -daughter of that other world of which he had caught fleeting, enticing -glimpses at restaurants and theaters. He watched her as she laughed and -talked, unable to realize that this was the little girl with whom he had -played last summer. And yet to him she was unaltered. She offered him -the same frank comradeship. She took him for a walk after tea and spoke -with real enthusiasm of his success. - -“I can’t say how glad I am, Roland. I was so awfully anxious for you to -come off. I was so afraid something might go wrong. I think it’s -wonderful of you.” - -Her words thrilled him. It was something to win the admiration of a girl -like Muriel. April was naturally impressed by his achievements. Of -course it would be wonderful to her that he should visit great cities -and dabble in high finance. It was like a fairy story that had come -true. But Muriel had spent all her life in that world. She had traveled; -her parents were rich. She was accustomed to the jargon of finance. It -would have been a feat for him, a new-comer to that world, to have -proved himself able to move comfortably there, but to have impressed her -with his achievements ... and when she began to ask him how he had -maneuvered those big interviews his flattered vanity could not allow him -to hold his secret. - -“But I’ve told no one,” he said, “not even my people.” - -“That’s all the more reason why you should tell me.” - -“Will you promise to keep it a secret?” - -“On my honor.” - -And so he told her of his fortune and adroitness, how he had met -Monsieur Rocheville in the restaurant and how he had tricked Herr -Haupsehr with the magic name of Brumenhein. She laughed heartily and -asked him questions. What would happen if the two ever met? - -“The Lord knows,” said Roland. “But in the meantime we shall have sold -many gallons of varnish, and perhaps we shall have become indispensable -to the old fellow.” - -They made no mention during their walk of Beatrice. For some unexplained -reason Roland had felt shy of asking Muriel whether she was to be one of -the party. He had been content to wait and, on their return, he -experienced, as he pushed open the drawing-room door, a sudden -surprising anxiety. Would Beatrice be there? He assumed composure, but -he could not prevent his eyes traveling quickly round the room in search -of her. When he saw that she was not there he felt a sudden emptiness, a -genuine disappointment. She would not be coming, then. And now that she -was not there half his excitement, his enthusiasm, was gone. He sat -beside Mrs. Marston and discussed, without interest, the costliness of -Brussels lace, and wondered how soon he could conveniently go and change -for dinner. The minutes dragged by. - -And then at last, in that half hour when the room was slowly emptying, -the door opened and he saw Beatrice, her slim figure silhouetted against -the dull red wall paper of the hall. His heart almost stopped beating. -Would she notice him, he wondered. Had she forgotten their lunch -together? Had the growing intimacy between them been dispelled by a four -months’ absence? He watched her walk slowly into the room, her hair, as -ever, disordered about her neck and temples, and on her features that -look of difference, of being apart, of belonging to another world, that -appearance of complete detachment. Then suddenly she saw Roland, and -smiled and walked quickly forward, her hand stretched out to him. - -“I’ve been hearing so much about you,” she said. “They tell me you’ve -been doing wonderful things. Come and sit with me over here and tell me -all about it.” - -And once again the love of vanity prompted him to confess his secret. - -“But you won’t tell anyone, will you?” he implored. - -She smiled. “If I can keep my own secrets, surely I can keep yours,” she -said. Then, after a pause, “And they tell me Gerald won his bet.” - -He blushed hotly. “Yes.” - -“I knew he would,” she said, and she leaned forward, as she had at the -restaurant, her hands pillowing her chin, her eyes fixed on his. - -Roland laughed nervously. “But I don’t see why,” he began. - -She shook her head. “That’s the mistake all you men make. You think a -woman sees nothing unless she’s not watching you the whole time. But she -does.” - -It flattered him to be included under the general heading of “you men.” -And at that moment Muriel came into the room. She was wearing a low -evening dress, wonderfully charming in her new-found womanhood. Roland’s -eyes followed her in admiration. - -“Isn’t she pretty?” he said. “That pale blue dress; it’s just right. It -goes well with her complexion. Pale colors always do.” - -Beatrice did not answer for a moment; then she gave a little sigh. “Yes, -Muriel is very pretty. I envy her.” - -Roland turned quickly to her a look of surprised interrogation. - -“But you! Why you look younger than any of us.” - -She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps; but what’s the use of it to me? -Ah, don’t say anything, please. You mustn’t waste your time on me. Go -on and talk to Muriel.” - -Dinner that evening was a jovial meal. Muriel having announced with due -solemnity that Gerald had won his bet, she proceeded to decide at what -theater Mr. Marston should fulfill his obligation. - -“And don’t you think,” said Muriel, “that Roland ought to come with us? -If it weren’t for him we shouldn’t be going at all.” - -“I suppose he ought, the young rascal, though I can’t think why he -should have spotted it. Muriel was an untidy little scamp when he went -away, and she’s an untidy little scamp now he’s come back.” - -“Oh, father!” - -“Yes, you are. You can’t tell what’s on purpose with you and what isn’t; -you’re all over the place.” - -It was perfectly untrue, of course, but they laughed all the same. - -“That’s a poor excuse, father,” said Gerald. “I knew he’d spot it. It’s -through spotting things like that that he manages to wrangle interviews -with all these pots.” - -“Perhaps it is, perhaps it is; I’m bothered if I know how he does it.” -And Roland and Muriel exchanged a swift glance of confederacy; a feeling -that was increased when the last post arrived and Mr. Marston -interrupted the general conversation with a piece of news his letter had -brought him. - -“My dear, here’s a funny thing. I never saw it in the papers, though I -suppose it must have been in them. But that fellow Brumenhein is dead.” - -“Brumenhein!” - -“Yes, you know--the fellow whom the Kaiser thought such a lot of. People -said he might very likely supplant Griegenbach.” - -“I didn’t dare look at you,” Roland said to Muriel afterwards. “I -couldn’t have kept a straight face if I had.” - -“And what a bit of luck.” - -“It may save me a lot of unpleasantness later on.” - -“You’re a wonderful boy.” - -They were saying good night to each other on the landing, and Muriel, -who slept on the second floor, was standing on the stairs, leaning over -the banisters. Her words made Roland feel very brave and confident. - -“And to think that you didn’t expect me to notice that you had put your -hair up!” - -He meant it as a joking repartee to her compliment, but the moment after -he had said it he felt frightened. They looked at each other and said -nothing. There was a moment of chill, intense embarrassment, then Muriel -gave a nervous laugh and, turning quickly, ran up to her bedroom. - - - - -PART IV - -ONE WAY OR ANOTHER - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -THREE YEARS - - -The next three years of Roland’s life were an amplification of those -three days, and nothing would be gained by a detailed description of -them. The narrative would be cut across frequently by visits to Europe, -dropped threads would have to be gathered up, relationships reopened. -The action was delayed, interrupted and, at times, held up altogether. -The trips abroad were always altering Roland’s perspective, and the -sense of distance made him reconsider his attitude. Four months after -the events described in the last chapter he had reached a state of acute -reaction against his home, his parents and, in a way, against April, -because of her connection with that world from which he was endeavoring -to escape. Very little was needed to drive him into declared revolt, but -at that moment he was sent abroad and, once abroad, everything became -different. He began to accuse himself of selfishness and ingratitude. -His parents had denied themselves comfort and pleasure to send him to an -expensive school; they had given him everything. Like the pelican, they -had gone hungry so that he should be full. Since he could remember, the -life of that family had centered round him. Every question had been -considered on the bearing it would have on his career. Was this the -manner of repayment? And it was the same with April. He forgot her -mother and her home; he remembered only her beauty and her love for him, -her fixed, unwavering love, and the dreams that they had shared. He -always returned home in a temper of sentimentality, full of good -resolutions, promising himself that he would be gentle and sympathetic -to his parents, that he would never swerve from his love for April. The -first days were invariably soft and sweet; but in a short time the old -conflict reasserted itself; the bright world of Hogstead stood in -dazzling contrast to the unromantic Hammerton. He became irritated, as -before, by the trifling inconveniences of a house that lacked a parlor -maid; unpunctual, unappetizing meals; and, more especially, by the -endless friction imposed on him by the company of men and women who had -been harassed all their lives by the fret and worry of small houses and -small incomes. Trivial, ignoble troubles, that was the misfortune of -everyone fated to live in Hammerton. And April was a part of it. He was -very fond of her; indeed, he still thought he was in love with her, but -love for Roland was dependent on many other things, was bound up with -his other enthusiasms and reactions. He enjoyed her company and her -caresses. In her presence he was capable of genuine tenderness; but it -was so easy. April responded so simply to any kindness shown to her. -There was no uncertainty about her. He missed the swift anger of the -chase. - -More and more frequently he found himself receiving and accepting -invitations to spend the week-end at Hogstead; and always when he -announced his intention of going there he was aware of silent criticism -on the part of his parents. He felt guilty and ashamed of himself for -feeling guilty. It became a genuine struggle for him to pronounce the -words at breakfast. It was like confessing a secret, and he hated it. -Had he not a right to choose his friends? Then would come a reaction of -acute self-accusation and he would improvise a treat, a theater or a -picnic. His emotions would fling it like a sop to his conscience: -“There, does that content you? Now may I go and live my own life?” -Afterwards, of course, he was again bitterly ashamed of himself. - -But always on the ebb-flow of his contrition came fear--the instinct of -self-preservation, to save, at all costs, his individuality from the -fate that threatened it. Whenever things seemed likely to reach a head, -a European trip would intervene, and the whole business would have to -begin again. An action that would ordinarily have completed its rhythm -within three or four months was lengthened into three years; in the end -inevitably the curve of the parabola was reached. The time was drawing -near when Roland would have to make his decision one way or another. - -He was by now earning a salary of four hundred pounds a year, and -marriage--marriage as his parents understood it--was well within his -means. Up till now, whenever any suggestion about the date of his -marriage had been advanced, he referred to the uncertain nature of his -work. - -“I never know where I’m going to be from one week to another. Marriage -is out of the question for a chap with a job like that.” - -Their engagement was still unannounced. He had retained that loophole, -though at the time it was not so that he had regarded it. - -Ralph had asked him once whether he was engaged. And the question had -put him on his guard. He didn’t like engagements. Love was a secret -between two people. Why make it public? He must strike before the enemy -struck. In other words, he must come to an agreement with April before -her mother opened negotiations. That evening he had brought up the -subject. - -He was sitting in the window-seat, while she was on a stool beside him, -her head resting against his knees and his hand stroking slowly her neck -and hair and cheek. - -“You know, darling,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about our engagement.” - -“Yes, dear.” - -“Well, are you awfully keen on an engagement?” - -“But how do you mean? We shall have to be engaged sometime, shan’t we?” - -“Oh, of course, yes. But there’s no need for a long engagement, is -there? What I mean is that we could easily get engaged now if we wanted -to. But it would be a long business, and oh, I don’t know! Once we’re -engaged our affairs cease to be our own. People will be asking us -‘When’s the happy day?’ and all that sort of thing. Our love won’t be -our own any longer.” - -“It’s just as you like, dear.” - -It was so nice to sit there against his knee, with his fingers against -her face. Why should they worry about things? It would be nice to be -engaged, of course, and to have a pretty ring, but it didn’t matter. -“It’s just as you like,” she had said, and they had left it at that over -two years ago and there had been no reason to rediscuss it. But he knew -that now the whole matter would have to be brought up. It had been -decided that he was to remain in London for a couple of years in charge -of the Continental branch; he would have to go abroad occasionally, but -there would be no more long trips. He was in a position to marry if he -wanted to. His family would expect him to, those of his friends who had -heard of the “understanding” would expect him to, Mrs. Curtis would -expect him to, and he owed it to April that he should marry her. For -years now he had kept her waiting. There was not the slightest doubt as -to what was his duty. - -Nothing, however, could alter the fact that there was nothing in the -world that he wanted less than this marriage. It would mean an end to -all those pleasant week-ends at Hogstead. It was one thing to invite a -young bachelor who was no trouble to look after and who was amusing -company; it was quite another thing to entertain a married couple. He -would no longer be able to throw into his business that undivided energy -of his. He would not be free; he would have to play for safety. As his -friendship with the Marstons began to wane, he would become increasingly -every year an employee and not an associate. He would belong to the -ruled class. And it would be the end, too, of his pleasant little dinner -parties with Gerald. He would have to be very careful with his money. -They would be fairly comfortable in a small house for the first year or -so, but from the birth of their first child their life would become -complicated with endless financial worries and would begin to resemble -that of his own father and mother, till, finally, he would lose interest -in himself and begin to live in his children. What a world! The failure -of the parent became forgotten in the high promise of the child, and -that child grew up only to meet and be broken by the conspiracy of the -world’s wisdom and, in its turn, to focus its thwarted ambitions on its -children, and then its children’s children. That was the eternal cycle -of disillusion; whatever happened he must break that wheel. - -But the battle appeared hopeless. The forces were so strong that were -marshaled against him. What chance did he stand against that mingled -appeal of sentiment and habit? All that spring he felt himself standing -upon a rapidly crumbling wall. Whenever he went down to Hogstead he kept -saying to himself: “Yes, I’m safe now, secure within time and space. But -it’s coming. Nothing can stop it. Night follows day, winter summer; one -can’t fight against the future, one can’t anticipate it. One has to -wait; it chooses its own time and its own place.” At the office he was -fretful and absent-minded. - -“What’s the matter with you?” Gerald asked him once. - -“Nothing.” - -“Oh, but there must be, you’ve been awfully queer the last week or so.” - -Roland did not answer, and there was an awkward silence. - -“I say, old man, I don’t quite like asking you, but you’re not in debt -or anything, are you? Because if you are, I mean” - -“Oh, no, really. I’m not even ‘overdrawn.’” - -In Gerald’s experience of the world there were two ills to which mankind -was heir--money and woman. The subdivisions of these ills were many, but -he recognized no other main source. If Roland was not in debt, then -there was a woman somewhere, and later in the day he brought the matter -up again. - -“I say, old son, you’ve not been making an ass of yourself with some -woman, have you? No one’s got hold of you, have they?” - -“Lord, no!” laughed Roland. “I only wish they had!” - -But Gerald raised a warning finger. - -“Touch wood, my son. Don’t insult Providence. You can take my word for -it that sooner or later some woman will get hold of you and then it’s -the devil, the very devil. Did I ever tell you about the girl at -Broadstairs?” And there ensued the description of a seaside amour, -followed by some shrewd generalities on the ways of a man with--but to -conclude the quotation would be hardly pertinent. At any rate, Gerald -told his story and pointed his moral. - -“You may take my word for it, adultery is a whacking risk. It’s awfully -jolly while it lasts, and you think yourself no end of a dog when you -offer the husband a cigar, but sooner or later the wife clings round the -bed-post and says: ‘Darling, I have deceived you!’ And then you’re in -it, up to the ruddy neck!” - -Roland laughed, as he always did, at Gerald’s stories, but it hurt him -to think that his friend should have noticed a change in him. If he was -altered already by a few weeks of Hammerton, what would he be like in -five years’ time after the responsibilities of marriage had had their -way with him? And marriage was not for five years, but for fifty. - -He never spoke to Gerald of April now. There had been a time in the -early days of their friendship when he had confided in him, under an -oath of secrecy, that he hoped to marry her as soon as his position -permitted. And Gerald had agreed with him that it was a fine thing to -marry young, “and it’s the right thing for you,” he added; “some fellows -are meant for marriage and others aren’t. I think you’re one of the ones -that are.” A cryptic statement that Roland had, at the time, called in -question, but Gerald only laughed. “I may be wrong,” he had said, “one -never knows, but I don’t think I am.” Often afterwards he had asked -Roland about April and whether they were still in love with each other -as much as ever, and Roland, his vanity flattered by the inquiry, had -assured him of their constancy. But of late, when Gerald had made some -light reference to “the fair April,” Roland had changed the -conversation, or, if a question were asked, had answered it obliquely, -or managed to evade it, so that Gerald had realized that the subject was -no longer agreeable to him, and, being blessed with an absence of -curiosity, had dropped it from his repertoire of pleasantries. But he -did not connect April with his friend’s despondency. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -THREE DAYS - - -The summer was nearly over, however, before the crisis came. It was on a -Friday evening in the beginning of September, and Roland was sitting -with his mother, as was usual with them, for a short talk after his -father had gone to bed. He could tell that something was worrying her. -Her conversation had been disjointed and many of her remarks irrelevant. -And suddenly his instinct warned him that she was going to speak to him -about April. He went suddenly still. If someone had thrown a stone at -him at that moment he would have been unable to move out of the way of -it. He could recollect distinctly, to the end of his life, everything -that had passed through his mind during that minute of terrifying -silence that lay between his realization of what was coming and the -first sound of that opening sentence. - -“Roland, dear, I hope you won’t mind my mentioning it, but your father -and I have been talking together about you and April.” - -He could remember everything: the shout of a newsboy in the -street--“Murder in Tufnell Park!” the slight rustle of the curtain -against the window-sill; the click of his mother’s knitting needles. -And, till that moment, he had never noticed that the pattern of the -carpet was irregular, that on the left side there were seven roses and -five poppies and on the right six roses and six poppies. They had had -that carpet for twenty years and he had never noticed it before. His -eyes were riveted on this curious deformity, while through the window -came the shriek of the newsboy--“Murder in Tufnell Park!” Then his -mother’s voice broke the tension. The moment had come; he gathered his -strength to him. As he had walked five years earlier with unflinching -head, up the hill to Carus Evans, so now he answered his mother with an -even voice: - -“Yes, mother?” - -“Well, dear, we’ve been thinking that you really ought to be settling -something definite about yourself and April.” - -“But we didn’t want to be engaged, mother.” - -“I wasn’t thinking of that, dear. I know about that. It’s a modern idea, -I suppose, though I think myself that it would have been better some -time ago, but it’s not an engagement so much we’re thinking of as of -your marriage.” - -It was more sudden than Roland had expected. - -“Oh, but--oh, surely Mrs. Curtis would never agree. She’d say we were -much too young.” - -“Well, that’s what we thought, but I went round and saw her the other -day, and she quite agreed with us that it was really no good waiting any -longer. You are making a lot of money, and it’s quite likely that Mr. -Marston will raise your salary when he hears you’re going to be married; -and after all, why should you wait? As I said to your father: ‘They’ve -known each other for a long time, and if they don’t know their minds now -they never will.’” - -Roland did not know what to say. He was unarmed by a sympathy and -kindness against which he could not fight. - -“It’s awfully decent of you.” Those were the only words that occurred to -him, and he knew, even as he uttered them, that they were not only -completely inadequate, but pitifully inexpressive of his state of mind. - -“We only want to do what will make you happy, and it is happier to marry -young, really it is!” - -He made a last struggle. - -“But, mother, don’t you think that for April’s sake--she’s so young. -Isn’t it rather hard on her to be loaded with responsibilities so -early?” - -“It’s nice of you to think that, Roland. It shows you really care for -her; but I think that in the end, when she’s an old woman like I am, -she’ll be glad she married young.” - -And then, because Roland looked still doubtful, she offered him the -benefit of what wisdom the narrow experiences of her life had brought -her. She had never unlocked her heart before; it hurt her to do it now -and her eyes welled with tears. But she felt that, at this great crisis -of his life, she must be prepared to lay before her son everything that -might help him in it. It might be of assistance to him to know how these -things touched a woman, and so she told him how she too had once thought -it cruel that responsibilities should have been laid on her so soon. - -“I was only nineteen when I married your father, and things were very -difficult at first. It was a small house, we had no servant, and I had -to get up early in the morning and light the fires and get the breakfast -things ready, and all the morning I had to scrub and brush and wash up. -I had no friends. And then, after tea, I used to lie down for an hour -and rest, I was so tired, and I wanted to look fresh and pretty for your -father when he came home. And there were times when I thought it was -unfair; that I should have been allowed to be free and happy and -unworried like other girls of my age. I used to see some of my school -friends very occasionally and they used to tell me of their balls and -parties, and I was so envious. And then very often your father was -irritable and bad-tempered when he came back, and he found fault with my -cooking, and I used to go away and cry all by myself and wonder why I -was doing it, working so hard and for nothing. And then I began to think -he didn’t love me any more; there was another girl: she was fresher; she -didn’t have to do any housework. There was nothing in it; it never came -to anything. Your father was always faithful; he’s always been very good -to me, but I could see from the way his face lighted up when she came -into the room that he was attracted by her, and I can’t tell you how it -hurt me. I used to think that he preferred that other girl, that he -thought her prettier than I was. It wasn’t easy those first three years. -When you’ve been married three years you’re almost certain to regret it -and think you could have done better with someone else, but after ten -years you’ll know very well that you couldn’t, because, Roland, love -doesn’t last; not what you mean by love; but something takes its place, -and that something is more important. When two people have been through -as much together as your father and I have, there’s--I don’t know how to -put it--but, you can’t do without each other. And it makes a big -difference the being married early. That’s why I should like you and -April to marry as soon as ever you can. You’d never regret it.” - -The tears began to trickle slowly down her cheeks; she tried to go on, -but failed. - -Roland did not know what to do or say. He had never loved his mother so -much as he did then, but he could not express that love for her with -words. He knelt forward and put his arms round her and drew her damp -cheek to his. - -“Mother,” he whispered. “Mother, darling!” - -For a long time they remained thus in a silent embrace. Then she drew -back, straightened herself, and began to dab at her eyes with a -handkerchief. - -“It’ll be all right, mother,” he said. - -She did not answer, but smiled a soft, glad smile, and taking his hand -pressed it gently between hers. - -“As long as you’re happy, Roland,” she said. - -And so the crisis had come and had been settled. In those few minutes -the direction of fifty years had been chosen finally. It was hard, but -what would you? Life went that way. At any rate he would have those -first few scented months; that at least was his. For a year he and April -would be indescribably happy in the new-found intimacy of marriage, and -afterwards--but of what could one be certain? For all he knew life might -choose to readjust itself. One could not have anything both ways; -indeed, one paid for everything. The Athenian parent had been far-seeing -when he knelt before the altar in prayer that the compensating evil for -his son’s success might be light. One should do what lay to hand. As he -curled himself in his bed he thought of April, and his heart beat -quickly at the knowledge that her grace and tenderness would soon be -his. - -He shut away all thought of the dark years that must follow the passing -of that first enchantment and fixed his mind on the sure pleasure that -awaited him. How wonderful, after all, marriage could be. To return home -at the end of the day and find your wife waiting for you. You would be -tired and she would take you in her arms and run cool fingers through -your hair, and you would talk together for a while, and she would tell -you what she had done during the day, and you would tell her of whom you -had met and of the business you had transacted, and you would bring your -successes and lay them at her feet and you would say: “I made so much -money to-day.” And your words would lock that money away in her little -hand--“All yours,” they would seem to say. Then you would go upstairs -and change for dinner, and when you came down you would find her -standing before the fire, one long, bare arm lying along the -mantelpiece, and you would come to her and very slowly pass your hand -along it, and, bending your head, you would kiss the smooth skin of her -neck. And could anything be more delightful than the quiet dinner -together? Then would come the slow contentment of that hour or so before -bedtime, while the warmth of the fire subsided slowly and you sat -talking in low tones. And, afterwards, when you were alone in the warm -darkness to love each other. Marriage must be a very fine adventure. - -The next day brought with it its own problems, and on this Saturday -morning in early autumn the white mist that lay over the roofs of -Hammerton was a sufficient object of speculation. Did it veil the blue -sky that adds so much to the charm of cricket, or a gray, sodden expanse -of windy, low-flying clouds? It was the last Saturday of the cricket -season. Roland was, naturally, bound for Hogstead, and there is no day -in the whole year on which the cricketer watches the sky with more -anxiety. In May he is impatient for his first innings, but as he walks -up and down the pavilion in his spiked boots and hears the rain patter -on the corrugated iron roof he can comfort himself with the knowledge -that sooner or later the sun will shine, if not this week, then the -next, and that in a long season he is bound to have many opportunities -of employing that late cut he has been practicing so assiduously at the -nets. In the middle of the season he is a hardened warrior; he takes the -bad with the good; he has outgrown his first eagerness; he has become, -in fact, a philosopher. Last week he made seventy-two against the Stoics -and was missed in the slips before he had scored. Such fortune is bound -to be followed by a few disappointments. But at the end of the season a -wet day is a dire misfortune. As he sits in the pavilion and watches the -rain sweep across the pitch he remembers that only that morning he -observed the erection of goal posts on the village green, that the -winter is long and slow to pass, that for eight months he will not hold -a bat in his hands, that this, his last forlorn opportunity of making a -century, is even now fast slipping from him. - -The depression of such a day is an abiding memory through the gray -months of January and December, and, though Roland had had a fairly -successful season, he was naturally anxious to end it well. He was -prepared to distrust that mist. He had seen many mists break into heavy -Sunshine. He had also seen many mists dissolve into heavy rain. He knew -no peace of mind till the sky began to lighten just before the train -reached Hogstead, and he did not feel secure till he had changed into -flannels and was walking down to the field on Gerald’s arm, their -shadows flung hard and black upon the grass in front of them. - -It was a delightful morning; the grass was fresh with the dew which a -slight breeze was drying; there was hardly a worn spot on the green -surface, against which the white creases and yellow stumps stood in -vivid contrast. An occasional cloud cut the sunlight, sending its shadow -in long ripples of smoke across the field. - -“And to think,” said Gerald, “that this is our last game this season.” - -But for Roland this certainly marred the enjoyment of the blue sky and -the bright sunshine. “This is the last time,” he repeated to himself. -For eight months the green field, so gay now with the white figures -moving in the sunlight, would be desolate. Leaves would be blown on to -it from the trees; rain would fall on them. The windows of the pavilion -would be barred, the white screens stacked in the shelter of a wall. - -After his innings he sat beside Muriel in the deck-chair on the shaded, -northern terrace. But he felt too sad to talk to her and she complained -of his silence. - -“I don’t think much of you as a companion,” she said. “I’ve timed you. -You haven’t said a word for ten minutes.” - -He laughed, apologized and endeavored to revert to the simple badinage -that had amused them when Muriel was a little girl in short frocks, with -her hair blowing about her neck, but it was not particularly successful, -and it was a relief when Gerald placed his chair on the other side of -Muriel and commenced a running commentary on the game. Roland wanted to -be alone with his thoughts. Occasionally a stray phrase or sentence of -their conversation percolated through his reverie. - -“What a glorious afternoon it’s going to be,” he heard Muriel say. “It -seems quite absurd that this should be your last game. One can’t believe -that the summer’s over. On a day like this it looks as though it would -last forever!” - -The words beat themselves into his brain. It was over and it was absurd -to dream. The autumn sunshine that had lured her into disbelief of the -approach of winter had made him forget that this day at Hogstead was his -last. By next year he would be married; the delightful interlude would -be finished. He would have passed from the life of Hogstead, at any rate -in his present position. If he returned it would be different. The -continuity would have been broken. - -Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Muriel’s profile; -how pretty she was; quite a woman now; and he turned his chair a little -so that he could observe her without moving his head. Yes, she was -really pretty in her delicate porcelain fashion; she was not beautiful. -But, then, beauty was too austere. Charm was preferable. And she had -that charm that depends almost entirely on its setting, on a dress that -is in keeping with small dainty features. The least little thing wrong -and she would have been quite ordinary. - -What would happen to her? She would marry, of course; she would find no -lack of suitors. Already, perhaps, there was one whom she had begun -slightly to favor. What would he be like? To what sort of a man would -she be attracted? Whoever he was he would be a lucky fellow; and Roland -paused to wonder whether, if things had been different, if he had been -free when he had met her first, she could have come to care for him. She -had always liked him. He remembered many little occasions on which she -had said things that he might have construed into a meaning favorable to -himself. There had been that evening on the stairs when they had felt -suddenly frightened of each other, and since then, more than once, he -had fancied that they had stumbled in their anxiety to make impersonal -conversation. - -How happy they would have been together. They would have lived together -at Hogstead all their lives, a part of the Marston family. Hammerton -would have ceased to exist for him. They would have built themselves a -cottage on the edge of the estate; their children would have passed -their infancy among green fields, within sound of cricket balls. - -At the far end of the field, on the southern terrace, Beatrice was -sitting alone, watching Rosemary play a few yards away from her. She -must have been there during the greater part of the morning, but Roland -had not noticed her till she waved a hand to attract his attention. He -rose at once and walked across to her. He felt that a talk with her -would do him good. - -They had seen a good deal of each other intermittently during the past -three years, and each talk with her had been for Roland a step farther -into the heart of a mystery. Gradually they had come to talk in -shorthand, to read each other’s thoughts without need of the accepted -medium of words, so that when in reply to a complimentary remark about -the fascination of her hat she made a quiet shrug of her shoulders, he -knew that it was prompted by the wound of her wasted beauty. And on that -late summer morning, with its solemn warning of decay, Roland felt brave -enough to put to her the question that he had long wished to ask. - -“Why did you marry him?” he said. - -His question necessitated no break in the rhythm of her reverie. She -answered him without pausing. - -“I didn’t know my own mind,” she said. “I was very young. I wasn’t in -love with anyone else. My mother was keen on it. I gave way.” - -Beatrice spoke the truth. Her mother had honestly believed the match to -be to her daughter’s advantage. Her own life had been made difficult -through lack of money. She had always been worried by it, and she had -naturally come to regard money as more important than the brief -fluttering of emotion that had been the prelude to the long, bitter -struggle. It had seemed to her a wonderful thing that her daughter -should marry this rich man. Herself had only been unhappy because she -had been poor; her daughter would be always rich. - -“How did you meet him?” Roland asked. - -“I was his secretary. Romantic, isn’t it? The poor girl marries the rich -employer. Quite like the story books.” And her hands fluttered at her -sides. - -Roland sought for some word of sympathy, but he was too appalled by the -cruel waste of this young woman’s beauty, of her enormous potentialities -flung away on an ageing, withered man, who could not appreciate them. -Her next sentence held for him the force of a prophetic utterance. - -“When you marry, Roland,” she said, “choose your own wife. Don’t let -your parents dictate to you. It’s your affair.” - -As their eyes met it seemed to him that they were victims of the same -conspiracy. - -“One can’t believe that the summer is over on a day like this. It looks -as though it would last forever!” The words ran like a refrain among his -thoughts all the afternoon. He had a long outing. Hogstead had imported -for the final match talent that was considerable but was not local. The -doctor had persuaded a friend to bring his son, a member of the Rugby -XI. It was discovered that an old blue was spending his honeymoon in a -farmhouse a few miles away and a deputation had been dispatched to him; -while, at the last moment, the greengrocer had arranged a compromise on -a “to account rendered” bill with a professional at the county ground. -Hogstead was far too strong for Mr. Marston’s side and all the afternoon -Roland chased terrific off drives towards the terraces. The more tired -he became the deeper grew his depression. The sun sank slowly towards -the long, low-lying bank of cloud that stretched behind the roofs of the -village; the day was waning, his last day. Came that hour of luminous -calm, that last hour of sunlight when the shadows lengthen and a -chilling air drives old players to the pavilion for their sweaters. -Above the trees Roland could see the roof of the house; the trees swayed -before its windows; the sunlight had caught and had turned the brass -weathercock to gold. Never again, under the same conditions, would he -see Hogstead as he in the past had so often seen it, standing above the -trees, resplendent in the last glitter of sunset. It was only five years -ago that he had come here for the first time, and yet into those five -years had been crowded a greater measure of happiness than he could hope -to find in the fifty years that were left him. - -At the end of the day Mr. Marston’s eleven had half an hour’s batting, -during which Roland made one or two big hits. But it was an anticlimax, -and his innings brought him little satisfaction. It was over now. He -walked back to the pavilion, and with dismal efficiency collected his -boots and bat and pads and packed them into his bag. What would he be -like when he came to do that next? What would have happened to him -between then and now? He came out of the pavilion to find Muriel -standing on the step, waiting, presumably, for her brother. The need for -sympathy, for feminine sympathy, overwhelmed him, and he asked her -whether she would come for a walk with him--only a short stroll, just -for a minute or two. She looked at him in surprise. - -“But it’s so late, Roland,” she said; “we’ll have to go and change for -dinner in a minute.” - -“I know, I know, but just for a minute--do.” - -He was not ready yet for the general talk and laughter of the -drawing-room; he wanted a few minutes of preparation. - -“Do come,” he said. - -She nodded, and they turned and walked together towards the end of the -cricket ground. She did not know why he should want her to come with him -at such an unusual time, but she could see that he was unhappy, that he -needed sympathy, and so, after a second’s hesitation, she passed, for -the first time in her life, her arm through his. He looked at her -quickly, a look of surprise and gratitude, and pressed her arm with his. -He said nothing, now that she was with him. He did not feel any need of -words; it was her presence he wanted, and all that her presence meant to -him. But she, being ignorant of what was in his mind, was embarrassed by -his silence. - -“That was a jolly knock of yours,” she said at last. - -“Oh! not bad, but in a second innings!” - -“Rather like that one of yours five years ago.” - -“What! Do you remember that?” - -“Of course; it was a great occasion.” - -“For me.” - -“And for us.” - -The past and the emotions of the past returned to him with a startling -vividness. He could recall every moment of that day. - -“I was so anxious to come off,” he said. “You know I was to have gone -into a bank and Gerald brought me down in the hope that your pater would -take to me. I was frightfully nervous.” - -“So was I.” - -“But you’d never seen me.” - -“No, but Gerald had talked to me about you, and I thought it such rotten -luck that a fellow like you should have to go into a bank. There’d been -a row, hadn’t there?” - -They had reached the hedge that marked the boundary for the Marston -estate; there was a gate in it, and they walked towards it. They stood -for a moment, her arm still in his, looking at the quiet village that -lay before them. Then Roland dropped her arm and leaned against the -gate. - -“Yes, there’d been a row,” he said, “and everything was going wrong, and -I saw myself for the rest of my life a clerk adding up figures in a -bank.” - -He paused, realizing the analogy between that day and this. Then, as -now, destiny had seemed to be closing in on him, robbing him of freedom -and the chance to make of his life anything but a gray subservience. He -had evaded destiny then, but it had caught him now. And he leaned on the -gate, hardly seeing the laborers trudging up the village street, talking -in the porch of the public-house; their women returning home with their -purchases for Sunday’s dinner. - -Again Muriel was oppressed by his silence. - -“I remember Gerald telling us about it,” she said, “and I was excited to -see what you’d be like.” - -“And what did you think of me when you saw me?” - -“Oh, I was a little girl then”; she laughed nervously, for his eyes were -fixed on her face and she felt that she was blushing. - -“Yes, but what did you think?” he repeated; “tell me.” - -Her fingers plucked nervously at her skirt; she felt frightened, and it -was absurd to be frightened with Roland, one of her oldest friends. - -“Oh, it’s silly! I was only a little girl then. What does it matter what -I thought? As a matter of fact,” and she flung out the end of her -confession carelessly, as though it meant nothing, “as a matter of fact, -I thought you were the most wonderful boy I’d ever seen.” And she tried -to laugh a natural, off-hand laugh that would make an end of this absurd -situation, but the laugh caught in her throat, and she went suddenly -still, her eyes fixed on Roland’s. They looked at each other and read -fear in the other’s eyes, but in Roland’s eyes fear was mingled with a -desperate entreaty, a need, an overmastering need of her. His tongue -seemed too big for his mouth, and when at last he spoke, his voice was -dry. - -“And what do you think of me now?” - -She could say nothing. She stood still, held by the gray eyes that never -wavered. - -“What do you think of me now?” he repeated. - -She made a movement to break the tension, a swift gesture with her hand -that was intended for a dismissal, but he was standing so close that her -hand brushed against him; she gave a little gasp as his hand closed over -it and held it. - -“You won’t tell me,” he said. “But shall I tell you what I thought of -you then? Shall I tell you? I thought you were the prettiest girl I had -ever seen, and I thought how beautiful you would be when you grew up.” - -“Oh, don’t be so silly, Roland,” and she laughed a short, nervous laugh, -and tried to draw her hand from his, but he held it firmly, and drew her -a little nearer to him, so that he could take her other hand in his. -They stood close together, then she raised her face slowly to his and -the puzzled, wistful, trusting expression released the flood of -sentiment that had been surging within him all the afternoon. His misery -was no longer master of itself, and her beauty drew to it the mingled -tenderness, hesitation, disappointment of his vexed spirit. She was for -him in that moment the composite vision of all he prized most highly in -life, of romance, mystery, adventure. - -His hands closed upon hers tightly, desperately, as though he would -rivet himself to the one thing of which he could be certain, and his -confused intense emotion poured forth in a stream of eager avowal: - -“But I never thought, Muriel, that you would be anything like what you -are; you are wonderful, Muriel; I’ve been realizing it slowly every day. -I’ve said to myself that we were only friends, just friends, but I’ve -known it was more than friendship. I’ve told myself not to be silly, -that you could never care for me--well, I’ve never realized, not -properly, not till this afternoon, Muriel.” - -She was no longer frightened; his words had soothed her, caressed her, -wooed her; and when he paused, the expression of her eyes was fearless. - -“Yes, Roland,” she said. - -“Muriel, Muriel, I love you; I want you to marry me. Will you?” - -She blushed prettily. “But, Roland, you know; if father and mother say -yes, of course.” - -In the sudden release of feeling he was uncertain what exactly was -expected of a person whose proposal had been accepted. They were on the -brink of another embarrassed silence, but Muriel saved them. - -“Roland,” she said, “you’re hurting my fingers awfully!” - -With a laugh he dropped her hands, and that laugh restored them to their -former intimacy. - -“Oh, Roland,” she said, “what fun we shall have when we are married.” - -He asked whether she thought her parents would be pleased, and she was -certain that they would. - -“They like you so much.” Then she insisted on his telling when and how -he had first discovered that he was in love with her. “Come along; let’s -sit on the gate and you shall tell me all about it. Now, when was the -first time, the very first time, that you thought you were in love with -me?” - -“Oh, but I don’t know.” - -“Yes, you do; you must, of course you must, or you’d be nothing of a -lover. Come on, or I shall take back my promise.” - -“Well, then, that evening on the stairs.” - -Muriel pouted. - -“Oh, then!” - -“Do you remember it?” he said. - -“Of course I do. You frightened me.” - -“I know, and that’s why I thought that one day you might marry me.” - -“Oh, but how silly!” she protested. “I wasn’t a bit in love with you -then. In fact, I was very annoyed with you.” - -“And, besides, I think I’ve always been in love with you.” - -“Oh, no, you haven’t.” - -“Don’t be too sure. And you?” - -She smiled prettily. - -“I’ve often thought what a nice husband you would make.” - -And then she had taken his hand in her lap and played with it. - -“And where shall we live when we are married?” he had asked her, and she -had said she did not care. - -“Anywhere, as long as there are lots of people to amuse me.” - -She sat there on the gate, her light hair blowing under the wide brim of -her hat, laughing down at him, her face bright with happiness. She was -so small, so graceful. Light as heatherdown, she would run a gay motif -through the solemn movement of his career. - -“You are like a fairy,” he said, “like a mischievous little elf. I think -I shall call you that--Elfkin.” - -“Oh, what a pretty name, Roland--Elfkin! How sweet of you!” - -They talked so eagerly together of the brilliant future that awaited -them that they quite forgot the lateness of the hour, till they heard -across the evening the dull boom of the dinner gong. They both gasped -and looked at each other as confederates in guilt. - -“Heavens!” she said, “what a start. We’ve got to run!” - -It was the nearest approach to a dramatic entrance that Roland ever -achieved. Muriel kept level with him during the race across the cricket -ground, but she began to fall behind as they reached the long terrace -between the rhododendrons. - -“Take hold of my hand,” said Roland, and he dragged her over the -remaining thirty yards. They rushed through the big French windows of -the drawing-room at the very moment that the party had assembled there -before going down to dinner. They had quite forgotten that there would -be an audience. They stopped, and Muriel gave out a horrified gasp of -“Oh!” - -They certainly were a ridiculous couple as they stood there hand in -hand, hot, disheveled, out of breath, beside that well-groomed company -of men and women in evening dress. Mrs. Marston hurried forward with the -slightly deprecating manner of the hostess whose plans have been -disturbed. - -“My dear children----” But Muriel had by this time recovered her breath -and courage. She raised a peremptory hand. - -“One minute. We’ve got something to tell you all.” - -“But surely, dear, after dinner,” Mrs. Marston began. - -“No, mother, dear, now,” and, with a twinkle in her eye and a sly glance -at her embarrassed lover, Muriel made her alarming announcement: - -“Roland and I, mother, we’re going to be married.” - -Roland had seen in a French novel a startling incident of domestic -revelation recorded by two words: _consternation générale_, and those -two words suited the terrible hush that followed Muriel’s confession. It -was not a hush of anger, or disapproval, but of utter and complete -astonishment. For a few minutes no one said anything. The young men of -the party either adjusted their collar studs and gazed towards the -ceiling, or flicked a speck of dust from their trousers and gazed upon -the floor. The young women gazed upon each other. Mrs. Marston thought -nervously of the condition of the retarded dinner, and Mr. Marston -tried, without success, to prove adequate to the situation. Only Muriel -enjoyed it; she loved a rag, and her eyes passed from one figure to -another; not one of them dared look at her. - -“Well,” she said at last, “we did think you’d want to congratulate us.” -To Mr. Marston some criticism of himself appeared to be implied in this -remark. He pulled down his waistcoat, coughed, and went through the -preliminaries usual to him when preparing to address the board. And, in -a sense, this was a board meeting, a family board meeting. - -“My dear Muriel,” he began, but he had advanced no further than these -three words when the dinner gong sounded for the second time. It was a -signal for Mrs. Marston to bustle forward. - -“Yes, yes, but the dinner’ll be getting quite cold if we don’t go in at -once. Don’t trouble to change, Mr. Whately, please don’t; but, Muriel, -you must go up and do your hair, and if you have time change your -frock.” - -“Weren’t they lovely?” said Muriel, as she and Roland ran upstairs to -wash. “I could have died with laughter.” - -“You made me feel a pretty complete fool,” said Roland. - -“Well, you made me feel very silly about three-quarters of an hour ago. -I deserved a revenge.” And she scampered upstairs ahead of him. - -Roland washed quickly and waited for her at the foot of the stairs. He -was much too shy to go in alone. - -“And they say that women are cowards,” said Muriel, when he confessed it -to her. “Come along.” - -The quarter of an hour that had elapsed since the sensational disclosure -had given the company time to recover its balance, and when Muriel and -Roland entered the room, they found that two empty seats were waiting -for them side by side. - -“Here they are,” said Mr. Marston, “and I hope that they’re thoroughly -ashamed of themselves.” He felt himself again after a glass of sherry, -and it was an occasion of which a father should make the most. It could -only come once and he was prepared to enjoy it to the full. “To think of -it, my dear, the difference between this generation and ours. Why, -before I got engaged to your mother, Muriel, why, even before I began to -court her, I went and asked her father’s permission. I can remember now -how frightened I felt. We respected our parents in those days. We always -asked their opinions first. But to-day--why, in you burst, late for -dinner, and announce with calm effrontery that you’re going to be -married. Why, at this rate, there won’t be any engagements at all in a -short time; young people will just walk in at the front door and say: -‘We’re married.’” - -“Then we are engaged, father, aren’t we?” said Muriel. - -“I didn’t say so.” - -“Oh, but you did; didn’t he, Roland?” - -Roland was, however, too confused to hold any opinion on the subject. - -“Well, if you didn’t actually say so you implied it. At any rate we -shall take it that you did.” - -“And that, I suppose, settles it?” - -“Of course.” - -Mr. Marston made a theatrical gesture of despair. - -“These children!” he said. - -It was a jolly evening. Roland and Muriel were the center of -congratulations; their healths were drunk; he was called on for a -speech, and he fulfilled his duty amid loud applause. Everyone was so -pleased, so eager to share their happiness. Beatrice had turned to him a -smile of surprised congratulation. Only Gerald held back from the -general enthusiasm. Once across the table his eyes met Roland’s, and -there was implied in their glance a question. He was the only one of the -party who had heard of April, and never, in all their confidences, had -there passed between them one word that might have hinted at a growing -love between his sister and his friend; it was this that surprised him. -Surely Roland would have told him something about it. Roland was not the -sort of fellow who kept things to himself. He always wanted to share his -pleasures. Gerald would have indeed expected him to come to him for -advice, to say: “Old son, what chance do you think I stand in that -direction?”--to entrust him with the delicate mission of sounding -Muriel’s inclinations. He was surprised and a little hurt. - -As they were going towards the drawing-room after dinner he laid his -hand on Roland’s arm, holding him back for a minute. And as he stood in -the doorway waiting for his friend, Roland felt for the first time a -twinge of apprehension as to the outcome of this undertaking. But he -could see that Gerald was nervous, and this nervousness of his lent -Roland confidence. - -“It’s no business of mine, old son,” Gerald began, “I’m awfully glad -about you and Muriel and all that, but,” he paused irresolute; he -disliked these theatrical situations and did not know how to meet them. -“I mean,” he began slowly, then added quietly, anxiously: “It’s all -right, isn’t it, old son?” - -“Of course,” said Roland. “It’s the most wonderful----” - -“I know, I know,” Gerald interrupted, “but wasn’t there, didn’t you tell -me about----” - -“Oh, that’s finished a long time ago. Don’t worry about that.” - -“You see,” Gerald went on, “I should hate to think---- Oh, well, I’m -awfully glad about it, and I think you’re both fearfully lucky.” - -Two hours later Roland and Muriel stood on the landing saying good-night -to one another. She was leaning towards him, across the banisters, as -she had leaned that evening three years earlier, but this time he held -her hand in his. - -“I can’t tell you how happy I am,” he was saying; “I shall dream of you -all night long.” - -“And so shall I of you.” - -“We’re going to be wonderfully happy, aren’t we?” - -“Wonderfully.” - -And in each other’s eyes they saw the eager, boundless confidence of -youth. They were going to make a great thing of their life together. -Roland cast a swift glance over the banisters to see if anyone was in -the hall, then stood on tiptoe, raising himself till his face was on the -level with Muriel’s. - -“Muriel,” he said. - -“Yes.” - -“I want to whisper something in your ear.” - -“What is it?” - -“Lean over, closer to me, and I will tell you.” - -She bent her head, her cheek brushing against his hair. “Well?” she -said. - -He placed his mouth close to her ear. - -“Muriel, you haven’t kissed me yet.” - -She drew back and smiled. - -“Was that all?” she said. - -“Isn’t it enough?” - -She made no answer. - -“Aren’t you going to?” he said. - -“I don’t know.” - -“Please, please, do.” - -“Some day I will.” - -“But why not now?” - -“Someone would see us.” - -“Oh, no, they wouldn’t. And even if they did what would it matter? -Muriel! please, please, Muriel!” - -He raised himself again on tiptoe; and leaning forward, she rested her -hands upon his shoulders. Then she slowly bent her head to his, and -their lips met in such a kiss as children exchange for forfeits in the -nursery. As she drew back Roland slipped back again on to his heels, but -he still held her hand and her fingers closed round his, pressing them, -if not with passion, at least with fondness. - -“You’re rather an old dear, Roland,” she said. And there was a note in -her voice that made him say quickly and half audibly: - -“And you’re a darling.” - -She drew her hand from his gently. “And what was that pretty name you -called me?” - -“Elfkin.” - -“Let me be always Elfkin.” - -Both of them that night were wooed to sleep by the delight of their -new-found happiness. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -THE LONELY UNICORN - - -The lovers went for a walk together on Sunday morning through the woods -that lay beyond the village, and they sat on a pile of broken sticks -that a charcoal burner had collected for a fire, and they held hands and -talked of the future. Her pleasure in this new relationship was a -continual fascination to Roland. She regarded love, courtship, and -marriage as a delightful game. - -“What fun it’s going to be,” she said; “we shall announce our engagement -and then everyone will write and congratulate us, and we shall have to -answer them, and I shall have to pretend to be so serious and say: ‘I am -much looking forward to introducing you to my fiancé. I hope you will -like each other.” - -“And what sort of a ring am I to get you?” - -“The ring! Oh, I had forgotten that. One has to have one, doesn’t one? -Let’s see now. What should I like?” And she paused, her finger raised to -her lower lip. She remained for a moment in perplexed consideration, -then suddenly shook her head. - -“Oh, I don’t care, just what you like. Let it be a surprise. But there’s -one thing, Roland, dear--promise me.” - -“Yes.” - -“You will promise, won’t you?” - -“Of course.” - -“Well, then, promise me you won’t put any writing inside it, because I -shall want to show it to my friends and I should feel so silly if they -saw it.” - -After lunch Mr. Marston asked him to come into the study for a talk. - -“I’m not going to play the heavy father,” he said; “in fact, you know -yourself how thoroughly pleased we are, both of us, about it all. We -couldn’t have wished a better husband for Muriel. But there is such a -thing as finance, and you’ve got, I gather, no money apart from what you -earn from us.” - -“No, sir.” - -“And your salary now is----?” - -“Four hundred a year, sir.” - -“And how far do you think that will go? You could start a home with it, -of course, but do you think you could make Muriel happy with it? She’s a -dainty little lady, and when she’s free from home authority she will -want to be going out to dances and theaters. How far do you think four -hundred will take her?” - -“Not very far, sir.” - -“Then what do you propose to do? Long engagements are a bad thing.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Well, then, what do you think of doing?” - -Roland, who had expected Mr. Marston to make his daughter a generous -dress allowance, was uncertain how to answer this question. Indeed, he -made no attempt. - -“I suppose,” said Mr. Marston, “that what you were really thinking was -that I should make you some allowance.” - -Roland blushed, and began to stammer that, as a matter of fact, that was -exactly what--but he never finished the sentence, for Mr. Marston -interrupted him. - -“Because, if that’s what you were thinking, young man, I can disillusion -you at once. I don’t believe in allowances; they put a young couple -under an obligation to their parents. And that’s bad. A young couple -should be independent. No!” he said, “I’m not going to make Muriel any -allowance, but,” and here he paused theatrically, so as to make the most -of his point, “I am going to give you a good opportunity of making -yourself independent. I am going to offer to both you and Gerald junior -partnerships in the business.” - -Roland gave a start; he could scarcely believe what he had heard. - -“But, sir----” he began. - -“Yes, a partnership in our business, and I can’t say how pleased I shall -be to have you there, and how proud I am to have a son-in-law who will -want to work and not be content to attend an occasional board meeting -and draw large fees for doing so. I know a business man when I meet one. -We are jolly lucky to have got you, and as for you and Muriel, well, -honestly, I don’t know which of you is luckier!” - -They were the same words that Gerald had used, and he was convinced of -their truth five minutes later when he sat in the drawing-room pouring -out this exciting news to Muriel, when he saw her eyes light with -enthusiasm, and heard her say on a note of genuine comradeship and -admiration: “Roland, I always knew it. You’re a wonderful boy!” - -This state of rapture lasted till he said good-night to Gerald on Monday -evening in the doorway of the office. Then, and then only, did he -realize to what a series of complications he had delivered himself. He -had fallen into the habit of regarding his life at Hogstead and his life -at Hammerton as two separate entities; what happened to him in one life -did not affect him in the other. Hogstead had been his dream country. -During the week-end he had retreated within his dream, flung up -bulwarks, garrisoned himself securely. He had not realized that, when he -returned to Hammerton, he would have to deliver an account of himself. -So far, what had happened in that dream country had only mattered to -himself. His engagement to Muriel, however, involved the fortunes of -persons other than himself, and this fact was presented to him acutely -as he sat on top of a bus and drew nearer, minute by minute, to No. 105 -Hammerton Villas. - -In the course of seventy-two hours he had completely altered the -direction of his life. He had left home on Saturday morning with every -intention of proposing definitely to April at the first opportunity and -of marrying her as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made. Yet -here he was on Monday evening returning home the fiancé of Muriel -Marston and a junior partner in her father’s firm. He could not imagine -in what spirit the news would be received. His parents knew little -enough of Gerald and his father; they were hardly aware of Muriel’s -existence. Years earlier he may have said, perhaps, in reply to some -casual query: “Oh, yes, he’s got a sister, much younger than himself, a -jolly kid!” But of late, nothing. He did not see either how he was to -introduce the subject. He would be asked hardly any questions about his -holiday; he had always been uncommunicative. - -“Have you had a nice time, my dear?” - -That’s what his mother would say, in the same indifferent tone that she -would say “Good morning, how do you do?” to a casual acquaintance. She -would then proceed to tell him about the visitors they had received on -Sunday. - -His father would arrive, lay down his evening paper on the table and -begin to change his boots. - -“So you’re back all right, Roland?” That would be his only reference to -his son’s holidays before he plunged into a commentary on the state of -the bus service, the country and the restaurant where he had lunched. - -“Coming for a walk, Roland?” That would be his next indication that he -was conscious of his son’s presence, and on the receipt of an -affirmation he would trudge upstairs, to reappear ten minutes later in a -light gray suit. - -“Ready, my son?” And they would walk along the High Street till they -reached the corner of Upper College Road. There Mr. Whately would pause. -“Well, Roland, shall we go in and see April?” And in reality the -question would be an assertion. They would have to go into the -Curtises’; it would be terrible. He would feel like Judas Iscariot at -the Last Supper. He would be received by Mrs. Curtis as a future -son-in-law. April would smile on him as her betrothed. Whatever he did -or said he could not, in her eyes, be anything but perfidious, disloyal, -treacherous. He would be unable to make clear to her the inevitable -nature of what had happened. - -The red roofs and stucco fronts of Donnington had by now receded into -the distance; the bus was already clattering down the main street of -Lower Hammerton. The lights in the shop windows had just been kindled -and lent a touch of wistful poetry to the spectacle of the crowded -pavements, black with the dark coats of men returning from their -offices, with here and there a splash of gayety from the dress of some -harassed woman hurrying to complete her shopping before her husband’s -return. - -“In three more minutes we shall be at the Town Hall,” Roland told -himself. “In two minutes from then I shall have reached the corner of -Hammerton Villas; 105 is the third house down on the left-hand side. In -six minutes, at the outside, I shall be there!” - -And it turned out exactly as he had predicted. He found his mother in -the drawing-room, turning the handle of the sewing-machine. She smiled -as he opened the door and, as he bent his head to kiss her, expressed -the hope that he had enjoyed himself. Three minutes later his father -arrived. - -“A most interesting murder case to-day, my dear; there’s a full account -of it in _The Globe_. It appears that the fellow was engaged to one -girl, but was really in love with the mother of the girl he murdered, -and he murdered the girl because she seemed to suspect--no, that’s not -it. It was the girl he was engaged to who suspected; but at any rate -you’ll find it all in _The Globe_--a most interesting case.” And he -opened the paper at the center page and handed it to his wife. As he did -so his arm brushed against Roland, and the forcible reminder of his -son’s existence inspired him to express the hope that the cricket at -Hogstead had reached the high expectations that had been entertained -regarding it. This duty accomplished, he proceeded to describe in detail -the lunch he had selected at the Spanish café. - -“There was a choice of three things: you could either have _hors -d’œuvre_ or a soup, and then there was either omelette or fish or -spaghetti, with veal or chicken or mutton to follow, and, of course, -cheese to finish up with. Well, I didn’t think the spaghetti at that -place was very good, so I was left with a choice of either an omelette -or fish.” - -While he was stating and explaining his choice Mr. Whately had found -time to divest his feet of his boots. “Well, and what about a walk, -Roland?” - -“I suppose so, father.” - -“Right you are. I’ll just run up and change.” - -Ten minutes later, before Roland had had time to unravel the complicated -psychology of the Norfolk murder case, Mr. Whately was standing in the -doorway in his gray tweed suit and straw hat. “A bit late for a straw, -perhaps, but it’s lovely weather, almost like spring. One can’t believe -that summer’s over.” The repetition of the phrase jarred Roland’s -conscience. Would it not be better to get it off his chest now, once and -for all, before he was taken to see April, before that final act of -hypocrisy was forced on him? - -“Father,” he said, “there’s something----” - -But Mr. Whately did not like to be kept waiting. - -“Come along, Roland, time enough for that when we are out of doors. -It’ll be dark soon.” - -And by the time they had reached the foot of the long flight of steps -the moment of desperate courage had been followed by a desperate fear. -Time enough when he got back to tell them. He made no effort even to -discourage his father when, at the corner of Upper College Road, they -paused and the old assertive question was asked. Roland nodded his head -in meek submission. What was to be gained at this point by discussion? -There would be enough turmoil later on. - -But he regretted his weakness five minutes later when he sat in the -wicker chair by the window-seat. He looked round the room at the -unaltered furniture, the unaltered pictures, the unaltered bookshelves, -and Mrs. Curtis eternal in that setting, her voice droning on as it had -droned for him through so many years. There was no change anywhere. Mrs. -Curtis was sitting beside the fireplace, her knitting on her lap, the -bones of her body projecting as awkwardly as ever. His father sat -opposite her, his hat held forward before his knees, his head nodding in -satisfied agreement, his voice interrupting occasionally the movement of -his head with a “Yes, Mrs. Curtis,” “Certainly, Mrs. Curtis.” And he and -April sat as of old, near and silent, in the window-seat. - -As he looked at April, the profile of her face silhouetted against the -window, an acute wave of sentiment passed over him, reminding him of the -many things they had shared together. The first twenty years of his life -belonged to her. It was to her that he had turned in his moment of -success; her faith in him had inspired his achievements. She had been -proud of him. He remembered how she had flushed with pleasure when he -had told her what the school captain had said to him at the end of the -season, and when he had been invited to the cricket match at Hogstead it -was of her that he had asked soft encouragement, and it was at her feet -that he had laid, a few days later, his triumph. How strange that was, -that she should have been the first to hear of Hogstead. The wave of -tenderness swept away every little difference of environment and -personality that had accumulated round their love during the past three -years. What a fine thing, after all, they had meant to make of their -life together. What a confession of failure was this parting. And when -Mr. Whately rose to go, and Mrs. Curtis followed him to the door, no -doubt with the intention of leaving the lovers alone together, Roland -put out his arms to April and folded her into them, and for the last -time laid his lips on hers in a kiss that expressed for him an infinite -kindness for her, and pity, pity for her, for himself, and for the -tangle life had made of their ambitions. As he drew back his head from -hers she whispered the word “Darling!” on a note of authentic passion, -but he could not say anything. His hands closed on her shoulders for a -moment, then slackened. He could not bear to look at her. He turned -quickly and ran to his father. Was it, he asked himself, the kiss of -Iscariot? He did not know. He had buried a part of himself; he had said -good-by to the first twenty years of his life. - -He walked home in silence beside his father. He was in no mood for the -strain of the exacting situation, the astonishment, the implied reproach -that lay in front of him. But he was resigned to it. It had to come; -there was no loophole. - -He made his announcement quite quietly during a pause in the talk just -after dinner. And it was received, as he had anticipated, in a stupefied -silence. - -“What!” said Mr. Whately at last. “Engaged to Muriel Marston!” - -“Yes, Muriel Marston, the daughter of my employer, and I’m to become a -junior partner in the firm.” - -“But----” Mr. Whately paused. He was not equal to the pressure of the -situation. He was not perplexed by the ethics of Roland’s action; his -critical faculties had only appreciated the first fact, that a plan had -been altered, and he was always thrown off his balance by the alteration -of any plan. He was accustomed to thinking along grooves; he distrusted -sidings. He got no further than the initial “But.” His wife, however, -had recovered from the shock and was by now able to face the matter -squarely. When she spoke her voice was even. - -“Now, please, Roland, we want to know all about this. When did you -propose to Miss Marston?” - -“During the week-end--on Saturday evening.” - -“And her parents agree to it?” - -“Yes, yes,” said Roland, a little impatiently. “Didn’t I tell you that -I’ve been offered a junior partnership in his business?” - -“Of course; I forgot. I’m sorry. This is rather difficult for us. Now, -you say----” - -But at this point her husband, whose thoughts had by now traveled a -certain distance along the new groove, interrupted her. - -“But how can you talk about being engaged to this Muriel Marston when -you’ve been engaged for nearly three years to April?” - -Roland’s retort came quickly. - -“I’ve never been engaged to April.” - -“You know you have! Why!...” - -But Mrs. Whately had held up her hand. - -“Hush, dear,” she said. “Roland’s quite right. He’s never been -officially engaged to April.” - -Roland shivered at the venom that was revealed by the stressing of the -word “officially.” - -“And how long,” she went on, “have you been in love with Miss Marston?” - -“Oh, I don’t know, mother; I can’t tell. Please let me alone.” And there -was genuine misery behind the words. “One doesn’t know about a thing -like this.” - -But Mrs. Whately would not spare him. She shook her head impatiently. - -“Don’t be absurd, Roland; you’re behaving like a child. Of course one -knows these things. You’ve known Miss Marston for four or five years -now. You couldn’t suddenly find yourself in love with her.” - -“I suppose not, mother, but----” - -“There’s no ‘but.’ You must have been thinking of her for a long time. -On Friday night--Saturday morning, I mean--you must have gone down there -with the full intention of proposing to her; didn’t you?” - -Roland did not answer her. He rose from his seat and walked across to -the window. - -“It’s no good,” he said, and his back was turned to them. “It’s no good. -I can’t make you understand. You won’t believe what I say. I seem an -awful beast to you, I know, but--oh, well, things went that way.” - -And he stood there, looking out of the window through the chink of the -blind towards the long, gray stretch of roofs, the bend of the road, the -pools of lamplight, till suddenly, like a caress, he felt his mother’s -hand upon his shoulder. - -“Roland,” she said, and for the first time there was sympathy in her -voice, “Roland, please tell me this. You’re not, are you, marrying this -girl for her money?” - -He turned and looked her full in the eyes. - -“No, mother,” he said. “I love Muriel Marston. I love her and I want to -marry her.” As he spoke he saw the kind light vanish from her eyes, her -hand fell from his shoulder and the voice that answered him was -metallic. - -“Very well, then, if that’s so, there’s no more to be said. As you’ve -arranged all this yourself, you’ll let us know when the marriage will -take place.” - -She turned away. He took a step towards her. - -“Mother, please----” - -But she only shrugged her shoulders, and when her husband asked what was -going to be done about April, she said that she supposed that it was no -affair of theirs, and that no doubt Roland would make his own -arrangements. She picked up the paper and began to read it. Roland -wondered what was going to happen next; the silence oppressed him. He -listened to the slow ticking of the clock till he could bear it no -longer. - -“Oh, please, one of you, won’t you say something?” - -They both turned their heads in surprise as though they would survey a -curiosity, a tortoise that had been granted miraculously the gift of -speech. - -“But, my dear Roland, what is there to be said?” - -“I don’t know, I----” - -“Your mother’s quite right,” said Mr. Whately. “You’re your own master; -you’ve arranged to marry the girl you want. What is there to be said?” - -And their heads were again turned from him. He stood looking at them, -pondering the wisdom of an appeal to their emotions. He half opened his -mouth, took a step forward, but paused; what purpose would it serve? One -could not appeal to stone; they were hard, unreceptive, hostile; they -would turn cold eyes upon his outburst. He would look ridiculous. It -would do no good. - -“Oh, very well,” he said, and walked out of the room. - -As he sat on his bed that night he remembered how, five years ago, he -had returned to his study after that tempestuous interview with the -Chief and had reflected on the impossibility of one mortal making clear -his meaning to another. Life went in a circle; here was the same -situation in a different setting. Everything was repetition. Had not the -Eastern critic laid it down that in the whole range of literature there -could be discovered only seven different stories? He remembered the -Chief telling him that; it had stuck in his mind: music had evolved from -seven notes, painting from three colors, literature from twenty-four -letters, the chronicle of mankind from seven stories. Variety, new -clothes, new accents, but at heart the same story, the same song. - -One problem, however, that he had not previously considered, had become -clear for him during that discussion. How was April to be told? He had -imagined that he had only to tell his parents for the matter to be -settled. They would do the rest. He had never thought that the -responsibility of breaking the news to April would rest with him. And he -could not do it; it was no good pretending that he could. He could no -more tell April himself than he could murder a man in cold blood. He -knew also that if he once saw her he would be unable to carry through -the part. She would open the door for him and as soon as they were alone -in the hall she would throw her arms about his neck and kiss him, and -how should he then find words to tell her? His old love for her would -return to him; there would be further complications. Perhaps he might -write a letter to her, but he had only to take up pen and paper to -realize that this was impossible. He could not express himself in -writing; the sentences that stared at him from the paper were cold and -stilted; they would wound her cruelly. He was accustomed in times of -perplexity to turn for advice to Gerald. But this was hardly an occasion -when that was possible. Gerald was, after all, Muriel’s brother. There -were limits. - -The next day brought Roland no nearer to a solution of his immediate -problem. Indeed he had not thought of one till, on his way home, he -boarded the wrong bus, and on handing threepence and saying “Hammerton -Town Hall” was informed that the bus he was on would take him only as -far as Donnington before turning off to Richmond. The word “Richmond” -gave him his idea. Richmond, that was it, of course that was it! Why had -he not thought of it before? He would go round to Ralph at once and send -him on an embassy to April. So pleased was he with this inspiration that -he was actually shaking hands with Ralph before he realized that the -battle was not won yet, and that he had before him a very awkward -interview. - -“Ralph,” he said, “I want a word with you alone. I don’t want to be -disturbed.” - -“Shall we go out for a walk then?” - -“Right.” - -Ralph went into the hall, fidgeting his fingers in the umbrella stand in -search of his walking stick, did not find it, and paused there -indeterminate. - -“Now, where did I put that stick?” - -“Oh, don’t bother, please don’t bother; we’re only going for a stroll.” - -“Yes, I know, but if I don’t find it now--let me see, perhaps it’s in -the kitchen.” And for the next three minutes everyone seemed to be -shouting all over the house: “Mother, have you seen my walking stick?” -“Emma, have you seen Mr. Ralph’s walking stick?” And by the time that -the stick was eventually discovered, in the cupboard in Ralph’s bedroom, -Roland’s patience and composure had been shattered. - -“Such a fuss about a thing like that,” he protested. - -“All right, all right; I didn’t keep you long. Now, what’s it all -about?” And there was firmness in his voice which caused Roland a twinge -of uneasiness. Ralph had developed since he had gone to Oxford. He was -no longer the humble servant of Roland’s caprice. - -“It’s not very easy,” said Roland; “I want you to do something for me. -I’m going to ask you to do me a great favor. It’s about April.” - -“Why, of course,” said Ralph, “I know what it is; you’re going to be -married at once, and you want me to be your best man--but I shall be -delighted.” - -“Oh, no, no, no,” said Roland, “it’s not that at all.” - -Ralph was surprised. “No?” - -“No, it’s--oh, well, look here. You know how things are; there’s been a -sort of understanding between us for a long time--three or four -years--hasn’t there? Well, one alters; one doesn’t feel at twenty-three -as one does when one’s seventeen; we’re altering all the time, and -perhaps I have altered quicker than most people. I’ve been abroad a -lot.” He paused. “You understand, don’t you?” he asked. - -Ralph nodded, understanding perfectly. Though he did not quite see where -he himself came in, he understood that Roland was tired of April. But he -was not going to spare him. There should be no short-cuts, no shorthand -conversation. Roland would have to tell him the whole story. - -“Well?” he said. - -Their eyes met, and for the first time in their relationship Roland knew -that he was in the weaker position and that Ralph was determined to -enjoy his triumph. - -“All right,” said Roland, “I’ll go on, though you know what I’ve got to -tell you. I don’t know whose fault it is. I suppose it’s mine really, -but things have happened this way. I’m not in love with April any -more.” - -Again he paused and again Ralph repeated that one word, “Well?” - -“I don’t love her any more, and I’ve fallen in love with someone else -and we want to get married.” - -“Who is it?” - -“Muriel Marston.” - -“The sister of that fellow you play cricket with?” - -“Yes, that’s it.” He paused, hoping that now Ralph would help him out, -but Ralph gave him no assistance, and Roland was forced to plunge again -into his confession. “Well, you see, April knows nothing about it. I’ve -been a bit of a beast, I suppose. As far as she is concerned the -understanding still holds good. She’s still in love with me, at least -she thinks she is. It’s--well, you see how it is.” - -“Yes, I quite see that. You’ve been playing that old game of yours, of -running two girls in two different places, only this time it’s gone less -fortunately and you find you’ve got to marry one of them, and April’s -the one that’s got to go?” - -“If you put it that way----” - -“Well, how else can I put it?” - -“Oh, have it as you like.” - -“And what part exactly do you expect me to play in this comedy?” - -“I want you to break the news to April.” - -There was a long silence. They walked on, Ralph gazing straight in front -of him, and Roland glancing sideways at him from time to time to see how -the idea had struck him. But he could learn nothing from the set -expression of his companion’s face. It was his turn now to employ an -interrogatory “Well?” But Ralph did not appear to have heard him. They -walked on in silence, till Roland felt some further explanation was -demanded of him. - -“It’s like this, you see----” - -But Ralph cut him short. “I understand quite well; you’re afraid to tell -her. You’re ashamed of yourself and you expect me to do your dirty -work!” - -“It’s not that----” - -“Oh, yes, it is. I know you’ll find excuses for yourself, but that’s -what it amounts to. And I don’t see why I should do it.” - -“I am asking it of you as a favor.” - -“That’s like you. Since you’ve met these new friends of yours you’ve -dropped your old-time friends one by one. I’ve watched you, and now -April, she’s the last to go. You haven’t been to see me for three or -four months and now you’ve only come because you want me to do something -for you.” - -The justice of the remark made Roland wince. He had seen hardly anything -of Ralph during the last three years. - -“But, Ralph,” he pleaded, “how can I go and tell her myself?” - -“If one’s done a rotten thing one owns up to it. It’s the least one can -do.” - -“But, it isn’t----” - -“What isn’t it? Not a rotten thing to make a girl believe for four years -that you’re going to marry her and then chuck her! If that isn’t a -rotten thing I don’t know what is!” - -Roland was wise enough not to attempt to justify himself. He would only -enrage Ralph still further and that was not his game. - -“All right,” he said. “Granted all that, granted I’ve done a rotten -thing, it’s happened; it can’t be altered now; something’s got to be -done. Put yourself in my place. What would you do if you were me?” - -“I shouldn’t have got myself in such a place”; his voice was stern and -official and condemnatory. In spite of the stress of the situation -Roland was hard put to it not to kick him for a prig. - -“But I have, you see, and----” - -“Even so,” Ralph interrupted, “I can’t see why you shouldn’t go and tell -April yourself.” - -“Because April herself would rather be told by anyone than me.” - -It was his last appeal and he saw that it had succeeded. Ralph repeated -the words over to himself. - -“April would rather be told---- Oh, but rot! She’d much rather have it -out straight.” - -“Oh, no, she wouldn’t; you don’t know April as well as I do. She hates -scenes; she could discuss it impersonally with you. With me--can’t you -see how it would hurt her; she wouldn’t know how to take it, whether to -plead, or just accept it--can’t you see?” - -He had won, and he knew it, through the appeal to April’s feelings. -Ralph would do what he wanted, because he would think that he was -performing a service for April. - -“I expect you’re right,” he said; “you know her better than I do, but -I’m doing it for her, not for you, mind.” - -“Yes, yes, I understand.” - -“If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t do it. A man should do his own dirty -work. And you know what I think of it.” - -“Oh, yes, I know.” He would make no defense. Ralph might be allowed in -payment the poor privilege of revenge. - -“And you’ll tell me what she says?” - -“You shall have a full account of the execution.” - -They walked a little farther in silence. They had nothing more to say -to each other, and at the corner of a road they parted. It was finished. - -Roland walked home, well satisfied at the successful outcome of a -delicate situation--the same Roland who had congratulated himself five -years earlier on the diplomacy of the Brewster episode. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -THERE’S ROSEMARY.... - - -Ralph went round to see April on the next morning, shortly after eleven -o’clock. She had just been out for a long walk by herself and, on her -return, had taken up a novel with which to while away the two hours -remaining to lunch time. She had left school eighteen months earlier, -and time often hung heavily on her. She did little things about the -house: she tidied her own room, mended her own clothes, did some -occasional cooking, but she had many hours of idleness. She wished -sometimes that she had trained for some definite work. Women were no -longer regarded as household ornaments. Many careers were open to her. -But it had not seemed worth while during the last year at school to -specialize in any one subject. What was the good of taking up a career -that she would have to abandon so soon? The first year in any profession -was uninteresting, and by the time she had reached a position where she -would be entrusted with responsibilities her marriage day would be -approaching. And so, instead of looking for any settled work, she had -decided to stay at home and help her mother as much as possible. It was -lonely at times, especially when Roland was away; she was, in -consequence, much given to daydreams. Her book, on this September -morning, had slipped on to her lap, and her thoughts had refused to -concentrate on the printed page, and fixed themselves on the time when -she and Roland would be married. He had not been to see her at all the -day before. But the memory of his last kiss was very actual to her. He -had loved her then. She had had her bad moments, when she had wondered -whether, after all, he really cared for her, but she was reassured by -such a memory. And soon they would be married. She would make him happy. -She would be a good wife. - -A knock on the front door roused her from her reverie, and, turning her -head, she saw Ralph Richmond standing in the doorway. She rose quickly, -her hand stretched out in friendly welcome. - -“How nice of you to come, Ralph; you’re quite a stranger. Come and sit -down.” And as soon as he was seated she began to talk with fresh -enthusiasm about their friends and acquaintances. “I saw Mrs. Evans -yesterday and she told me that Edward had failed again for his exam. She -was awfully disappointed, though she oughtn’t really to have expected -anything else. Arthur’s form master told him once that he couldn’t -imagine any examination being invented that Edward would be able to -pass.” - -Ralph sat in silence, watching her, wondering what expression those -bright features would assume when she had heard what he had to tell her. -He dreaded the moment, not for his sake, but for hers. He hardly thought -of himself. He loved her and he would have to give her pain. In the end -he stumbled awkwardly across her conversation. - -“April, I have got some bad news for you.” - -“Oh, Ralph, what is it? Nothing about your people, is it?” - -“No, it’s nothing to do with me. It’s about Roland.” - -Although she made no movement, and though the expression of her face did -not appear to alter, it seemed to him that, at the mention of Roland’s -name, her vitality was stilled suddenly. - -“Yes?” she said, and waited for his reply. - -“He’s not hurt, or anything. You needn’t be frightened. But he wanted -you to know that he has become engaged to Muriel Marston.” - -She said nothing for a moment, then in a dazed voice: - -“Oh, no, you must be mistaken, it can’t be true, it can’t possibly!” - -“But it is, April, really. I’m awfully sorry, but it is.” - -She rose from her chair, swayed, steadied herself with her left hand, -took a half pace to the window and stood still. - -“But what am I to do?” she said. She could not bear to contemplate her -life without Roland in it. What would her life become? What else had it -been, indeed, for the last four years but Roland the whole time? -Whenever she had bought a new frock or a new hat she had wondered how -Roland would like her in it. When she had heard an amusing story her -first thought had been, “Roland will be amused by that.” When she had -opened the paper in the morning she had turned always to the sports’ -page first. “Roland will be reading these very words at this very -moment.” Roland was the measure of her happiness. It was a good day or a -bad day in accordance with Roland’s humor. She would mark in the -calendar the days in red and green and yellow--yellow for the unhappy -days, when Roland had not seen her, or when he had been unsympathetic; -the green days were ordinary days, when she had seen him, but had not -been alone with him; her red days were the happy days, when there had -been a letter from him in the morning, or when they had been alone -together and he had been nice and kissed her and made love prettily to -her. Her whole life was Roland. Whenever she was depressed she would -comfort herself with the knowledge that in a year or so she would be -married and with Roland for always. She could not picture to herself -what her life would become now without him. She raised her hand to her -head, in dazed perplexity. - -“What am I to do?” she repeated. “What am I to do?” Then she pulled -herself together. There were several questions that she would wish to -have answered. She returned to her seat. “Now tell me, when did this -happen, Ralph?” - -“He told me last night.” - -“I don’t mean that; when did he propose to Miss Marston?” - -“During the week-end--on Saturday evening, I think.” - -“Saturday evening!” she repeated it--“Saturday evening!” Then he had -been engaged to this other girl on Monday night when he had kissed her. -He had loved her then, he had meant that kiss; she was certain of it. -And to April, as earlier to Mrs. Whately, this treachery seemed capable -of explanation only by a marriage for money. It was unworthy of Roland. -She could hardly imagine him doing it. But he might be in debt. People -did funny things when they were in debt. - -“Is she pretty, this Miss Marston?” - -That was her next question, and Ralph replied that he thought she was. - -“But you’ve never seen her?” - -“No.” - -“Roland told you she was pretty. Did he say anything else about her?” - -“No, hardly anything.” - -There was another pause. Then: - -“I can’t think,” she said, “why he didn’t come and tell me this -himself.” - -She said nothing more. Ralph saw no reason why he should remain any -longer. He rose awkwardly to his feet. As he looked down at her, beaten -and dejected, his love for her flamed up in him fiercely, and, with a -sudden tenderness, he began to speak to her. - -“April,” he said, “it’s been awful for me having to tell you this. I’ve -hated hurting you--really I have. I know you don’t care for me, but if -you would look on me as a friend, a real friend; if there’s anything I -can do for you just now.... I can’t explain myself, but if you want -anything I’ll do it. You’ll come to me, won’t you?” - -She smiled at him, a tired, pathetic smile. - -“All right, Ralph, I’ll remember.” - -But the moment he had left the room all thought of him passed from her, -and she was confronted with the gray, interminable prospect of a future -without Roland. She could not believe that he was lost to her -irretrievably. He would return to her. He must love her still. It was -only two days since he had kissed her. He was marrying this girl for her -money; that was why he had been ashamed to tell her of it himself. He -would not have been ashamed if he had really loved this Muriel. Well, if -it was money she would win him back. She was not afraid of poverty if -Roland was with her; she would fight against it. She would earn money in -little ways; she would do without a servant. His debts would be soon -paid off. She would tell him this and he would return to her. - -That evening she walked towards the Town Hall at the hour when he would -be returning from the office. She had often gone to meet him without her -mother’s knowledge, and they had walked together down the High Street in -the winter darkness, his arm through hers. Bus after bus came up, -emptied, and he was not there. She watched the people climbing down the -stairs. She had decided that as soon as she saw Roland she would walk -quietly down the street, as though she had not come purposely to meet -him. She would thus take him off his guard. But, somehow, she missed the -bus that he was on; perhaps a passing van had obscured her sight of it. -And she did not realize that he was there till she saw him suddenly on -the other side of the pavement. Their eyes met, Roland smiled, raised -his hat and seemed about to come across to her; then he seemed to -remember something, for he hurried quickly on and was lost almost at -once in the dense, black-coated crowd of men returning from their -office. The smile, the raising of the hat, had been an involuntary -action. He had not remembered till he had taken that step forward that -he had now no part in her life. He felt she would not want to speak to -him now. And this action naturally confirmed April in her belief that -Roland was marrying Muriel for her money. - -“It is me that he loves really,” she told herself, and she felt that if -she were a clever woman she would be able to win him back to her. - -“But I am not a clever woman,” she said. “I was not made for intrigues -and diplomacy.” She remembered how, four years earlier, she had learned -from a similar experience that she was not destined for a life of -action. “All my life,” she had told herself, “I shall have to wait, and -Romance may come to me, or it may pass me by. But I shall be unable to -go in search of it.” And it seemed to her that this fate had already -been accomplished. Roland still loved her; that she could not doubt. But -she had no means by which she might recall him to her. “If I had,” she -said, “I should be a different woman, and, as likely as not, he would -not love me.” - -On her return home she went straight upstairs to her bedroom and, -without waiting to take off her hat, opened the little drawer in her -desk in which were stored the letters and the gifts that she had at -various times received from Roland. There was the copper ring there that -he had slipped on to her finger at the party, the tawdry copper ring -that she had kept so bright; there was the score card of a cricket -match, the blue and yellow rosette he had worn at the school sports when -he had been a steward, a photograph of him in Eton collars. She held -them in her hand and her first instinct was to throw them into the -fireplace. But she thought better of it. After all he loved her still. -Why should she not keep them? Instead, she sat down in the chair and -laid the little collection in her lap and, opening the letters, she -began to read them through, one by one; by the time she had finished the -room had darkened. She would have to put on another dress for the -evening and do her hair. Already she could hear her father’s voice in -the hall, but she felt lazy, incapable of action; her hands dropped into -her lap, and her fingers closed round the letters and cards and -snapshots. Her thoughts traveled into the past and were lost in vague, -wistful recollection. Her mother’s voice sounding in the passage woke -her from a reverie. It was quite dark; she must light the gas, and she -would have to hurry with her dressing. It was getting late. She rose to -her feet, walked over to the bureau and put the letters back into the -little drawer. Her fingers remained on the handle after she had closed -it. And again she asked herself the question to which she could find no -answer: “What is going to happen to me now?” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -THE SHEDDING OF THE CHRYSALIS - - -The official position of fiancé was a new and fascinating experience, in -the excitement of which Roland speedily forgot the unpleasantness that -its announcement had caused in Hammerton. It was really great fun. -Important relatives were asked to meet him, and he was introduced to -them by Mr. Marston as “my future son-in-law.” Muriel insisted on taking -him for walks through the village for the pleasure of being able to say -to her friends: “This is my fiancé.” And when he complained that he was -being treated like a prize dog, she asked him what else he thought he -was. Muriel had always been a delightful companion and the engagement -added to their relationship a charming intimacy. It was jolly to sit -with her and hold her hand; and she was not exacting. She did not expect -him to be making love to her the whole time. Indeed, he did not make -love to her very often. They kissed each other when they were alone, but -then kisses were part of the game that they were playing. April had at -first been too shy to pronounce the actual word “kiss.” She had evaded -it, and later, when she had come to use it, it had been for a long while -accompanied by a blush. There was no such reserve between Muriel and -Roland. Kisses were favors that she would accord to him if he were good. -“No,” she would say to him sometimes, “I don’t think I’m going to let -you kiss me this afternoon. You haven’t been at all the faithful and -dutiful lover. You didn’t pay me any attention at lunch; you were -talking to father about some silly cricket match and I had to ask you -twice to pass me the salt. I oughtn’t to have to ask you once. You ought -to know what I want. No! I shan’t let you kiss me.” - -And then he would entreat her clemency; he would hold her hand and kneel -on the wet grass, an act of devotion to which he would call her notice, -and beseech her to be generous, and after a while she would weaken and -say--yes, if he was very good he might be allowed one kiss. No more! But -when his arms were round her he was not satisfied with one, he would -take two, three, four, and she would wriggle in his arms and kick his -shins and tell him that he had taken a mean advantage of her; and when -he had released her she would vow that as a punishment she would not -kiss him again--no, never, not once again, and then would add: “No, not -for a whole week!” And he would catch her again in his arms and say: -“Make it a minute and I’ll agree,” and with a laugh she had accepted his -amendment. - -There were no solemn protestations, no passion, no moments of languid -tenderness. They were branches in neighboring boughs that played merrily -in the wind, caring more, perhaps, for the wind than for each other. - -They talked exhaustively of the future--of the house they were going to -build, the garden they would lay out. “We’ll have fowls,” he said, -“because you’ll look so pretty feeding them.” - -“And we’ll have a lawn,” she repeated, “because you’ll look so hot when -you’ve finished mowing it.” - -They would discuss endlessly the problem of house decoration. She was -very anxious to have bright designs, “with lots of red and blue in it.” -And he had told her that she could do what she liked with the -drawing-room as long as she allowed him a free hand with his own study. - -“Which means that you’ll have a nasty, plain brown paper, and you’ll -cover it with ugly photographs of cricket elevens, and it’ll be full of -horrid arm-chairs and stale tobacco.” - -One day he took her up to Hammerton to see his parents and his friends. -They intrigued her by the difference from the type to which she was -accustomed. - -“It’s awfully interesting,” she said. “They are so different from the -sort of people that we see--all jammed together in these funny little -houses--all furnished just the same.” - -“Yes, and all doing the same things,” said Roland--“going to the office -at the same time, coming back at the same time, and if it hadn’t been -for Gerald that would have been my life. That’s what I should have been. -I should have done exactly the same things every day of my life except -for one fortnight in the year. And it would have been worse for me than -for most of them, because I’ve been at a decent school, because I’d seen -that life needn’t be like that. These people don’t believe it can be -different.” He spoke with a savage sincerity that surprised Muriel. She -had never known him so violent. - -“Roland! Roland!” she expostulated. “I’ve never heard you so fierce -about anything before. Your proposal to me was the tamest thing in the -world compared with that.” - -“I’m sorry.” - -“I should hope so. I believe you hate Hammerton more than you love me.” - -So the autumn passed, quickly and happily. And by Christmas time they -had begun to speak of an April wedding. There was no reason for delay. -Roland was now making over seven hundred pounds a year, and the Marstons -were too certain of their son-in-law to demand a long engagement. Yet it -was on the very evening when the date was fixed that Roland and Muriel -had their first brief quarrel. Roland had been tired by the long -discussion, and Muriel’s keen vitality had exasperated him. She was -talking so eagerly of her trousseau, her bridesmaids, the locality of -her honeymoon. She seemed to him to be sharing their love, his and hers, -with all those other people who had no part in it. He was envious, -feeling that their love was no longer theirs. He was still angry when -they stood together on the landing to say good-night to each other. - -“I don’t believe you care for me at all,” he said, “that you regard our -marriage as anything more than a pantomime, a glorified garden party!” - -A look of hurt amazement crossed her face. - -“But, Roland!” - -“Oh, you know what I mean, Muriel, you--well, all these others!” He -paused, unable to express himself, then caught her quickly, roughly into -his arms, and kissed her hungrily. “I don’t care,” he said, “you’ll be -mine soon, mine!” - -She pushed away from him, her face flushed and frightened. - -“Oh, don’t, Roland, don’t!” - -He was instantly apologetic. - -“I’m sorry, Elfkin. I’m a beast. Forgive me, but oh, Elfkin, you really -are anxious about the marriage for my sake?” - -“Of course, silly!” - -“I mean you’re glad that we’re going to be married soon?” - -She was surprised and at the same time amused by the look of entreaty in -his eyes. - -“Don’t look so tragic about it, of course I’m glad.” - -“But ...” He got no further, for she had taken his hands and was playing -with them, slapping them against his sides. - -“Don’t be such a silly, Roland, darling; you ought to know how pleased I -am. I’m looking forward to it frightfully; and I know that you’ll be an -awful dear to me.” - -She brought his hands together in one last triumphant smack, and leaning -forward imprinted a light kiss upon his forehead. He tried to draw her -again into his arms, but she broke from him. - -“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, and ran lightly up the stairs. She turned at -the corner of the landing to blow a kiss to him. “Good-night, darling,” -and she was gone. - -It was not repeated. Doubt, remorse, hesitation were alike forgotten in -the excitement of preparation. He had arranged to take over the lease of -a small house on the edge of the Marston estate, and the furnishing of -it was a new and delightful game. The present tenants did not relinquish -possession till the end of February, and during the intervening weeks -Muriel and Roland would prowl round the house like animals waiting for -their prey. They were finely contemptuous of the existing arrangements. -Fancy using the big room as a drawing-room; it faced southeast, and -though it would be warm enough during the morning, it would be freezily -cold in the afternoon. Of course they would make that the dining room; -it would be glorious for breakfast. And that big room above it should -be their bedroom; they would awake with the sunlight streaming through -the window. - -“You’ll see the apple tree while you brush your hair,” he told her. And -they both agreed that they would cut down the large walnut tree in the -garden. It was pretty, but it shut out the view of Hogstead. “It’ll be -much better to be able to look out from the drawing-room window and see -the funny old people going up and down the village street.” And Roland -reminded her how they had looked down on them that day when they had -leaned against the gate: “Do you remember?” And she had laughed and told -him that he was a stupid old sentimentalist, but she had kissed him all -the same. And then the great day had come when the tenants began to -move; they stood all the afternoon watching the workmen stagger into the -garden, bowed with the weight of heavy furniture. - -“I can’t think how all that stuff ever got in there,” Muriel said, and -began to wonder whether they themselves would ever have enough. “We’ve -nothing like as much as that.” - -And Roland had to assure her that they could always buy more, and that -anyway the house had been over-furnished. - -“You couldn’t move for chairs and chesterfields and bureaus.” - -It was two days before the last van rolled away and Muriel and Roland -were able to walk up the garden path “into our own house.” But it was a -bitter disappointment. The rooms looked mean and small and shabby now -that they were unfurnished. The bare boards of the floors and staircases -were dirty and covered with the straw of packing cases, the plaster of -the wall showing white where the book shelves had been unfixed. And the -paper that had been shielded by pictures from the sunshine struck a -vivid contrast to its faded environment. Muriel was on the verge of -tears. - -“Oh, Roland, what’s happened to our pretty house?” she cried. And it -took all his skill to persuade her that rooms always did look small till -they were furnished, and that carpets and pictures covered many things. - -“But our pictures won’t fit exactly in those places,” Muriel wailed, -“and all our small pictures will have haloes.” - -“Then we’ll get new papers,” Roland said. - -There were moments when it seemed that things could not be possibly -finished in time. On the last week of March there was not a carpet on -the floor, not a curtain over a window, not a picture on the walls. - -“I know what it’ll be,” said Muriel in despair, “we shall have to go and -leave it half finished, and while we’re away mother’ll arrange it -according to her own ideas, and her ideas are not mine. It’ll take us -all the rest of our lives getting things out of the places where she has -put them. It’s going to be awful, Roland, I know it is. We oughtn’t to -have arranged our marriage till we’d arranged our house.” - -Muriel was a little difficult during those days, but Roland was very -patient and very affectionate. - -“You only wait,” he said; “it looks pretty awful now, but one good day’s -shopping’ll make a jolly big difference.” - -And it did. In one week they bought all the carpets, the curtains, the -chairs and tables, and Gerald was dispatched with a list that Mrs. -Marston had drawn up of the uninteresting things--saucepans, -frying-pans, crockery--and with a blank check. “We can’t be bothered -with those things,” said Roland. - -It was a hectic week. They had decided to spend three hundred pounds on -furnishing, and every evening, for Roland was staying with the Marstons, -the two of them sat down to adjust their accounts, and to Muriel, who -had never experienced a moment’s anxiety about money, this checking of a -balance-sheet was a delightful game. It was such fun pretending to be -poor, adding up figures, comparing price-lists, as though each penny -mattered. She would sit, her pencil on her lips, her account book on one -side, her price-list on the other, and would look up at Roland with an -imploring, helpless glance, and: “Roland, dear, there’s such a beautiful -wardrobe here; it’s fifty pounds, but it’ll hold all my things; do you -think we can afford it?” - -And Roland would assume dire deliberation: “Well,” he would say, after -an impressive pause, “I think we can, only we’ll have to be very careful -over the servant’s bedroom if we get it.” And Muriel would throw her -arms round his neck and assure him that he was a darling, and then turn -again to the price-list. - -And all the while the wedding presents were arriving by every post. -That, too, was great fun, or rather it had been at the start. - -The first parcels were opened with unbounded enthusiasm. - -“Oh, Roland, Mrs. Boffin has sent us a silver inkstand; isn’t it sweet -of her?” - -“Muriel, come and look at these candlesticks; they are beauties.” - -And letters of eager thanks were written. After a week or so the game -began to lose its fascination. The gifts resembled each other; they -began to forget who had given what, and as they wrote the letters of -acknowledgment they would shout to each other in despair: - -“Oh, Roland, do tell me what Mr. Fitzherbert sent us!” - -“I can’t remember. I’m trying to think who I’ve got to thank for that -butter-dish.” - -“The butter-dish!--that was Mr. Robinson--but Mr. Fitzherbert?” - -“But the butter-dish wasn’t Mr. Robinson; he was the clock!” - -“Then it was Mrs. Evans; and, Roland, do, do think what Mr. Fitzherbert -gave us.” - -And so it went on, till at last they began to show a decided preference -for checks. - -And there was the honeymoon: that had to be arranged. Muriel would -rather like to have gone abroad. - -“I’ve been only twice. We’ll see all the foreigners, and sit in cafés, -and go to theaters and see if we can understand them.” - -But Roland was not very anxious to go abroad. He went there too often in -the way of business. He might meet people who at other times were -charming, but were not on a honeymoon the most comfortable company. -There would be the fatigue of long journeys, and besides, he wanted -Muriel to himself. - -“I don’t want to go and see foreigners, I want to see you.” - -“Well, you’ll have seen a good deal of me before you’ve finished.” - -“But, Muriel,” and the firm note in his voice forced her to capitulate. - -“All right, all right, have it as you like.” - -And so, after much discussion, it was decided that they should get a -cyclist map of England, find a Sussex village that was at least three -miles from any railway station, and then write to the postmaster and ask -whether anyone there would be ready to let them rooms for a month. - -“Three miles from anywhere! Heavens! but I shall be bored; still it’s as -you wish. Go and get your map, Gerald.” - -And with the map spread on the table they selected, after an hour’s -argument, to see if anything was doing at Bamfield. - -“It should be a good place,” said Roland. “It’s just under the Downs.” - -In all this fret and fluster Mr. Marston took the most intense interest. -It reminded him of his own marriage and, finding his youth again in -theirs, he spoke often of his honeymoon. - -“Do you remember, dear, when we went out for a picnic in the woods and -it came on to rain and we went to that little cottage under the hill?” -And again: “Do you remember that view we got of the sea from the top of -Eversleigh?” Little incidents of his courtship that he had forgotten a -long time were recalled to him, so that he came to feel a genuine -tenderness for the wife whom he had neglected for business, for cricket, -and his children; from a distance of thirty years the perfume of those -scented months had returned to him. - -Gerald was alone unmoved. He was annoyed one morning when he found the -floor of the billiard room covered with packing cases, but he retained -his hardly won composure. He accepted the duties of best man without -enthusiasm. “At any rate it will soon be over,” he had said, and had -proceeded to give Roland two new white wood bats. - -“They won’t last long, but you can’t help making a few runs with them.” -And his friend was left to draw from that present what inference he -might think fit. - -They were hectic days, but at last everything was finished. The house -was papered and furnished, rooms had been booked at Bamfield, and in the -last week in April Roland returned to Hammerton. He had had scarcely a -moment’s rest during the last two months. Life had moved at an -incredible pace, and only with an enormous struggle had he managed to -keep pace with it. He had had no time to think what he was doing. Each -morning had presented him with some fresh difficulty, each night had -left some piece of work unfinished. And, now that it was over, he felt -exhausted. The store of energy that had sustained his vitality at so -high a pressure was spent. - -The sudden marriage was naturally a disappointment to his parents. Their -opinion had not been asked; the arrangements had been made at Hogstead. -Roland had just told them that such and such a thing had been decided, -and they were hurt. They had known, of course, all along that as soon as -their son was married they would lose him, but they had expected to -retain his confidence up till then; and, being sentimental, they had -often spoken together of the wife that he would choose. They had looked -forward to his days of courtship, hoping to have a share in that fresh -happiness. But the pleasure had been given to others; they had had no -part in it. - -In consequence Roland did not find them very responsive. They listened -attentively to all he told them, but they asked no questions, and the -conversation was not made easy. Roland was piqued by their behavior; he -had intended to arrange a picnic for the three of them on the last day, -but now decided that he would not. After all, why should he: it would -be no pleasure for any of them, not if they were going to sit glum and -silent. Two days before his marriage he went for a walk in the evening -with his father, and as Gerald would be coming on the next day to stay -the night with them this was the last walk they would have together. But -in nothing that they said to each other was implied any appreciation of -the fact. When Mr. Whately returned from the office he handed the -evening paper to his wife, commented on the political situation in -Russia and on the economical situation of France, and was, on the whole, -of the opinion that Spanish cooking was superior to Italian. “Not quite -so much variety,” he said, “but there’s a flavor about it that one gets -nowhere else.” He then proceeded to remove his boots: “And what about a -walk, Roland?” - -Roland nodded, and Mr. Whately went upstairs to change his suit. They -walked as usual down the High Street, they turned up the corner of -College Road, they crossed by the Public Library into Green Crescent, -and completed their circuit by walking down into the High Street through -Woolston Avenue. They talked of Fernhurst, of the coming cricket season, -of the marriage ceremony, of the arrangements that had been made for -meeting the guests at the church, of the train that Roland and Muriel -would catch afterwards. But there passed between them not one sentence, -question, intonation of the voice that could be called intimate, that -could be said to express not remorse, but any attitude at all towards -the severing of a long relationship. As they walked up the steps of 105 -Hammerton Villas they were discussing the effectiveness of the new pull -stroke that in face of prejudice so many great batsmen were practicing. - -“I think I shall go down to the nets at the Oval to-morrow morning, -father, and see what I can make of it.” - -It was a bleak morning and the Oval presented a dismal appearance; a few -men were pottering about with ladders and paint brushes; a cutting -machine was clanking on the grass; the long stone terraces were cold and -forbidding; the clock in the pavilion had stopped; far over at the -Vauxhall end a couple of bored professionals were bowling to an -enthusiastic amateur who had no idea of the game, but demanded -instruction after every stroke. Roland stood behind the net and watched -for a while an exhibition of cross-bat play that was calculated to make -him forever an advocate of the left shoulder, the left elbow and the -left foot. He had a few minutes’ chat with one of the groundsmen. - -“Yes, sir, it do look pretty dismal, but you wait. April’s a funny -month; why, to-morrow we shall probably have brilliant sunshine, and -there’ll be twenty or thirty people down here, and when you go away -you’ll be thinking about getting out that bat of yours and putting a -drop of oil on it.” Roland expressed a hope that this prophecy would -prove correct. - -April was a funny month: it was cold to-day, but within a week the sun -would be shining on green grass and new white flannels. Only another -week! The fixing of this date, however, reminded Roland that in a week’s -time he would be in a small village under the Downs, three miles from -the nearest station, and this reminder was somewhat of a shock to him. -He would miss the first four weeks of the season. By the time he came -back everyone else would have found their form; it was rather a -nuisance. Still, a honeymoon! Ah, well, one could not have it both -ways. - -Gerald was not arriving till the afternoon, and the morning passed -slowly for Roland. He walked from Kennington over Westminster Bridge and -along the Embankment to Charing Cross; he strolled down the Strand, -looking into the shop windows and wondering whether he was hungry enough -to have his lunch. He decided he was not and continued his walk, but -boredom made him reconsider the decision, and he found himself unable to -pass a small Italian restaurant at the beginning of Fleet Street; and as -he had a long time, with nothing to do in it, he ordered a heavy lunch. -When the waiter presented him with his bill he had become fretfully -irritable--the usual penalty of overeating. - -What on earth should he do with himself for two hours? How slowly the -time was passing. It was impossible to realize that in twenty-four -hours’ time he would be standing beside Muriel before the altar, that in -two days’ time they would be man and wife. What would it be like? -Pondering the question, he walked along to Trafalgar Square, and still -pondering it he mounted a bus and traveled on it as far as a sevenpenny -ticket would take him. Then he got on to a bus that was going in the -opposite direction, and by the time he was back again at Trafalgar -Square, Gerald’s train from Hogstead was nearly due. - -It was not a particularly exciting evening and the atmosphere was -distinctly edgy. Mr. Whately was bothered about his clothes, and whether -he should wear a white or a dark tie; and Mrs. Whately was fussing over -little things. “Did old Mrs. Whately know that she had to change at -Waterloo? Had anyone written to tell her? And who was going to meet her -at the other end?” It was a relief to Roland when they had gone to bed -and he and Gerald were left alone. - -“It’s a funny thing,” Gerald said; “five years ago we didn’t know each -other; you were nothing to me, nor I to you, and then we meet in -Brewster’s study, and again at the Oval and, before we know where we are -you’re a junior partner in the business and engaged to my sister. To -think what a difference you’ve made to all of us!” - -“And the funniest thing of all,” said Roland, “is to think that if I -hadn’t caught the three-thirty from Waterloo instead of the -four-eighteen, none of this would have happened. I shouldn’t have met -that blighter Howard, nor gone out with those girls; and, even so, none -of it would have happened if I had taken my footer boots down to be -mended, as I ought to have done, on a Sunday afternoon instead of -loafing in my study. One can’t tell what’s going to be a blessing till -one’s done with it. If I hadn’t had that row I should never have met you -and I should never have met Muriel.” And he paused, wondering what would -have happened to him if he had caught the four-eighteen and taken his -boots down to be mended. He would have stayed on another year at school; -he would have been captain of the house; he would have gone up to the -’Varsity. He would have had a good time, no doubt, but where would he be -now? Probably an assistant master at a second-rate public school, an -ill-paid post that had been given to him because he was good at games. -Probably also he would be engaged to April, and he would be making -desperate calculations with account books to discover whether it was -possible to marry on one hundred and fifty pounds a year. - -“That row,” he said, “was the luckiest thing for me that ever happened.” - -And they sat for a while in silence pondering the strange contradictions -of life, pondering also the instability of human schemes. One might plan -out the future, pigeon-hole it, have everything arranged as by a -machine, and then what happened? Someone caught a train at three-thirty -instead of at four-eighteen, or was too lazy to take his football boots -down to be mended on a wet afternoon, and the plans that had been built -up so elaborately through so many years were capsized, and one had to -begin again. - -“And it’s so funny,” Roland said, “to think of the fuss they made at -Fernhurst about a thing like that--just taking a girl out for a walk, -and you’d think I’d broken the whole ten commandments, and all the talk -there was about my corrupting the pure soul of Brewster.” - -Gerald broke into a great laugh. - -“The pure soul of Brewster!” he said. “My lord! if you’d known what he -was like after he’d been in the house a term. He’d have taken a blooming -lot of corrupting then. Gawd, but he was a lad!” And Gerald supplied -some intriguing anecdotes of Brewster’s early life. “He was a lad!” And -Brewster’s name started a train of associations, and Roland asked Gerald -whether he had heard of Baker. - -“Baker? Baker?” Gerald repeated. “No. I can’t say I ever remember -hearing anything about him. He must have been after my time.” - -Roland got up, walked across to his bureau, and taking a bunch of keys -from his hip pocket unlocked a small top drawer. He took the drawer out -and, bringing it across, laid it on the table. It was full of -photographs, letters, ribbons, dance programs, and he began to fumble -among them: “I think we shall find something about Master Baker here,” -he said. “Ah, yes, here we are!” And he handed across to Gerald a large -house photograph. “There he is, bottom row, fourth from the right.” - -Gerald scrutinized the photograph, holding it to the light. - -“Lord, yes,” he said, “that tells its own story; what’s happened to him -now?” - -“He was head of the house two years ago; he’s gone up to Selwyn. I -believe he’s going into the Church.” - -Gerald smiled. “When we all meet at an old boys’ dinner in twenty years’ -time we shall get one or two shocks. Think of Brewster bald, and -Maconochie stout, and Evans the father of a family!” - -“My lord!” - -And they began to rummage in the drawer, till the table was littered -with letters and photographs. - -The photographs led them from one reminiscence to another; and in that -little series of isolated recollections they lived again through all -that had remained vivid to them of their school days. - -“Heavens!” said Gerald, “who’s that? You don’t mean to say that’s -Harrison! Why, I remember him when he first came, a ridiculous kid; we -used to call him ‘Little Belly.’ About the first week he was there he -showed his gym. belt to someone and said: ‘Isn’t it small? Haven’t I a -little belly?’” - -“And here’s Hardy,” said Roland. “Do you remember that innings of his in -the final house match, and how we lined up on each side of the pavilion -and cheered him when he came out?” - -“And do you remember that try of his in the three cock?--two men and the -back to beat and only a couple of yards to spare between them and the -touchline. I don’t know how he kept his foot inside.” - -And as the store of Fernhurst photographs became exhausted they found -among the notes and hotel bills delightful memories of much that they -had in common. - -“The Café du Nord, Ghent! My son,” said Gerald, “do you remember that -top-hole Burgundy? Yes, here it is--two bottles of Volnay, fifty-three -francs.” - -“Wasn’t that the night when that ripping little German girl smiled at us -across the room?” - -“And when I said that another bottle of Volnay was better than any woman -in the world.” - -A torn hotel bill at Cologne recalled a disappointing evening in the -company of two German girls whom they had met at a dance and taken out -to supper--an evening that had ended, to the surprise of both of them, -in a platonic pressure of the hands. - -“Do you remember how we stood under the cathedral and watched them pass -out of sight behind the turning of the Hohe Strasse, and then you turned -to me and said: ‘There’s no understanding women’?” - -And then there was the evening when they had gone to the opera in Bonn -and had had supper afterwards in a little restaurant, from the window of -which they could see the Rhine flowing beneath them in the moonlight, -and its beauty and the tender sentimental melodies of Verdi had produced -in both of them a mood of rare appreciation; they had sat in silence and -made no attempt to express in talk the sense of wonderment. Much was -recalled to them by these pieces of crumpled paper, and when Roland put -away the drawer it seemed to Gerald that he was locking away a whole -period of his life. And when they said good-night to each other on the -stairs Gerald could not help wondering whether, in the evening that had -just passed, their friendship had not reached the limit of its tether. -Roland was beginning a new life in which he would have no part. As he -heard his friend’s door shut behind him he could not help feeling that -never again would they reach that same point of intimacy. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -AN END AND A BEGINNING - - -No doubt the groundsman at the Oval rubbed his hands together with -satisfaction when he looked out of his bedroom window on the following -morning. It was not particularly warm; indeed he must have shivered as -he stood with his shaving brush in his hand, looking at the sky instead -of at his mirror. But the sky was blue and the sun was shining, and he -would, no doubt, be warm enough after he had sent down a couple of overs -at the nets. The thoughts of Roland as he surveyed the bright spring -morning were not dissimilar. He saw in it a happy augury. Summer was -beginning. - -They were a silent party at breakfast; each was preoccupied with his own -affairs. They had decided to leave Charing Cross at twelve-thirty-five -by a train that reached Hogstead at half-past one; the service was fixed -for two o’clock. They would not need to leave the house till a quarter -to twelve. They had therefore three hours to put in. - -“Now, I suggest,” said Gerald, “that you should come down with me to the -barber’s and have a shave.” - -“But I’ve shaved already.” - -“I daresay you have, but on a day like this one can’t shave too often.” - -And Roland, in spite of his protests, was led down to the shop. Once -there, Gerald refused to be satisfied with a mere shave. - -“This is a big occasion,” he said. And he insisted that Roland should be -shampooed, that he should have his hair singed, that his face should be -oiled and massaged and his finger nails polished. - -“Now you look something like a bridegroom.” And in defiance of Roland’s -blushes he explained to the girl at the counter that his friend had -intended to be married unshaven. - -“What would you think,” he said, “if your fiancé turned up at the altar -with his hair unbrushed and chin all over bristles?” - -The girl was incapable of any repartee other than a giggle and the -suggestion that he should get along with himself. Gerald then announced -his intention of buying a pair of gloves, and when he reached the shop -he pretended that he was the bridegroom and Roland the best man. He took -the shopmen into his confidence and told them that the bride was very -particular--“a very finicking young person indeed”--and he must have -exactly the shade of yellow that would match her orange blossom. He -produced from his waistcoat pocket a piece of flame-colored silk. “It’s -got to go with this,” he said. - -In the same manner he proceeded to acquire a tie, a pair of spats, a -silk handkerchief. As he told his father afterwards, he did splendidly, -and kept Roland from worrying till it was time for them to dress. - -But the journey to the station was, even Gerald confessed, pretty -terrible. It was only five minutes’ walk and it had never occurred to -them to hire a cab. They wished they had, however, as they stepped down -the long white steps into the street that divided the even from the odd -numbered houses of Hammerton Villas. Everyone they passed turned to -stare at them. They were so obviously a wedding party. “Which is it?” -they overheard a navvy ask his mate. “Should be the one with the biggest -flower in his button-hole.” - -“Garn, he’s much too young!” - -Roland hated it, and the half hour in the train was even worse. As soon -as they reached Charing Cross he made a dash for the platform, leaving -Gerald to collect the tickets. But his embarrassment was yet to be made -complete, for as he stood on the footboard of the carriage he heard a -deep booming voice behind him. - -“Hullo, bridegroom!” And he turned to face the bulky figure of a maiden -aunt and the snigger of a porter. He did not feel safe till he had heard -the scream of the driver’s whistle, felt the carriage vibrate beneath -him and after two jolts pull slowly out of the station. - -He talked little on the journey, but sat in a corner of the carriage -watching through the window the houses slip past him, till the train -reached meadowland and open country. He knew every acre of that hour’s -journey. He had made it so often with such eager haste. How much, he -wondered, would not have happened to him before the time came for him to -make it again? He tried to marshal the reflections that should be -appropriate to such an occasion, but he could not. Life moved too fast -for thought. A fierce rhythm was completing its circle. He sat watching -the landmarks fall one by one behind him, appreciating confusedly the -nature of the experience to which he was being hurried. - -It was the same at the church. He did not feel in the least nervous. He -told a couple of good stories to Gerald in the chancel; he settled the -account with the verger; he walked down the aisle and began to speak to -his friends as they took their places. - -“So good of you to come; hope you had a pleasant journey. See you -afterwards.” - -Gerald was amazed. “You’re wonderful! Why, you’re as calm as if you were -at a tea party!” - -Roland smiled, but said nothing. He attributed no credit to himself. How -else should he behave? A swiftly spinning top would, at a first glance, -appear to be poised unconsciously upon its point. It did not begin to -wobble till its pace was lost. And was not he himself a swiftly spinning -top? - -He did not even feel nervous when a commotion in the porch warned him of -the arrival of his bride; he stood firmly, did not fidget, fixed his -eyes upon the door till he saw, framed there picture-wise, Muriel, in -white and orange, upon her father’s arm. He then turned and faced the -altar. The organ boomed out its heavy, ponderous notes, but he hardly -heard them. His ears were strained for the silken sound that drew nearer -to him every moment. He kept his eyes fixed upon the altar, and it was -the faint perfume of her hair that told him first that she was beside -him. - -During the early part of the service he comported himself with a -mechanical efficiency. His performance was dignified and correct. When -he found a difficulty in putting the ring on to her finger he did not -become flustered, but left her to put it on herself. The ceremony had -for him a certain emotional significance. Once, as they stood close -together, the back of his hand brushed against hers and the cool contact -of her fingers reminded him of the serious oath that he was taking and -of how he was bringing to it a definite, if vaguely formulated, ideal of -tenderness and loyalty. He meant to make of their marriage a reality -other than the miserable, dissatisfied compromise that, for the vast -majority of men and women, succeeded the first brief enchantment. His -lips framed no prayer; it had been for a long while his belief that the -molding of a man’s fortunes lay within his own powers. But that desire -for happiness was none the less a prayer. It went as quickly as it had -come, and he was once again the lay figure whose contortions all these -good people had been called together to observe. He remained a lay -figure during the rest of the afternoon. - -He walked down the aisle proudly with Muriel on his arm; in the carriage -he took her hand in his, and when they were out of sight of the church -he lifted her veil and imprinted a gentle kiss upon her cheek. He stood -beside her in the drawing-room and received each guest with a swift, -fluttering smile and a shake of the hand. The majority of them he did -not know, or had seen only occasionally. They were the friends and -relatives of Muriel. There were only a few in whom Roland was able to -take any personal interest. Ralph was there, and April. He had not -spoken to April since the evening when he had kissed her, and he -momentarily lost his composure when he saw, over the shoulder of an old -lady whose hand he was politely shaking, the brown hair and delicate -features to which he had been unfaithful. In what manner should he -receive her? But he need not have worried. She settled that for him. She -walked forward and took his hand in simple comradeship and smiled at -him. She looked very pretty in a gray coat and skirt and wide-brimmed -claret-colored hat. He recalled the day when she had worn that hat for -the first time and her anxiety that she should be pretty with it. “You -do like it, don’t you, darling?” But someone else was already waiting -with outstretched hand. “You looked so sweet, Muriel, darling,” an aged -female was saying. “Your husband’s a lucky man!” And by the time that -was over, the cake was waiting to be cut and champagne bottles had to be -opened, and Roland was passing from one group of persons to another, -saying the same things, making the same gestures: “Yes, we’re spending -our honeymoon in England ... Bamfield, a little village under the Downs -... Sussex’s so quiet ... such a mistake to try and do too much on a -honeymoon.” - -He had barely time to exchange a couple of remarks with Beatrice. She -came towards him, her hand stretched out in simple comradeship. - -“Good luck, Roland,” she said. “You are going to be awfully happy. I -know you are.” - -“And when we come back you must come and see us; won’t you, Beatrice?” - -“Of course I shall.” - -“Often,” he urged. - -“As often as you ask me.” - -Before he had time to reply an obscure relative had begun to assure him -of his wonderful fortune and of his eternal felicity. - -He caught glimpses of Muriel’s white dress passing through the ranks of -admiration, and then he found himself being led by the arm to the table -where the champagne was being opened and a cricket friend of his, a -married man, was adjuring him to take as much as possible. “You don’t -know what you’re in for, old man.” And then Gerald was telling him that -it was time he went upstairs to change, that Muriel had gone already. - -“You’re really wonderful, old man,” Gerald said, when they were alone. -“I can’t think how you did it. It’s cured me of ever wanting to get -married.” - -There were several telegrams lying on his dressing-table; he opened them -and tossed them half read upon the floor. “Thank God I haven’t got to -answer those,” he said. And while he changed into a gray tweed suit -Gerald continued to perform what he considered to be the functions of a -best man. He chattered about the service, the champagne, the wedding -cake, the behavior of the guests. “And, I say, old son, who was that -mighty topping girl in gray, with the large wine-colored hat?” - -“That? Oh, that was April--April Curtis.” - -“What! the girl that----” - -“Yes, that’s the one.” - -Gerald was momentarily overwhelmed. “Well, I must say I’m surprised,” he -began. Then paused, realizing that as Roland had just married his sister -it was hardly possible for him to draw any comparison between her and -April. He contented himself with a highly colored compliment: - -“A jolly pretty girl,” he said, “and she’ll be a beautiful woman.” - -At that moment there was a tap at the door and Mrs. Marston’s voice was -heard inquiring whether Roland had nearly finished. - -“Hurry up, old man,” said Gerald, “Muriel’s ready.” And two minutes -later he was running, with Muriel on his arm, through a shower of rose -leaves and confetti. They both sank back into the cushions, panting, -laughing, exhausted. And as the gates of the drive swung behind them -they said, almost simultaneously: “Thank heaven, that’s over!” - -But a moment later Muriel was qualifying her relief with the assertion -that it had been “great fun.” - -“All those serious-faced people came up and wished me good luck. If I’d -encouraged them they’d have started taking me into corners and preaching -sermons at me.” - -But Roland did not find it easy to respond to her gayety. Now that it -was all over he felt tired, physically and emotionally. When they -reached the station he bought a large collection of papers and -magazines, so that their two hours’ journey might be passed quietly. But -this was not at all in accordance with Muriel’s ideas. - -“Don’t be so dull, Roland!” she complained. “I want to be amused.” - -He did his best; they talked of all their guests and of how each one of -them had behaved. - -“Wasn’t old Miss Peter ridiculous, dressing up so young?” said Muriel; -and Roland asked whether she didn’t think that Guy Armstrong had been -paying rather marked attention to Miss Latimer. - -“Why, he’s been doing that for months,” said Muriel. “We’ve all been -wondering when he’s going to propose. I don’t mind betting that at this -very moment she’s doing her best to make him. She’s probably suggested -that he should take her home, and she’s insisted on going the longest -way.” - -But Roland’s conversational energy was soon exhausted, and after a long -and slightly embarrassed silence Muriel tossed back her head impatiently -and picked up a magazine. - -“You are not very interesting, are you?” she said. - -Roland considered it wiser to make no response. He settled himself back -into his seat, rested his head against his hand, and allowed his -thoughts to travel back over the incidents of the afternoon. - -It had been a great success; there could be no doubt of that. -Everything had gone off splendidly. But he was unaccountably oppressed -by a vague sense of apprehension, of impending trouble. He endeavored to -fix his thoughts on reassuring subjects. He recalled his momentary talk -with Beatrice, and remembered that that afternoon he had addressed her -for the first time by her Christian name. She had shown no displeasure -at his use of it, and as she smiled at him he fancied he had read in the -soft wavering luster of her eyes the promise of a surer friendship, of -deeper intimacy. He had seen so little of her during the last few -months. It would be exciting to meet her on his return, at full liberty, -on an assured status, in his own house. - -His reverie traveled thence to Gerald’s easy good humor, his unflagging -energy, his bubbling commentary on the idiosyncrasies of his father’s -friends, his surprised admiration of April; and the thought of April -brought back in a sudden wave the former mood of doubt and apprehension. -How little, after all, he and Muriel knew of one another; they were -strangers beneath the mask of their light-hearted friendship. He looked -at her out of the corner of his eye. Her magazine had fallen forward on -to her lap. Her eyes were fixed dreamily on the opposite wall of the -carriage. Her thoughts were, no doubt, loitering pleasantly in a colored -dream among the agreeable episodes of the afternoon--her dress, her -bridesmaids, her bouquets, the nice things everyone had said to her. As -he looked at her, so calm, so self-possessed, Roland was momentarily -appalled by the difficulty of establishing on a new basis their old -relationship. - -They had been comrades before they had been lovers. In their courtship -passion had been so occasional a visitant. - -They were both in a subdued state of mind when they stepped up into the -dogcart that had been sent to meet them at the station. - -“Tired, Elfkin?” he whispered. - -“A little,” she said. - -The air was cold and she snuggled close to him for warmth; he took her -hand in his and held it, pressing it tenderly. - -They had a three-mile drive through the quiet English countryside. - -And it was quite dark when the dogcart eventually drew up before a small -cottage and a kindly, plump woman came out to meet them. - -“Ah, there you be!” she said. “I was just expecting you. The supper’s -all laid out, and I’ve only got to put the eggs on to boil, and there’s -some hot water in the bedroom.” - -Roland thanked her, took down the two suitcases, and followed Muriel and -her up the narrow creaking stairs. - -“There,” she said, opening a door. “There you are. And if you want -anything you ring that bell on the table. I’ll just run down and get on -with the supper.” - -Roland and Muriel were left alone in a small room, the greater part of -which was occupied by a large double bed, over which had been hung, with -a singular lack of humor, a Scriptural admonition: “Love one another.” -The ceiling was low, the window was overhung with ivy. In midsummer it -would be a stuffy room. They looked at each other; they were alone for -the first time, and they did not know what to do. There was an awkward -silence. - -“I suppose you’ll want to tidy up,” said Roland. - -“Well, of course,” she answered a little petulantly. - -“All right, then; I’ll go downstairs. Come and tell me when you’re -ready.” - -She was standing between him and the door, and as he passed her he made -an ill-judged attempt to take her in his arms. She was tired and she was -dusty, and she did not want to be kissed just then. She shook herself -away from him. And this mistake increased Roland’s despondency, -accentuated his nervousness, his vague distaste for this summoning of -emotion to order, at a fixed date and at a fixed hour. - -Supper was not a cheerful meal; at first they attempted to be jovial, -but their enthusiasm was forced, and long silences began to drift into -their conversation. They grew increasingly embarrassed and tried to -prolong the meal as long as possible. Muriel was not fond of coffee and -rarely took it, but when Roland asked her if she would like some she -welcomed the suggestion: “Oh, yes, do.” - -Mrs. Humphries, however, had no coffee, but when she read the -disappointment of the young bride’s face she said she would see if she -could not borrow some from her neighbor. And while she ran over the -village street Muriel and Roland sat opposite each other in silence; her -hands were folded in her lap, and she stared straight in front of her; -he played with the spoon of the salt cellar, making little pyramids of -salt round the edge. - -At last the coffee arrived; its warmth momentarily cheered them and they -tried to talk, to make fun of their friends, to scheme things for their -future. But the brooding sense of embarrassment returned. Roland, in the -intervals of occasional remarks, continued to erect his pyramids of -salt. - -“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t,” said Muriel impatiently; “you get on my -nerves with your fidgeting.” - -Roland apologized, dropped the spoon, and without occupation for his -hands felt more uncomfortable than before. They continued a spasmodic -conversation till Mrs. Humphries came in to tell them that she would be -going to bed directly. - -“We get up early here,” she said. And would they please to remember to -blow out the lamp and not to turn down the wick, as her last lodger had -done. She wished them a good-night, and said she would bring them a cup -of tea when she called them in the morning. They heard her bolt the -front door and fasten the shutter across the kitchen window, then tread -heavily up the creaking stairs. For a little while they listened to her -movements in the room. Then came the heavy creak of a bedstead. - -They were alone in the silent house. - -“Well, I suppose we must be going up,” he said. - -“I suppose so.” - -“Will you go up first and I’ll come when you’re ready?” - -“All right.” - -He made no attempt to touch her as she passed him. She paused in the -doorway. A mocking smile, a last desperate rally fluttered over her -lips. - -“Don’t forget to turn the lamp out, Roland. My last lodger....” - -But she never completed the sentence; and their eyes met in such a look -as two shipwrecked mariners must exchange when they realize that they -can hold out no longer, and that the next wave will dash their numb -fingers from the friendly spar. - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Roland Whately, by Alec Waugh - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROLAND WHATLEY *** - -***** This file should be named 52020-0.txt or 52020-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/0/2/52020/ - -Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Roland Whately - A Novel - -Author: Alec Waugh - -Release Date: May 7, 2016 [EBook #52020] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROLAND WHATLEY *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="350" height="500" alt="[image -of the book's cover unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p class="cb">ROLAND WHATELY</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i"></a>{i}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii"></a>{ii}</span> </p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/colophon.png" width="125" height="43" alt="colophon" title="" /> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> -<small>NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS<br /> -ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO</small><br /> -<br /> -MACMILLAN & CO., <span class="smcap">Limited</span><br /> -<small>LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA<br /> -MELBOURNE</small><br /> -<br /> -THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, <span class="smcap">Ltd.</span><br /> -<small>TORONTO</small><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii"></a>{iii}</span> </p> - -<h1>ROLAND WHATELY<br /> - -<small><i>A Novel</i></small><br /> -</h1> - -<p class="c"> -BY<br /> -ALEC WAUGH<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF “THE LOOM OF YOUTH”</small><br /> -<br /><br /><br /> -<span class="eng">New York</span><br /> -THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> -1922<br /> -<br /> -<small><i>All Rights Reserved</i></small><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv"></a>{iv}</span><br /> -<small>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</small><br /> -<br /> -<small><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1922,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By</span> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.<br /> -———<br /> -Set up and printed. Published September, 1922.<br /> -<br /> -Press of<br /> -J. J. Little & Ives Company<br /> -New York, U. S. A.</small><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v"></a>{v}</span><br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">To My Friend</span><br /> -CLIFFORD BAX<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vi" id="page_vi"></a>{vi}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii"></a>{vii}</span> </p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="3"><a href="#PART_I">PART I.—THE OPENING ROUND</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><small>CHAPTER </small></td><td> </td> -<td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Two Haphazards</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_3">3</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Outcome</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_14">14</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Ralph and April</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_23">23</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Kiss</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_35">35</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Potential Diplomat</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_44">44</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">April’s Looking-Glass</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_59">59</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Sorry Business</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_67">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="3"><a href="#PART_II">PART II.—THE RIVAL FORCES</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">A Fortunate Meeting</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Hogstead</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_112">112</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Young Love</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Romance of Varnish</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Marston and Marston</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Lilith of Old</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_175">175</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Two Currents</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_196">196</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="3"><a href="#PART_III">PART III.—THE FIRST ENCOUNTERS</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Success</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_209">209</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Lilith and Muriel</span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_viii" id="page_viii"></a>{viii}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_244">244</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="c" colspan="3"><a href="#PART_IV">PART IV.—ONE WAY OR ANOTHER</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Three Years</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_253">253</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">Three Days</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_261">261</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Lonely Unicorn</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_285">285</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">There’s Rosemary</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_304">304</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">The Shedding of the Chrysalis</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_312">312</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII.</a></td><td> <span class="smcap">An End and a Beginning</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_331">331</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a>{1}</span> </p> - -<h2><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I<br /><br /> -<small>THE OPENING ROUND</small></h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a>{2}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a>{3}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br /><br /> -<small>TWO HAPHAZARDS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T began, I suppose, on a certain September afternoon, when Roland -Whately traveled back to school by the three-thirty train from Waterloo. -There were two afternoon trains to Fernhurst: one left London at -three-thirty and arrived at a quarter to six; the other left at -four-eighteen, stopped at every station between Basingstoke and -Salisbury, waited twenty-five minutes at Templecombe for a connection, -and finally reached Fernhurst at eight-twenty-three. It is needless to -state that by far the greater part of the school traveled down by the -four-eighteen—who for the sake of a fast train and a comfortable -journey would surrender forty-eight minutes of his holidays?—and -usually, of course, Roland accompanied the many.</p> - -<p>This term, however, the advantages of the fast train were considerable. -He was particularly anxious to have the corner bed in his dormitory. -There was a bracket above it where he could place a candle, by the light -of which he would be able to learn his rep. after “lights out.” If he -were not there first someone else would be sure to collar it. And then -there was the new study at the end of the passage; he wanted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a>{4}</span> to get -fresh curtains and probably a gas mantle: when once the school was back -it was impossible, for at least a week, to persuade Charlie, the school -custos, to attend to an odd job like that. And so he traveled back by a -train that contained, of the three hundred boys who were on the -Fernhurst roll, only a dozen fags and three timid Sixth-Formers who had -distrusted the animal spirits of certain powerful and irreverent -Fifth-Formers. On the first day, as on the last, privilege counts for -little, and it is unpleasant to pass four hours under the seat of a -dusty railway carriage.</p> - -<p>It was the first time that Roland had been able to spend the first -evening of a term in complete leisure. He walked quietly up to the -house, went down to the matron’s room and consulted the study and -dormitory lists. He found that he was on the Sixth-Form table, had been -given the study for which he had applied, and was in the right -dormitory. He bagged the bed he wanted, and took his health certificate -round to the Chief’s study.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Whately, this is very early. Had a good holiday?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, thank you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Feeling ready for football? They tell me you’ve an excellent chance of -getting into the XV.?”</p> - -<p>“I hope so, sir.”</p> - -<p>He went over to the studies and inspected the gas fittings. Yes, he -would certainly need a new mantle, and he must try to see if Charlie -couldn’t fit him up with a new curtain. After a brief deliberation -Charles decided that he could; a half crown changed hands, and as Roland -strolled back from the lodge the Abbey clock struck half-past six. Over -two hours to prayers. He had done all his jobs, and there didn’t seem to -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a>{5}</span> a soul in the place. He began to wonder whether, after all, it had -been worth his while to catch that early train: it had been a dull -journey, two hours in the company of three frightened fags, outhouse -fellows whom he didn’t know, and who had huddled away in a corner of the -carriage and talked in whispers. If, on the other hand, he had waited -for the four-eighteen he would at that moment be sitting with five or -six first-class fellows, talking of last year’s rags, of the new -prefects, and the probable composition of the XV. He would be much -happier there. And as for the dormitory and study, well, he’d have -probably been able to manage if he had hurried from the station. He had -done so a good many times before. Altogether he had made a bit of an ass -of himself. An impetuous fool, that was what he was.</p> - -<p>And for want of anything better to do, he mouched down to Ruffer’s, the -unofficial tuck-shop. There was no one he knew in the front of the shop, -so he walked into the inside room and found, sitting in a far corner, -eating an ice, Howard, one of the senior men in Morgan’s.</p> - -<p>“Hullo!” he said. “So you’ve been ass enough to come down by the early -train as well?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I was coming up from Cornwall, and it’s the only way I could make -the trains fit in. A bad business. There’s nothing to do but eat; come -and join me in an ice.”</p> - -<p>Howard was only a very casual acquaintance; he was no use at games; he -had never been in the same form as Roland, and fellows in the School -house usually kept pretty much to themselves. They had only met in -groups outside the chapel, or at roll-call, or before a lecture. It was -probably the first time they had ever been alone together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a>{6}</span></p> - -<p>“Right you are!” said Roland. “Mr. Ruffer, bring me a large strawberry -ice and a cup of coffee.”</p> - -<p>But the ice did not last long, and they were soon strolling up the High -Street, with time heavy on their hands. Conversation flagged; they had -very little in common.</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Howard. “Let’s go down to the castle grounds; they’ll -probably have a band, and we can watch the dancing.”</p> - -<p>Halfway between the station and the school, opposite the Eversham Hotel, -where parents stopped for “commem” and confirmation, was a public garden -with a band stand and well-kept lawns, and here on warm summer evenings -dances would promote and encourage the rustic courtships of the youthful -townsfolk. During the term these grounds were strictly out of bounds to -the school; but on the first night rules did not exist, and besides, no -one was likely to recognize them in the bowler hats and colored ties -that would have to be put away that night in favor of black poplin and -broad white straw.</p> - -<p>It was a warm night, and they leaned against the railing watching the -girls in their light print dresses waltz in the clumsy arms of their -selected.</p> - -<p>“Looks awfully jolly,” said Howard. “They don’t have a bad time, those -fellows. There are one or two rippingly pretty girls.”</p> - -<p>“And look at the fellows they’re dancing with. I can’t think how they -can stand it. Now look there, at that couple by the stand. She’s a -really pretty girl, while her man is pimply, with a scraggy mustache and -sweating forehead, and yet look how she’s leaning over his shoulder; -think of her being kissed by that.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose there’s something about him.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a>{7}</span></p> - -<p>There was a pause; Roland wished that difference of training and -position did not hold them from the revel.</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” said Roland, “it would be awful fun to join them.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I dare you to.”</p> - -<p>“Dare say you do. I’m not having any. I don’t run risks in a place where -I’m known.”</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, Roland did not run risks anywhere, but he wanted -Howard to think him something of a Don Juan. One is always ashamed of -innocence, and Howard was one of those fellows who naturally bring out -the worst side of their companions. His boisterous, assertive confidence -was practically a challenge, and Roland did not enjoy the rôle of -listener and disciple, especially as Howard was, by the school -standards, socially his inferior.</p> - -<p>At that moment two girls strolled past, turned, and giggled over their -shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Do you see that?” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“What about it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I mean....”</p> - -<p>The girls were coming back, and suddenly, to Roland’s surprise, -embarrassment and annoyance, Howard walked forward and raised his hat.</p> - -<p>“Lonely?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Same as you.”</p> - -<p>“Like a walk, then?”</p> - -<p>“All right, if your friend’s not too shy.”</p> - -<p>And before Roland could make any protest he was walking, tongue-tied and -helpless, on the arm of a full-blown shop girl.</p> - -<p>“Well, you’re a cheerful sort of chap, aren’t you?” she said at last.</p> - -<p>“Sorry, but you see I wasn’t expecting you!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a>{8}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, she didn’t turn up, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, get along, I know you; you’re all the same. Why, I was talking to a -boy last week....”</p> - -<p>To save her the indignity of a confession, Roland suggested that they -should dance.</p> - -<p>“All right, only don’t hold me too tight—sister’s looking.”</p> - -<p>There was no need to talk while they were dancing, and he was glad to be -able to collect his thoughts. It was an awkward business. She wasn’t on -the whole a bad-looking girl; she was certainly too plump, but she had a -nice smile and pretty hair; and he felt no end of a dog. But it was -impossible to become romantic, for she giggled every time he tried to -hold her a little closer, and once when his cheek brushed accidentally -against hers she gave him a great push, and shouted, “Now, then, -naughty!” to the intense amusement of another couple. Still, he enjoyed -dancing with her. It would be something to tell the fellows afterwards. -They would be sitting in the big study. Gradually the talk would drift -round to girls. He would sit in silence while the others would relate -invented escapades, prefaced by, “My brother told me,” or, “I saw in a -French novel.” He would wait for the lull, then himself would let -fall—oh! so gently—into the conversation, “a girl that I danced with -in the castle grounds....”</p> - -<p>The final crash of the band recalled him to the requirements of the -moment, and the need for conversation. They sat on a seat and discussed -the weather, the suitability of grass as a dancing floor, the -superiority of a band over a piano. He introduced subject after subject, -bringing them up one after another, like the successive waves of -infantry in an attack. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a>{9}</span> not a success. The first bars of a waltz -were a great relief.</p> - -<p>He jumped up and offered her his arm.</p> - -<p>“From the school, aren’t you?” she said.</p> - -<p>“How did you guess?” he asked. She answered him with a giggle.</p> - -<p>It was a blow, admittedly a blow. He had not imagined himself a shining -success, but he had not thought that he was giving himself away quite as -badly as that. They got on a great deal better though after it. They -knew where they were, and he found her a very jolly girl, a simple -creature, whose one idea was to be admired and to enjoy herself, an -ambition not so very different from Roland’s. It was her sense of humor -that beat him: she giggled most of the time; why he could not -understand. It was annoying, because everyone stared at them, and Roland -hated to be conspicuous. He was prepared to enjoy the illusion but not -the reality in public. He was not therefore very sorry when the Abbey -clock warned him that in a few minutes the four-eighteen would have -arrived and that the best place for him was the School house dining -room.</p> - -<p>On the way back he met Howard.</p> - -<p>“I say, you rather let me in for it, you know,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, rot, my dear chap; but even if I did, I’ll bet you enjoyed yourself -all right.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I did. But that makes no difference. After all, you didn’t know -I was going to. I’d never seen the girl before.”</p> - -<p>“But one never has on these occasions, has one? One’s got to trust to -luck; you know that as well as I do.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, of course, but still....”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<p>They argued it out till they reached the cloisters leading to the School -house studies, exchanged there a cheery good-night and went their way. -Five minutes later the four-eighteen was in; the study passages were -filled with shouts; Roland was running up and down stairs, greeting his -old friends. The incident was closed, and in the normal course of things -it would never have been reopened.</p> - -<p>That it was reopened was due entirely, if indirectly, to Roland’s -laziness on a wet Sunday afternoon, halfway through October. It was a -really wet afternoon, the sort of afternoon when there is nothing to be -done but to pack one’s study full of really good chaps and get up a -decent fug. Any small boy can be persuaded, with the aid of a shilling, -to brew some tea, and there are few things better than to sit in the -window-seat and watch the gravel courts turn to an enormous lake. Roland -was peculiarly aware of the charm of an afternoon so spent as he walked -across to his study after lunch, disquieted by the knowledge that his -football boots wanted restudding and that the night before he had vowed -solemnly that he would take them down to the professional before tea. It -would be fatal to leave them any longer, and he knew it. The ground on -Saturday had been too wet for football, and the whole house had gone for -a run, during which Roland had worn down one of his studs on the hard -roads, and driven a nail that uncomfortable hundredth of an inch through -the sole of his boot. If he wore those boots again before they had been -mended that hundredth of an inch would become a tenth of an inch, and -make no small part of a crater in his foot. It was obviously up to him -to put on a mackintosh and go down to the field at once. There was no -room for argument, and Roland knew it, but....<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<p>It was very pleasant and warm inside the study and damnably unpleasant -anywhere else. If only he were a prefect, and had a fag, how simple his -life would become. His shoes would be cleaned for him, his shaving water -would be boiled in the morning, his books would be carried down to his -classroom, and on this rain-drenched afternoon he would only have to put -his head outside the study door and yell “Fag!” and it would be settled. -But he was not a prefect, and he had no fag. It was no use growling -about it. He would have to go, of course he would have to go, then added -as a corollary—yes, certainly, at three o’clock. By that time the -weather might have cleared up.</p> - -<p>But it had not cleared up by three o’clock, and Roland had become -hopelessly intrigued by a novel by Wilkie Collins, called <i>The -Moonstone</i>. He had just reached the place where Sergeant Cuff looks up -at Rachel’s window and whistles <i>The Last Rose of Summer</i>. He could not -desert Sergeant Cuff at such a point for a pair of football boots, and -at three o’clock, with the whole afternoon before him. At half-past -there would be tons of time. But by half-past three it was raining in -the true Fernhurst manner, fierce, driving rain that whipped across the -courts, heavy gusts of wind that shrieked down the cloisters. Impossible -weather, absolutely impossible weather. No one but a fool would go out -in it. He would wait till four, it was certain to have stopped a bit by -then.</p> - -<p>And by four o’clock it certainly was raining a good deal less, but by -four o’clock some eight persons had assembled in the study and a most -exciting discussion was in progress. Someone from Morgan’s had started a -rumor to the effect that Fitzgerald, the vice-captain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a>{12}</span> of the XV., was -going to be dropped out of the side for the Tonwich match and his place -given to Feversham, a reserve center from James’s. It was a startling -piece of news that had to be discussed from every point of view.</p> - -<p>First of all, would the side be improved? A doubtful matter. Fitzgerald -had certainly been out of form this season, and he had played miserably -in the last two matches, but he had experience; he would not be likely -to lose his head in a big game, and Feversham, well, it would be his -first school match. Altogether a doubtful issue, and, granted even that -Feversham was better than Fitzgerald, would it be worth while in the -long run to leave out the vice-captain and head of Buxton’s? Would it be -doing a good service to Fernhurst football? Buxton’s was the athletic -house; it had six school colors. The prestige of Fernhurst depended a -good deal on the prestige of Buxton’s. Surely the prestige of Buxton’s -was more important than a problematic improvement in the three-quarter -line.</p> - -<p>They argued it out for a quarter of an hour and then, just when the last -point had been brought forward, and Roland had begun to feel that he was -left with no possible excuse for not going down to the field, the tea -arrived; and after that what chance did he stand? By the time tea was -over it was nearly five o’clock. Choir practice would have started in a -quarter of an hour: if he wanted to, he could not have gone down then. A -bad business. But it had been a pleasant afternoon; it was raining like -blazes still; very likely the ground would be again too wet for play -to-morrow, and he would cut the walk and get his boots mended. No doubt -things would pan out all right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<p>Things, however, did not on this occasion adapt themselves to Roland’s -wishes. The rain stopped shortly after eight o’clock; a violent wind -shrieked all night along the cloisters; next morning the violent wind -was accompanied by bright sunshine; by half-past two the ground was -almost dry. Roland played in his unstudded boots, and, as he had -expected, the projecting hundredth of an inch sank deeply into his toe. -Three days later he was sent up to the sanatorium with a poisoned foot.</p> - -<p>And in the sanatorium he found himself in the same ward and alone with -Howard, who was recovering from an attack of “flu” that had been -incorrectly diagnosed as measles.</p> - -<p>It was the first time they had met since the first evening of the term.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a>{14}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br /><br /> -<small>THE OUTCOME</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN two people are left alone together all day, with no amusement -except their own conversation, they naturally become intimate, and as -the episode of the dance was the only bond of interest between Howard -and Roland, they turned to it at once. As soon as the matron had gone -out of the room Howard asked if he had been forgiven.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, a long time ago; it was a jolly rag.”</p> - -<p>“Seen anything of your girl since then?”</p> - -<p>“Heavens! no. Have you?”</p> - -<p>“I should jolly well think so; one doesn’t let a thing like that slip -through one’s fingers in a hurry. I go out with her every Sunday, and as -likely as not once or twice during the week.”</p> - -<p>Roland was struck with surprise and admiration.</p> - -<p>“But how on earth do you manage it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s quite easy: in our house anyone can get out who wants to. The -old man never spots anything. I just heave on a cap and mackintosh, meet -her behind the Abbey and we go for a stroll along the Slopes.”</p> - -<p>Roland could only ask too many questions and Howard was only too ready -to answer them. He had seldom enjoyed such a splendid audience. He was -not thought much of in the school, and to tell the truth he was not much -of a fellow. He had absorbed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a>{15}</span> worst characteristics of a bad house. -He would probably after he had left spend his evenings hanging about -private bars and the stage doors of second-class music halls. But he was -an interesting companion in the sanatorium, and he and Roland discussed -endlessly the eternally fascinating subject of girls.</p> - -<p>“The one thing that you must never do with a girl is to be shy,” Howard -said. “That’s the one fatal thing that she’ll never forgive. You can do -anything you like with any girl if only you go the right way about it. -She doesn’t care whether you are good-looking or rich or clever, but if -she feels that you know more than she does, that she can trust herself -in your hands.... It’s all personality. If a girl tries to push you away -when you kiss her, don’t worry her, kiss her again; she only wants to be -persuaded; she’d despise you if you stopped; girls are weak themselves, -so they hate weakness. You can take it from me, Whately, that girls are -an easy game when you know the way to treat them. It would surprise you -if you could only know what they were thinking. You’ll see them sitting -at your father’s table, so demure, with their, ‘Yes, Mr. Howard,’ and -their ‘No, Mr. Howard.’ You’d think they’d stepped out of the pages of a -fairy book, and yet get those same girls alone, and in the right mood, -my word....”</p> - -<p>Inflammatory, suggestive stuff: the pimp in embryo.</p> - -<p>And Roland was one of those on whom such persons thrive. He had always -kept straight at school; he was not clever nor imaginative, but he was -ambitious: and he had realized early that if he wanted to become a power -in the school he must needs be a success at games. He had kept clear of -anything that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a>{16}</span> had seemed likely to impair his prowess on the field. But -it was different for him here in the sanatorium, with no exercise and -occupation. In a very little while he had become thoroughly roused. -Howard had enjoyed a certain number of doubtful experiences; had read -several of the books that appear in the advertisements of obscure French -papers as “rare and curious.” He had in addition a good imagination. -Within two days Roland’s one idea was to pick up at the first -opportunity the threads of the romance he had so callously flung aside.</p> - -<p>“There’ll be no difficulty about that, my dear fellow,” said Howard. “I -can easily get Betty to arrange it. We meet every Sunday, and we have to -walk right out beyond Cold Harbor. She says she feels a bit lonely going -out all that way by herself. Now suppose she went out with your girl and -you went out with me—that’d be pretty simple, wouldn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that would be splendid. Do you think you could fix it up?”</p> - -<p>“As easy as laughing.”</p> - -<p>“But I shall feel an awful fool,” Roland insisted. “I shan’t know what -to say or anything.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you worry about that, my dear fellow; you just look as if you did -and keep your eyes open, and you’ll soon learn; these girls know a lot -more than you would think.”</p> - -<p>So it was arranged. Roland found by the time his foot was right again -that he had let himself in for a pretty exacting program. It had all -seemed jolly enough up at the sanatorium, but when he was back in the -house, and life reëstablished its old values, he began to regret it very -heartily. He didn’t mind going out with the girl—that would be quite -exciting:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a>{17}</span> besides it was an experience to which everyone had to come -some time or other—but he did not look forward to a long walk with -Howard every Sunday afternoon for the rest of the term.</p> - -<p>“Whately, old son,” he said to his reflection in the glass as he shaved -himself on the next Sunday morning, “you’ve made a pretty sanguinary -fool of yourself, but you can’t clear out now. You’ve got to see it -through.”</p> - -<p>It was very awkward though when Anderson ran up to him in the cloisters -with “Hullo, Whately, going out for a stroll? Well, just wait -half-a-sec, while I fetch my hat.” Roland had an infernal job getting -rid of him.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear man,” Anderson had protested, “where on earth are you -going? I’ve always thought you the most pious man in the house. But if -it’s a smoke I’ll watch you, and if it’s a drink I’ll help you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, it’s not that. I’m going out with a man in Morgan’s.”</p> - -<p>Anderson’s mouth emitted a long whistle of surprise.</p> - -<p>“So our Whately has deserted his old friends? Ah, well, when one gets -into the XV., I know.”</p> - -<p>Roland could see that Anderson was offended.</p> - -<p>But it was even worse when he came back to find his study full of seven -indignant sportsmen wanting to know why on earth he had taken to going -out for walks with “a dirty tick in Morgan’s, who was no use at anything -and didn’t even wash.”</p> - -<p>“He’s quite a decent chap,” said Roland weakly. “I met him in the san.”</p> - -<p>“I dare say you did,” said Anderson; “we’re not blaming you for that. -You couldn’t help it. But those sorts of things, one does try to live -down.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a>{18}</span></p> - -<p>For days he was ragged about it, so much so that he hadn’t the face to -say he had been going out with a girl. Such a statement should be a -proud acknowledgment, not a confession. If ever he said he couldn’t go -anywhere, or do something, the invariable retort was, “I suppose you’re -going out for a walk with Howard.”</p> - -<p>The School house was exclusive; it was insular; it was prepared to allow -the possibility of its members having friends in the outhouses; there -were good men in the outhouses, even in Morgan’s. But one had to be -particular, and when it came to Whately, a man of whom the house was -proud, deserting his friends for a greasy swine in Morgan’s who didn’t -wash, well, the least one could do was to make the man realize that he -had gone a little far.</p> - -<p>It was a bad business, altogether a bad business, and Roland very much -doubted whether the hour and a half he spent with Dolly was an adequate -recompense. She was a nice girl, quite a nice girl, and they found -themselves on kissing terms quickly enough. There were no signs of their -getting any further, and, as a matter of fact, if there had been, Roland -would have been extremely alarmed. He objected to awkward situations and -intense emotions: he preferred to keep his life within the decent -borders of routine. He wanted adventure certainly, but adventure bounded -by the limits of the society in which he lived. He liked to feel that -his day was tabulated and arranged; he hated that lost feeling of being -unprepared; he liked to know exactly what he had to say to Dolly before -he could hold her hand and exactly what he had to say before she would -let him kiss her. It was a game that had to be rehearsed before one got -it right; no actor enjoys his part before he has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a>{19}</span> learned his words; -when he had learned the rules it was great fun; kisses were pleasant -things. He wrote a letter to his friend, Ralph Richmond, acquainting him -of this fact.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">My Dear Ralph</span>,—Why haven’t you written to me, you lazy swine? I -suppose you will say that you’re awfully hard worked, getting ready -for Smalls. But I don’t believe it. I know how much I do myself.</p> - -<p>It’s been quite a decent term. I got my colors and shall be captain -of the house after the summer if the people I think are going to -leave do leave. Think of me as a ruler of men. I’m having a pretty -good slack in form and don’t have to do any work, except in French, -where a fellow called Carus Evans, an awful swine, has his knife -into me and puts me on whenever we get to a hard bit. However, as I -never do much else I’m able to swot the French all right.</p> - -<p>The great bit of news, though, is that I’ve met a girl in the town -who I go out for walks with. I’m not really keen on her, and I -think I prefer her friend, Betty (we go in couples). Betty’s much -older and she’s dark and she makes you blush when she looks at you. -Still, Dolly’s very jolly, and we go out for walks every Sunday and -have great times. She lets me kiss her as much as I like. Now what -do you think of it? Write and tell me at once. Yours ever,</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">Roland</span>.<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Two days later Roland received the following reply:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">My Dear Roland</span>,—So glad to hear from you again, and many -congratulations on your firsts. I had heard about them as a matter -of fact, and had been meaning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a>{20}</span> to write to you, but I am very busy -just now. April told me about it; she seemed awfully pleased. I -must say she was looking jolly pretty; she thinks a lot of you. -Sort of hero. If I were you I should think a bit more about her and -a little less about your Bettys and Dollys.</p> - -<p>I’m looking forward to the holidays. We must manage to have a few -good rags somehow. The Saundersons are giving a dance, so that -ought to be amusing. Ever yours,</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">Ralph</span>.<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Roland’s comment on this letter was “Jealous little beast.” He wished he -hadn’t written to him. And why drag April in? He and April were great -friends; they always had been. Once they had imagined themselves -sweethearts. When they went out to parties they had always sat next each -other during tea and held hands under the table; in general post Roland -had often been driven into the center because of a brilliant failure to -take the chair that was next to hers. They had kissed sometimes at -dances in the shadow of a passage, and once at a party, when they had -been pulling crackers, he had slipped on to the fourth finger of her -left hand a brass ring that had fallen from the crumpled paper. She -still kept that ring, although the days of courtship were over. Roland -had altered since he had gone to Fernhurst. But they were great friends, -and there was always an idea between the two families that the children -might eventually marry. Mr. Whately was, indeed, fond of prefacing some -remote speculation about the future with, “By the time Roland and April -are married——”</p> - -<p>There was no need, Roland felt, for Ralph to have dragged April into the -business at all. He was aggrieved,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a>{21}</span> and the whole business seemed again -a waste and an encumbrance. Was it worth while? He got ragged in the -house, and he had to spend an hour in Howard’s company before he met -Dolly at all. Howard was really rather terrible; so conceited, so -familiar; and now that he had found an audience he indulged it the whole -time. He was at his worst when he attempted sentiment. Once when they -were walking back he turned to Roland, in the middle of a soliloquy, -with a gesture of profound disdain and resignation.</p> - -<p>“But what’s all this after all?” he said. “It’s nothing; it’s pleasant; -it passes the time, and we have to have some distractions in this place -to keep us going. But it’s not the real thing; there’s all the -difference in the world between this and the real thing. A kiss can be -anything or nothing; it can raise one to—to any height, or it can be -like eating chocolates. I’m not a chap, you know, who really cares for -this sort of thing. I’m in love. I suppose you are too.”</p> - -<p>And Roland, who did not want to be outdone, confessed that there was -someone, “a girl he had known all his life.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t want a girl you’ve known all your life; love’s not a -thing that we drift into; it must be sudden; it must be unexpected; it -must hurt.”</p> - -<p>Howard was a sore trial, and it was with the most unutterable relief -that Roland learned that he was leaving at Christmas to go to a -crammer’s.</p> - -<p>“We must keep up with one another, old fellow,” Howard said on their -last Sunday. “You must come and lunch with me one day in town. Write and -tell me all about it. We’ve had some jolly times.”</p> - -<p>Roland caught a glimpse of him on the last day,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a>{22}</span> resplendent in an O.F. -scarf, very loud and hearty, saying “good-by” to people he had hardly -spoken to before. “You’ll write to me, won’t you, old fellow? Come and -lunch with me when you’re up in town. The Regent Club. Good-by.” Since -his first year, when the prefect for whom he had fagged, and by whom he -had been beaten several times, had left, Roland had never been so -heartily thankful to see any member of the school in old boys’ colors.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br /><br /> -<small>RALPH AND APRIL</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>ALPH RICHMOND was the son of an emotional woman and he had read too -many novels. He took himself seriously: without being religious, he -considered that it was the duty of every man to leave the world better -than he found it. Such a philosophy may be natural to a man of -thirty-six who sees small prospect of realizing his own ambition, and -resorts to the consolation of a collective enthusiasm, but it is -abnormal in a boy of seventeen, an age which usually sees itself in the -stalls of a theater waiting for the curtain to rise and reveal a stage -set with limitless opportunities for self-development and -self-indulgence.</p> - -<p>But Ralph had been brought up in an atmosphere of ideals; at the age of -seven he gave a performance of <i>Hamlet</i> in the nursery, and in the same -year he visited a lenten performance of <i>Everyman</i>. At his preparatory -school he came under the influence of an empire builder, who used to -appeal to the emotions of his form. “The future of the country is in -your hands,” he would say. “One day you will be at the helm. You must -prepare yourselves for that time. You must never forget.” And Ralph did -not. He thought of himself as the arbiter of destinies. He felt that -till that day his life must be a vigil. Like the knights of Arthurian -romance, he would watch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a>{24}</span> beside his armor in the chapel. In the process -he became a prig, and on his last day at Rycroft Lodge he became a -prude. His headmaster gave all the boys who were leaving a long and -serious address on the various temptations of the flesh to which they -would be subjected at their Public Schools. Ralph had no clear idea of -what these temptations might be. Their results, however, seemed -sufficient reason for abstention. If he yielded to them, he gathered -that he would lose in a short time his powers of thought, his strength, -his moral stamina; a slow poison would devour him; in a few years he -would be mad and blind and probably, though of this he was not quite -certain, deaf as well. At any rate he would be in a condition when the -ability of detecting sound would be of slight value. These threats were -alarming: their effect, however, would not have been lasting in the case -of Ralph, who was no coward and also, being no fool, would have soon -observed that this process of disintegration was not universal in its -application. No; it was not the threat that did the damage: it was the -romantic appeal of the headmaster’s peroration.</p> - -<p>“After all,” he said, after a dramatic pause, “how can any one of you -who has been a filthy beast at school dare to propose marriage to some -pure, clean woman?”</p> - -<p>That told; that sentiment was within the range of his comprehension; it -was a beautiful idea, a chivalrous idea, worthy, he inappropriately -imagined, of Sir Lancelot. He could understand that a knight should come -to his lady with glittering armor and an unstained sword. At the time he -did not fully appreciate the application of this image: he soon learned, -however, that a night spent on one’s knees<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a>{25}</span> on the stone floor of a -draughty chapel is a cold and lonely prelude to enchantment: a discovery -that did not make him the more charitable to those who preferred clean -linen and soft down.</p> - -<p>It was only to be supposed, therefore, that he would receive Roland’s -confidences with disgust. He had always felt a little jealous of April’s -obvious preference for his friend, but he had regarded it as the fortune -of war and had taken what pleasure he might in the part of confidant. To -this vicarious excitant their intimacy indeed owed its strength. His -indignation, therefore, when he learned of Roland’s rustic courtship was -only exceeded by his positive fury when, on the first evening of the -holidays, he went round to see the Curtises and found there Roland and -his father. It was the height of hypocrisy. He had supposed that Roland -would at least have the decency to keep away from her. It had been bad -enough to give up a decent girl for a shop assistant, but to come back -and carry on as though nothing had happened.... It was monstrous, cruel, -unthinkable. And there was April, so clean and calm, with her thick -brown hair gathered up in a loop across her forehead; her eyes, deep and -gentle, with subdued colors, brown and a shade of green, and that -delicate smile of simple trust and innocence, smiling at him, ignorant -of how she had been deceived.</p> - -<p>It must be set down, however, to Roland’s credit that he had felt a few -qualms about going round at once to see the Curtises. Less than -twenty-four hours had passed since he had held Dolly’s hand and -protested to her an undying loyalty. He did not love her; the words -meant nothing, and they both knew it; they were merely part of the -convention of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a>{26}</span>game. Nor for that matter was he in love with -April—- at least he did not think he was. He owed nothing to either of -them. But conscience told him that, in view of the understanding that -was supposed to exist between them, it would be more proper to wait a -day or two. After all, one did not go to a theater the day after one’s -father’s funeral, however eagerly one’s imagination had anticipated the -event.</p> - -<p>Things had, however, turned out otherwise. At a quarter to six Mr. -Whately returned from town. He was the manager of a bank, at a salary of -seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, an income that allowed the family -to visit the theater, upper circle seats, at least once every holidays -and provided Roland with as much pocket money as he needed. Mr. Whately -walked into the drawing-room, greeted his son with the conventional joke -about a holiday task, handed his wife a copy of <i>The Globe</i>, sat down in -front of the fire and began to take off his boots.</p> - -<p>“Nothing much in the papers to-day, my dear. Not much happening anywhere -as a matter of fact. I had lunch to-day with Robinson and he called it -the lull before the storm. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he wasn’t -right. You can’t trust these Radicals.”</p> - -<p>He was a scrubby little man: for thirty years he had worked in the same -house; there had been no friction and no excitement in his life; he had -by now lost any independence of thought and action.</p> - -<p>“I’ve just found a splendid place, my dear, where you can get a really -first-class lunch for one-and-sixpence.”</p> - -<p>“Have you, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; in Soho, just behind the Palace. I went there to-day with -Robinson. We had four courses, and cheese to finish up with. Something -like.”</p> - -<p>“And was it well cooked, dear?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a>{27}</span></p> - -<p>“Rather; the plaice was beautifully fried. Just beginning to brown.”</p> - -<p>His face flushed with a genuine animation. Change of food was the only -adventure that life brought to him. He rose slowly.</p> - -<p>“Well, I must go up and change, I suppose. I’ve one or two other things -to tell you, dear, later on.”</p> - -<p>He did not ask his wife what she had been doing during the day; it was -indeed doubtful whether he appreciated the existence of any life at 105 -Hammerton Villas, Hammerton, during the hours when he was away from -them. He himself was the central point.</p> - -<p>Five minutes later he came downstairs in a light suit.</p> - -<p>“Well, who’s coming out with me for a constitutional?”</p> - -<p>Roland got up, walked into the hall, picked up his hat and stick.</p> - -<p>“Right you are, father; I’m ready.”</p> - -<p>It was the same thing every day. At eight-thirty-five Mr. Whately caught -a bus at the corner of the High Street. He had never been known to miss -it. On the rare occasions when he was a few seconds late the driver -would wait till he saw the panting little figure come running round the -corner, trying to look dignified in spite of the top hat that bobbed -from one side of his head to the other. From nine o’clock till a -quarter-past five Mr. Whately worked at a desk, with an hour’s interval -for lunch. Every evening he went for an hour’s walk; for half an hour -before dinner he read the evening paper. After dinner he would play a -game of patience and smoke his pipe. Occasionally a friend would drop in -for a chat; very occasionally he would go out himself. At ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a>{28}</span> o’clock -sharp he went to bed. Every Saturday afternoon he attended a public -performance of either cricket or football according to the season. -Roland often wondered how he could stand it. What had he to look forward -to? What did he think about when he sat over the fire puffing at his -pipe? And his mother. How monotonous her life appeared to him. Yet she -seemed always happy enough; she never grumbled. Roland could not -understand it. Whatever happened, he would take jolly good care that he -never ran into a groove like that. They had loved each other well enough -once, he supposed, but now—oh, well, love was the privilege of youth.</p> - -<p>Father and son walked in silence. They were fond of each other; they -liked being together; Mr. Whately was very proud of his son’s -achievements; but their affection was never expressed in words. After a -while they began to talk of indifferent things, guessing at each other’s -thoughts: a relationship of intuitions. They passed along the High -Street and, turning behind the shops, walked down a long street of small -red brick villas with stucco fronts.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think we ought to go in and see the Curtises?” Mr. Whately -asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I hadn’t meant to. I thought....”</p> - -<p>“I think you ought to, you know, your first day; they’d be rather -offended if you didn’t. April asked me when you were coming back.”</p> - -<p>And so Roland was bound to abandon his virtuous resolution.</p> - -<p>It was not a particularly jolly evening before Ralph arrived. Afterwards -it was a good deal worse.</p> - -<p>In the old days, when father and son had paid an evening visit, Roland -had run straight up to the nursery and enjoyed himself, but now he had -to sit in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a>{29}</span> the drawing-room, which was a very different matter. He did -not like Mrs. Curtis; he never had liked her, but she had not troubled -him in the days when she had been a mere voice below the banisters. Now -he had to sit in the small drawing-room, with its shut windows, and hear -her voice cleave through the clammy atmosphere in languid, pathetic -cadences; a sentimental voice, and under the sentiment a hard, cold -cruelty. Her person was out of keeping with her voice; it should have -been plump and comfortable looking; instead it was tall, thin, angular, -all over points, like a hatrack in a restaurant: a terrible bedfellow. -And she talked, heavens! how she talked. It was usually about her -children.</p> - -<p>“Dear Arthur, he’s getting on so well at school. Do you know what his -headmaster said about him in his report?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but, mother, please,” Arthur would protest.</p> - -<p>“No, dear, be quiet; I know Mr. Whately would like to hear. The -headmaster said, Mr. Whately....” Then it was her daughter’s turn. “And -April, too, Mr. Whately, she’s getting on so well with her drawing -lessons. Mr. Hamilton was only saying to me yesterday....”</p> - -<p>It was not surprising that Roland was less keen now on going round -there. It was little fun for him after all to sit and listen while she -talked, to see his father so utterly complacent, with his “Yes, Mrs. -Curtis,” and his “Really, Mrs. Curtis,” and to look at poor April -huddled in the window seat, so bored, so ashamed, her eyes meeting his -with a look that said: “Don’t worry about her, don’t take any notice of -what she says. I’m not like that.” Once or twice he tried to talk to -her, but it was no use: her mother would interrupt, would bring them -back into the circle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a>{30}</span> of her own egotism. In her own drawing-room she -would tolerate nothing independent of herself.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Roland; what was it you were saying? The Saundersons’ dance? Of -course April will be going. They’re very old friends of ours, the -Saundersons. Mr. Saunderson thinks such a lot of Arthur, too. You know, -Mr. Whately, I met him in the High Street the other afternoon and he -said to me, ‘How’s that clever son of yours getting on, Mrs. Curtis?’ ”</p> - -<p>“Really, Mrs. Curtis.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, really, Mr. Whately.”</p> - -<p>It was at this point that Ralph arrived.</p> - -<p>His look of surprised displeasure was obvious to everyone. But knowing -Ralph, they mistook it for awkwardness. He did not like company, and his -shyness was apparent as he stood in the doorway in an ill-fitting suit, -with trousers that bagged at the knees, and with the front part of his -hair smarmed across his forehead with one hurried sweep of a damp brush, -at right angles to the rest of his hair, that fell perpendicularly from -the crown of his head.</p> - -<p>“Come along, Ralph,” said April, and made room for him in the -window-seat. She treated him with an amused condescension. He was so -clumsy; a dear fellow, so easy to rag. “And how did your exam. go?” she -asked.</p> - -<p>“All right.”</p> - -<p>“No; but really, tell me about it. What were the maths like?”</p> - -<p>“Not so bad.”</p> - -<p>“And the geography? You were so nervous about that.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t do badly.”</p> - -<p>“And the Latin and the Greek? I want to know all about it.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<p>“You don’t, really?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I do.”</p> - -<p>“No, you don’t,” he said impatiently. “You’d much rather hear about -Roland and all the things he does at Fernhurst.”</p> - -<p>There was a moment of difficult silence, then April said quite quietly:</p> - -<p>“You are quite right, Ralph; as a matter of fact I should”; and she -turned towards Roland, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Curtis -once more assumed her monopoly of the conversation.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Roland, you’ve told us nothing about that, and how you got your -firsts. We were so proud of you, too. And you never wrote to tell us. If -it hadn’t been for your father we should never have known.” And for the -next half hour her voice flowed on placidly, while Ralph sat in a frenzy -of self-pity and self-contempt, and Roland longed for an opportunity to -kick him, and April looked out between the half-drawn curtains towards -the narrow line of sky that lay darkly over the long stretch of roofs -and chimney-pots, happy that Roland’s holidays had begun, regretting -wistfully that childhood was finished for them, that they could no -longer play their own games in the nursery, that they had become part of -the ambitions of their parents.</p> - -<p>When at last they rose to go, Ralph lingered for a moment in the -doorway; he could not go home till April had forgiven him.</p> - -<p>She stood on the top of the step, looking down the street to Roland, her -heart still beating a little quickly, still disturbed by that pressure -of the hand and that sudden uncomfortable meeting of the eyes when he -had said “Good-by.” She did not notice Ralph till he began to speak to -her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a>{32}</span></p> - -<p>“I am awfully sorry I was so rude to you, April. I’m rather tired. I -didn’t mean to offend you. I wouldn’t have done it for worlds.”</p> - -<p>She turned to him with a quiet smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said, “that’s nothing.”</p> - -<p>And he could see that to her it was indeed nothing, that she had not -thought twice about it, that nothing he said or did was of the least -concern to her. He would much rather that she had been angry.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Next day Ralph came round to the Whatelys’ soon after breakfast.</p> - -<p>“Well, feeling more peaceful to-day, old friend?”</p> - -<p>Ralph looked at Roland in impotent annoyance. As he knew of old, Roland -was an impossible person to have a row with. He simply would not fight. -He either agreed to everything you said or else brushed away your -arguments with a good-natured “All right, old man, all right!” On this -occasion, however, he felt that he must make a stand.</p> - -<p>“You’re the limit,” he said; “the absolute limit.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about that, but I think you were last night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t joke about it. You know what I mean. I think it’s pretty -rotten for a fellow like you to go about with a shop assistant, but -that’s not really the thing. What’s simply beastly is your coming back -to April as though nothing had happened. What would she say if she -knew?”</p> - -<p>Roland refused to acknowledge omniscience. “I don’t know,” he said.</p> - -<p>“She wouldn’t be pleased, would she?” Ralph persisted.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose so.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>“No; well then, there you are; you oughtn’t to do anything you think she -mightn’t like.”</p> - -<p>Roland looked at him with a sad patience, as a preparatory schoolmaster -at a refractory infant.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear fellow, we’re not married, and we’re not engaged. Surely -we can do more or less what we like.”</p> - -<p>“But would you be pleased if you learned that she’d been carrying on -with someone else?”</p> - -<p>Roland admitted that he would not.</p> - -<p>“Then why should you think you owe nothing to her?”</p> - -<p>“It’s different, my dear Ralph; it’s really quite different.”</p> - -<p>“No, it isn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is. Boys can do things that girls can’t. A flirtation means -very little to a boy; it means a good deal to a girl—at least it ought -to. If it doesn’t, it means that she’s had too much of it.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t see——” began Ralph.</p> - -<p>“Come on, come on; don’t let’s go all over that again. We shall never -agree. Let me go my way and you can go yours. We are too old friends to -quarrel about a thing like this.”</p> - -<p>Most boys would have been annoyed by Ralph’s attempt at interference, -but it took a great deal to ruffle Roland’s lazy, equable good nature. -He did not believe in rows. He liked to keep things running smoothly. He -could never understand the people who were always wanting to stir up -trouble. He did not really care enough either way. His tolerance might -have been called indifference, but it possessed, at any rate, a genuine -charm. The other fellow always felt what a thundering good chap Roland -was—so good-tempered, such a gentleman, never harboring a grievance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a>{34}</span> -People knew where they were with him; when he said a thing was over it -was over.</p> - -<p>“All right,” said Ralph grudgingly. “I don’t know that it’s quite the -game——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t worry. We’re a long way from anything serious. A good deal’s got -to happen before we’re come to the age when we can’t do what we like.”</p> - -<p>And they talked of other things.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a>{35}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><br /> -<small>A KISS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>PRIL sat for a long while before the looking-glass wondering whether to -tie a blue or a white ribbon in her hair. She tried one and then the -other and paused irresolute. It was the evening of the Saundersons’ -dance, to which for weeks she had been looking forward, and she was -desperately anxious to look pretty. It would be a big affair: ices and -claret cup and a band, and Roland would be there. They had seen a lot of -each other during the holidays—nearly every day. Often they had felt -awkward in each other’s company; there had been embarrassing silences, -when their eyes would meet suddenly and quickly turn away; and then -there would come an unexpected interlude of calm, harmonious friendship, -when they would talk openly and naturally to each other and would sit -afterwards for a long while silent, softened and tranquilized by the -presence of some unknown influence—moments of rare gentleness and -sympathy. April could not help feeling that they were on the edge of -something definite, some incident of avowal. She did not know what, but -she felt that something was about to happen. She was flustered and -expectant and eager to look pretty for Roland on this great evening.</p> - -<p>She had chosen a very simple dress, a white muslin frock, that left bare -her arms and throat, and was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a>{36}</span> trimmed with pale blue ribbon at the neck -and elbow; her stockings, too, were white, but her shoes and her sash a -vivid, unexpected scarlet. She turned round slowly before the glass and -smiled happily at her clear, fresh girlhood, tossing back her head, so -that her hair was shaken out over her shoulders. Surely he would think -her beautiful to-night. With eager fingers she tied the blue ribbon in -her hair, turned again slowly before the glass, smiled, shook out her -hair, and laughed happily. Yes, she would wear the blue—a subdued, -quiet color, that faded naturally into the warm brown. She ran -downstairs for her family’s approval, stood before her mother and turned -a slow circle.</p> - -<p>“Well, mother?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis examined her critically.</p> - -<p>“Of course, dear, I’m quite certain that you’ll be the prettiest girl -there whatever you wear.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Well, April dear, of course I know you think you know best, but that -white frock—it is so very simple.”</p> - -<p>“But simple things suit me, mother.”</p> - -<p>“I know they do, dear; you look sweet in anything; but at a big dance -like this, where there’ll be so many smart people, they might -think—well, I don’t know, dear, but it is very quiet, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>The moment before April had been happy and excited, and now she was -crushed and humiliated. She sat down on the edge of a chair, gazing with -pathetic pity at her brilliant shoes.</p> - -<p>“You’ve spoilt it all,” she said.</p> - -<p>“No, dear. I’m sure you’ll be thankful to me when you get there. Now, -why don’t you run upstairs and put on that nice mauve frock of yours?”</p> - -<p>April shook her shoulders.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a>{37}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t like mauve.”</p> - -<p>“Well then, dear, there’s the green and yellow; you always look nice in -that.”</p> - -<p>It was a bright affair that her mother had seen at a sale in Brixton and -bought at once because it was so cheap. It had never really suited -April, whose delicate features needed a simple setting; but her mother -did not like to feel that she had made a mistake, and having persuaded -herself that the green and yellow was the right color, and matched her -daughter’s eyes, had insisted on April’s wearing it as often as -possible.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear, the green and yellow. I’m sure I’m right. Now hurry up; -the cab will be here in ten minutes.”</p> - -<p>April walked upstairs slowly. She hated that green and yellow; she -always had hated it. She took it down from the wardrobe and, holding the -ends of the sleeves, stretched out her arms on either side so that the -green and yellow dress covered her completely, and then she stood -looking at it in the glass.</p> - -<p>How blatant, how decorative it was, with its bows and ribbons and -slashed sleeves. There were some girls whom it would suit—big girls -with high complexions and full figures. But it wasn’t her dress; it -spoilt her. She let it slip from her fingers; it fell rustling to the -floor, and once again the glass reflected her in a plain white frock, -and once again she tossed back her head, and once again the slow smile -of satisfaction played across her lips. And as she stood there with -outstretched arms, for one inspired moment of revelation, during which -the beating of her heart was stilled, she saw how beautiful she would -one day be to the man for whom with such a gesture she would be -delivered to his love. A deep flush colored her neck and face, a flush -of triumphant pride, of wakening<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a>{38}</span> womanhood. Then with a quick, -impatient movement of her scarlet shoes she kicked the yellow dress away -from her.</p> - -<p>Why should she wear it? She dressed to please herself and not her -mother. She knew best what suited her. What would happen if she -disobeyed her? Would anyone ever know? She could manage to slip out when -no one was looking. Annie would be sent to fetch her, but they would -come back after everyone had gone to bed.</p> - -<p>She sat on the edge of her bed and toyed with the thought of rebellion. -It would be horribly exciting. It would be the naughtiest thing she had -done in her life. She had never yet disobeyed deliberately anyone who -had authority over her. She had lost her temper in the nursery; she had -been insolent to her nurses; she had pretended not to hear when she had -been called; but never this: never had she sat down and decided in cold -blood to disregard authority.</p> - -<p>There was a knock at the door.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Who’s that?”</p> - -<p>“It’s only me—mother. Can I help you, dear?”</p> - -<p>“No, thank you, mother; I’m all right.”</p> - -<p>“Quite sure?”</p> - -<p>“Quite.”</p> - -<p>April heard her mother slowly descend the stairs, then heaved a sigh of -half-proud, half-guilty relief. She was glad she had managed to get out -of it without actually telling a lie. She sat still and waited, till at -last she heard the crunch of a cab drawing up outside the house. She -wrapped herself tightly in her coat, tiptoed to the door, opened it and -listened. She could hear her mother’s voice in the passage. Quietly she -stole out on to the landing, quietly ran downstairs and across the hall, -fumbled for the door<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a>{39}</span> handle, found it, turned it, and pulled it quickly -behind her. It was done; she was free. As she ran down the steps she -heard a window open behind her and her mother’s voice:</p> - -<p>“Who’s that? What is it? Oh, you, April. You might have come to see me -before you went. A happy evening to you.”</p> - -<p>April could not trust herself to speak; she ran down the steps, jumped -into the cab and sank back into the corner of the cushioned seat. Her -breath came quickly and unevenly, her breasts heaved and fell. She could -have almost cried with excitement.</p> - -<p>It had been worth it, though. She knew that beyond doubt a quarter of an -hour later, when she walked into the ballroom and saw the look of sudden -admiration that came into Roland’s eyes when he saw her for the first -time across the room. He came straight over to her.</p> - -<p>“How many dances may I have?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, there’s No. 11.”</p> - -<p>“No. 11? Let me have a look at your card.”</p> - -<p>“No, of course you mustn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course. Why, I don’t believe you have got one!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have,” she said, and held it up to him. In a second it was in -his hand, as indeed she had intended that it should be.</p> - -<p>“Well, now,” said Roland, “as far as I can see you’ve got only Nos. 6, -7, 14 and 15 engaged; that leaves fourteen for me.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you can have the four,” she laughed.</p> - -<p>In the end she gave him six. “And if I’ve any over you shall have them,” -she promised.</p> - -<p>“Well you know there won’t be,” and their eyes met in a moment of quiet -intimacy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a>{40}</span></p> - -<p>As soon as he had gone other partners crowded round her. In a very short -while her program was filled right up, the five extras as well. She had -left No. 17 vacant; it was the last waltz. She felt that she might like -Roland to have it, but was not sure. She didn’t quite know why, but she -felt she would leave it open.</p> - -<p>It was a splendid dance. As the evening passed, her face flushed and her -eyes brightened, and it was delightful to slip from the heat of the -ballroom on to the wide balcony and feel the cool of the air on her bare -arms. She danced once with Ralph, and as they sat out afterwards she -could almost feel the touch of his eyes on her. Poor Ralph; he was so -clumsy. How absurd it was of him to be in love with her. As if she could -ever care for him. She felt no pity. She accepted his admiration as a -queen accepts a subject’s loyalty; it was the right due to her beauty, -to the eager flow of life that sustained her on this night of triumph.</p> - -<p>And every dance with Roland seemed to bring her nearer to the wonderful -moment to which she had so long looked forward. When she was dancing -with Ralph, Roland’s eyes would follow her all round the room, smiling -when they met hers. And when they danced together they seemed to share a -secret with one another, a secret still unrevealed.</p> - -<p>Through the languid ecstasy of a waltz the words that he murmured into -her ear had no relation with their accepted sense. He was not repeating -a piece of trivial gossip, a pun, a story he had heard at school; he was -wooing her in their own way, in their own time. And afterwards as they -sat on the edge of the balcony, looking out over the roofs and the -lights of London, she began to tell him about her dress and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a>{41}</span> trouble -that she had had with her mother. “She said I ought to wear a horrid -thing with yellow and green stripes that doesn’t suit me in the least. -And I wouldn’t. I stole out of the house when she wasn’t looking.”</p> - -<p>“You look wonderful to-night,” he said.</p> - -<p>He leaned forward and their hands touched; his little finger intertwined -itself round hers. She felt his warm breath upon her face.</p> - -<p>“Do I?” she whispered. “It’s all for you.”</p> - -<p>In another moment he would have taken her in his arms and kissed her, -and she would have responded naturally. They had reached that moment to -which the course of the courtship had tended, that point when a kiss is -involuntary, that point that can never come again. But just as his hands -stretched out to her the band struck up; he rested his hand on hers and -pressed it.</p> - -<p>“We shall have to go,” he whispered.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“But the next but one.”</p> - -<p>“No. 16.”</p> - -<p>But the magic of that one moment had passed; they had left behind them -the possibility of spontaneous action. They were no longer part of the -natural rhythm of their courtship. All through the next dance he kept -saying to himself: “I shall have to kiss her the next time. I shall. I -know I shall. I must pull myself together.” He felt puzzled, frightened -and excited, so that when the time came he was both nervous and -self-conscious. The magic had gone, yet each felt that something was -expected of them. Roland tried to pull himself together; to remind -himself that if he didn’t kiss her now she would never forgive him; that -there was nothing in it; that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a>{42}</span> had kissed Dolly a hundred times and -thought nothing of it. But it was not the same thing; that was shallow -and trivial; this was genuine; real emotion was at stake. He did not -know what to do. As they sat out after the dance he tried to make a bet -with himself, to say, “I’ll count ten and then I’ll do it.” He stretched -out his hand to hers, and it lay in his limp and uninspired.</p> - -<p>“April,” he whispered, “April.”</p> - -<p>She turned her head from him. He leaned forward, hesitated for a moment, -then kissed her awkwardly upon the neck. She did not move. He felt he -must do something. He put his arm round her, trying to turn her face to -his, but she pulled away from him. He tried to kiss her, and his chin -scratched the soft skin of her cheek, his nose struck hers, her mouth -half opened, and her teeth jarred against his lips. It was a failure, a -dismal failure.</p> - -<p>She pushed him away angrily.</p> - -<p>“Go away! go away!” she said. “What are you doing? What do you mean by -it? I hate you; go away!”</p> - -<p>All the excitement of the evening turned into violent hatred; she was -half hysterical. She had been worked up to a point, and had been let -down. She was not angry with him because he had tried to kiss her, but -because he had chosen the wrong moment, because he had failed to move -her.</p> - -<p>“But, April, I’m sorry, April.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, go away; leave me alone, leave me alone.”</p> - -<p>“But, April.” He put his hand upon her arm, and she swung round upon him -fiercely.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I tell you I wanted to be left alone? I don’t know how you -dared. Do leave me.”</p> - -<p>She walked quickly past him into the ballroom, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a>{43}</span> seeing Ralph at the -far end of it went up and asked him, to that young gentleman’s -exhilarated amazement, whether he was free for No. 17, and if he was -whether he would like to dance it with her. She wore a brave smile -through the rest of the evening and danced all her five extras.</p> - -<p>But when she was home again, had climbed the silent stairs, and turning -up the light in her bedroom saw, lying on the floor, the discarded green -and yellow dress, she broke down, and flinging herself upon the bed -sobbed long and bitterly. She was not angry with Roland, nor her mother, -nor even with herself, but with life, with that cruel force that had -filled her with such eager, boundless expectation, only in the end to -fling her down, to trample on her happiness, to mock her disenchantment. -Never as long as she lived would she forget the shame, the unspeakable -shame, and degradation of that evening.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a>{44}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br /><br /> -<small>A POTENTIAL DIPLOMAT</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>OLAND returned to school with the uncomfortable feeling that he had not -made the most of his holidays. He had failed with April; he had not been -on the best of terms with Ralph; and he had found the last week or -so—after the Saundersons’ dance—a little tedious. He was never sorry -to go back to school; on this occasion he was positively glad.</p> - -<p>In many ways the Easter term was the best of the three; it was agreeably -short; there were the house matches, the steeplechases, the sports and -then, at the end of it, spring; those wonderful mornings at the end of -March when one awoke to see the courts vivid with sunshine, the lindens -trembling on the verge of green; when one thought of the summer and -cricket and bathing and the long, cool evenings. And as Howard had now -left, there was nothing to molest his enjoyment of these good things.</p> - -<p>He decided, after careful deliberation, to keep it up with Dolly. There -had been moments during the holidays when he had sworn to break with -her; it would be quite easy now that Howard had left. And often during -an afternoon in April’s company the idea of embracing Dolly had been -repulsive to him. But he had been piqued by April’s behavior at the -dance, and his conduct was not ordered by a <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a>{45}</span>carefully-thought-out code -of morals. He responded to the atmosphere of the moment; his emotion, -while the moment that inspired it lasted, was sincere.</p> - -<p>And so every Sunday afternoon he used to bicycle out towards Yeovil and -meet Dolly on the edge of a little wood. They would wheel their machines -inside and sit together in the shelter of the hedge. They did not talk -much; there was not much for them to discuss. But she would take off her -hat and lean her head against his shoulder and let him kiss her as much -as he wanted. She was not responsive, but then Roland hardly expected -it. His small experience of the one-sided romances of school life had -led him to believe that love was a thing of male desire and gracious, -womanly compliance. He never thought that anyone would want to kiss him. -He would look at his reflection in the glass and marvel at the -inelegance of his features—an ordinary face with ordinary eyes, -ordinary nose, ordinary mouth. Of his hair certainly he was proud; it -was a triumph. But he doubted whether Dolly appreciated the care with -which he had trained it to lie back from his forehead in one immaculate -wave. She had, indeed, asked him to give up brilliantine.</p> - -<p>“It’s so hard and smarmy,” she complained; “I can’t run my fingers -through it.”</p> - -<p>The one good point about him was certainly lost on Dolly. He wondered -whether April liked it. April and Dolly! It was hard to think of the two -together. What would April say if she were to hear about Dolly? It was -the theme Ralph was always driving at him like a nail, with heavy, -ponderous blows. An interesting point. What would April say? He -considered the question, not as a possible criticism of his own conduct, -but as the material for an intriguing, dramatic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a>{46}</span> situation. It would be -hard to make her see the difference. “I’m a girl and she’s a girl and -you want to kiss us both.” That was how she would look at it, -probably—so illogical. One might as well say that water was the same -thing and had the same effect as champagne. Ridiculous! But it would be -hard to make April see it.</p> - -<p>And there was a difference, big difference; he felt it before a -fortnight of the new term had passed. In spite of the kisses he was -never moved by Dolly’s presence as he was by April’s. His blood was -calm—calmer, far calmer, than it had been last term. He never felt now -that excitement, that dryness of the throat that used to assail him in -morning chapel towards the end of the Litany. Something had passed, and -it was not solely April, though, no doubt, she had formed a standard in -his mind and had her share in this disenchantment. It was more than -that. In a subtle way, although he had hardly exchanged a dozen words -with her in his life, he missed Betty. He had enjoyed more than he had -realized at the time those moments of meeting and parting, when the four -of them had stood together, awkward, embarrassed, waiting for someone to -suggest a separation. It had always been Betty who had done it, with a -toss of her head: “Come on, Dolly, time to be getting on”; or else: -“Now, then, Dolly, isn’t it time you were taking your Roland away with -you?” And what a provocative, infinitely suggestive charm that slow -smile of hers had held for him. The thrill of it had borne him -triumphantly over the preliminaries of courtship. He missed it now, and -often he found himself talking of her to Dolly.</p> - -<p>“Did she really like Howard?” he asked her once.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think so; in fact, I know she did. Though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a>{47}</span> I couldn’t see what -she saw in him myself. I suppose there was something about him. She -misses him quite a lot, so she says.”</p> - -<p>This statement Roland considered an excellent cue for an exchange of -gallantries.</p> - -<p>“But wouldn’t you miss me if I went?”</p> - -<p>Dolly, however, was greatly interested in her own subject.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she went on, “she seems really worried. Only the other day she -said to me: ‘Dolly, I can’t get on without that boy. There’s nothing to -look forward to of a Sunday now, and I get so tired of my work.’ And -when I said to her: ‘But, my dear Betty, there’s hundreds more fish in -the sea. What about young Rogers at the post office?’ she answers: ‘Oh, -him! my boy’s spoilt me for all that. I can’t bear the sight of young -Rogers any more.’ Funny, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Roland agreed with her. To him it was amazing.</p> - -<p>“Well,” Dolly went on, “I saw quite clearly that there was nothing for -it but that she must get hold of another young chap like your friend. -And I asked her if there was anyone else up at the school she fancied, -and she said, yes, there was; a boy she’s seen you talking to once or -twice; a young, fair-haired fellow with a blue and yellow hat ribbon. -That’s the best I can do. Is that any help to you? Would you know him?”</p> - -<p>A blue and yellow hat ribbon limited the selection to members of the -School XI., and there was only one old color who answered to that -description—Brewster in Carus Evans’.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I know him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now, don’t you think you could arrange it? Do, for my sake.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<p>“But I don’t know him well enough. I don’t see how I could.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, you do. Haven’t I seen you talking together, and he would be -only too pleased. I am sure he would. Betty’s such a nice girl. Now, do -try.”</p> - -<p>Roland promised that he would do his best, though it was not a job he -particularly fancied. Brewster was the youngest member of the XI. He had -been playing on lower side games all the season without attracting any -attention and had then surprised everyone by making a century in an -important house match. He was immediately transplanted to the first, and -though he played in only two matches he was considered to have earned -his colors. He was not, however, in any sense of the word a blood. He -was hardly known by men of Roland’s standing in other houses. He was low -in form and not particularly brilliant at football. Roland knew next to -nothing about him. Still it was a fascinating situation—a girl like -Betty, who must be a good three years older than Dolly, getting keen on -such a kid. Was she in love, he wondered. He had never met anyone who -had enjoyed the privilege of having a girl in love with him. For towards -the end he had believed very little of all that Howard had told him. -This was distinctly an intriguing affair. And so he set himself to his -task.</p> - -<p>The difficulty, of course, was to find the auspicious moment. He hardly -ever saw Brewster except when there were a lot of other people about, -and he didn’t want to ask him across to his study. People would talk; -and, besides, it would not do to spring this business on him suddenly. -He would have to lead up to it carefully. For a whole week he sought, -unsuccessfully,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a>{49}</span> for an opportunity, and on the Sunday he had to confess -to Dolly that he was no nearer the attainment of her friend’s desires.</p> - -<p>“It’s not as easy as you seem to think it is. We are not in the same -house, we are not in the same form, and we don’t play footer on the same -ground. In fact, except that we happen to be in the same school——”</p> - -<p>“Now! now! now! Haven’t I seen you talking to him alone twice before I -even mentioned him to you? And if you could be alone with him then, when -you had no particular reason to, surely you can manage to be now, when -you have.”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear Dolly——”</p> - -<p>“There’ve not got to be any buts. Either you bring along your friend or -it’s all over between us.”</p> - -<p>It was not a very serious threat, and at any other stage of their -relationship Roland, considering the bother that the affair involved, -might have been glad enough to accept it as an excuse for his dismissal. -But he had determined to bring this thing off. He thought of Betty, -large, black-haired, bright-eyed, highly colored, her full lips -moistened by the red tongue that slipped continually between them, and -Brewster, fair-haired and slim and shy. It would be amusing to see what -they would make of one another. He would carry the business through, and -as a reward for this determination luck, two days later, came his way. -He drew Brewster in the second round of the Open Fives.</p> - -<p>On the first wet day they played it off, and as Roland was a poor -performer and Brewster a tolerably efficient one the game ended in under -half an hour. They had, therefore, the whole afternoon before them, and -Roland suggested that as soon as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a>{50}</span> had changed they should have tea -together in his study.</p> - -<p>For Roland it was an exciting afternoon; he was playing, for the first -time in his life, the part of a diplomat. He had read a good many novels -in which the motive was introduced, but there it had been a very -different matter. The stage had been set skillfully; each knew the -other’s thoughts without being sure of his intention; there was a rapier -duel of thrust and parry. But here the stage was set for nothing in -particular. Brewster was unaware of dramatic tension; his main idea was -to eat as much as possible.</p> - -<p>With infinite care Roland led the conversation to a discussion of the -mentality of women. He enlarged on a favorite theme of his—the fact -that girls often fell in love with really ugly men. “I can’t understand -it,” he said. “Girls are such delicate, refined creatures. They want the -right colored curtains in their bedrooms and the right colored cushion -for their sofas; they spend hours discussing the right shade of ribbon -for their hair, and then they go and fall in love with a -ridiculous-looking man. Look at Morgan, now. He’s plain and he’s bald -and he’s got an absurd, stubby mustache, and yet his wife is frightfully -pretty, and she seems really keen on him. I don’t understand it.”</p> - -<p>Brewster agreed that it was curious, and helped himself to another cake.</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Roland, “that a fellow like you knows a good deal -about girls?”</p> - -<p>Brewster shook his head. The subject presented few attractions to him.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, “I don’t really know anything at all about them. I -haven’t got a sister.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t learn about girls from your sister.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p>“Perhaps not. But if you haven’t got a sister you don’t run much chance -of seeing anyone else’s. We don’t know any decent ones. A few of my -friends have sisters, but they seem pretty fair asses. I keep out of -their way.”</p> - -<p>“That’s rather funny, you know, because you’re the sort of fellow that -girls run after.”</p> - -<p>As Roland had been discussing for some time the ugliness of the type of -man that appealed most to girls, this was hardly a compliment. Brewster -did not notice it, however. Indeed, he evinced no great interest in the -conversation. He was enjoying his tea.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think I am,” he said. “At any rate none of them have run -after me, so far.”</p> - -<p>“That’s all you know,” said Roland, and his voice assumed a tone that -made Brewster look up quickly.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, I know someone who is doing their best to.”</p> - -<p>Brewster flushed; the hand that was carrying a cream cake to his mouth -paused in mid air.</p> - -<p>“A girl! Who?”</p> - -<p>“That’s asking.”</p> - -<p>Roland had at last succeeded in arousing Brewster’s curiosity, and he -was wise enough to refrain from satisfying it at once. If he were to -tell him that a girl down town had wanted to go for a walk with him, -Brewster would have laughed and probably thought no more about it. He -would have to fan his interest till Brewster’s imagination had had time -to play upon the idea.</p> - -<p>“She’s very pretty,” Roland said, “and she asked me who you were. She -was awfully keen to meet you, but I told her that it was no good and -that you wouldn’t care for that sort of thing. She was very -disappointed.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a>{52}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, but who is she?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not going to tell you that. Why should I give her away?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but do tell me.”</p> - -<p>Roland was firm.</p> - -<p>“No; I’m jolly well not going to. It’s her secret. You don’t want to -meet her, do you?”</p> - -<p>“No,” Brewster grudgingly admitted; “but I’d like to know.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay you would, but I’m not going to give away a confidence. -Suppose you told me that you were keen on a girl and that you’d heard -she wouldn’t have anything to do with anyone, you wouldn’t like me to go -and tell her who you were, would you?” “No.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you wouldn’t. That’s the sort of thing one keeps to oneself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but as I shall never see her——”</p> - -<p>Roland adopted in reply the stern tone of admonition, “Of course not; -but if I told you, you’d take jolly good care that you did see her, and -then you’d tell someone else. You’d point her out and say, ‘That girl -wanted me to come out for a walk with her.’ You know you would, and of -course the other fellow would promise not to tell anyone and of course -he would. It would be round the whole place in a week, and think how the -poor girl would feel being laughed at by everyone because a fellow that -was four years younger than herself wouldn’t have anything to do with -her.”</p> - -<p>“What! Four years older than me?”</p> - -<p>“About that.”</p> - -<p>“And she’s pretty, you say?”</p> - -<p>“Jolly.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a>{53}</span></p> - -<p>“You know, Whately,” he began, “I’d rather ...” then broke off. “Oh, -look here, do tell me.”</p> - -<p>Roland shook his head.</p> - -<p>“I don’t give away secrets.”</p> - -<p>“But why did you tell me anything about it at all?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know; it just cropped up, didn’t it? I thought it might amuse -you.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I think it’s rotten of you. I shan’t be able to think of anything -else until I know.”</p> - -<p>Which was, of course, exactly what Roland wanted. He knew how Brewster’s -imagination would play with the idea. Betty would become for him -strange, wistful, passionate. Four years older than himself he would -picture her as the Lilith of old, the eternal temptress. In herself she -was nothing. If he had met her in the streets two days earlier he would -have hardly noticed her. “A pleasant, country girl,” he would have said, -and let her pass out of his thoughts. But now the imagination that -colors all things would make her irresistible, and when he met her she -would be identified with his dream.</p> - -<p>Next morning Brewster ran across to him during break.</p> - -<p>“I say, Whately, do tell me who she is.”</p> - -<p>“No; I told you I wasn’t going to.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then. Oh, look here! Is it Dorothy Jones?” Dorothy Jones was the -daughter of the owner of a cycle shop and was much admired in the -school.</p> - -<p>“Would you like it to be?” Roland asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. Perhaps. But is it, though?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps.”</p> - -<p>“It is Dorothy Jones, isn’t it? It is her?”</p> - -<p>“If you know, why do you ask me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be a fool! Is it Dorothy Jones?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a>{54}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, if it isn’t her, is it Mary Gardiner?”</p> - -<p>“It is Mary Gardiner,” Roland mocked. “It is she, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re awful,” said Brewster, and walked away.</p> - -<p>But that evening he came over to the School house studies and, just -before Hall, a small boy ran across to the reading-room to tell Roland -that Brewster was waiting in the cloisters and would like to speak to -him.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Roland, “and what is it?”</p> - -<p>“It’s about the girl.”</p> - -<p>Roland affected a weary impatience.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lord, but I thought we’d finished with all that. I told you that I -wasn’t going to give her away.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know; but ... ah, well, look here, I must know who the girl is. -No, don’t interrupt. Will you tell me if I promise to come out with her -once?” Roland thought for a moment. He had his man now, but it would not -do to hurry things. He must play for safety a little longer.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I know that game,” he said. “I shall tell you her name and -then you’ll wish you hadn’t promised and you’ll get frightened, and when -the time comes you will have sprained an ankle in a house match and -won’t be able to come for a walk. That won’t do at all.”</p> - -<p>“But I swear I wouldn’t do that,” Brewster protested. “Really, I -wouldn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and I promised that I wasn’t going to tell.”</p> - -<p>“But that’s so silly. Suppose now that I was really keen on her. For all -you know, or I, for that matter, I may have seen her walking about the -town and thought her jolly pretty without knowing who she was.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<p>“And I’m damned certain you haven’t. You told me that you didn’t take -any interest in girls.”</p> - -<p>“No, but really, honest, man, I may have seen her. Only this morning as -I was going down to Fort’s after breakfast I saw an absolutely ripping -girl, and I believe it was me she smiled at. It’s very likely her.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I daresay, but——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, come on, do tell me, and I promise you I’ll come and see her; -honest, I will.”</p> - -<p>But at that moment the roll-bell issued its cracked summons.</p> - -<p>“If you don’t run like sin you’ll be late for roll-call, and that’ll -finish everything,” Roland said, and Brewster turned and sprinted across -the courts.</p> - -<p>Roland walked back to his study in a mood of deep self-satisfaction. He -was carrying an extremely difficult job to a triumphant close. It did -not occur to him that the role he filled was not a particularly noble -one and that an unpleasantly worded label could be discovered for it. He -was living in the days of unreflecting action. He did, or refrained from -doing, the things he wanted to do, without a minute analysis of motive, -but in accordance with a definite code of rules. He lived his life as he -played cricket. There were rewards and there were penalties. If you hit -across a straight long hop you ran a chance of being leg before, and if -the ball hit your pad you went straight back to the pavilion. You played -to win, but you played the game, provided that you played it according -to the rules. It did not matter to Roland what the game was. And the -affair of Betty and Brewster was a game that he was winning fairly and -squarely.</p> - -<p>Next morning he achieved victory. He met Brewster during break and -presented his ultimatum.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<p>“I won’t tell you her name,” he said. “I promised not to. It wouldn’t be -the game. But I tell you what I will do, though. If you’ll promise to -come out for a walk with me on Sunday I’ll arrange for her to meet us -somewhere, and then you can see what you think of each other. Now, what -do you say to that?”</p> - -<p>Brewster’s curiosity was so roused that he accepted eagerly, and next -Sunday they set out together towards Cold Harbour.</p> - -<p>About a mile and a half from the school a sunken lane ran down the side -of a steep hill towards the railway. The lane could be approached from -two sides, and from the shelter of a thick hedge it was possible to -observe the whole country-side without being seen. It was here that they -had arranged their meeting.</p> - -<p>They found the two girls waiting when they arrived. Betty looked very -smart in a dark blue coat and skirt and a small hat that fitted tightly -over her head. She smiled at Roland, and the sight, after months, of her -fresh-colored face, with its bright eyes and wide, moist mouth, sent a -sudden thrill through him—half fear, half excitement.</p> - -<p>“So you’ve managed to arrange it,” said Dolly. “How clever of you.”</p> - -<p>“Very nice of him to come,” said Betty, her eyes fixed on Brewster, who -stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets, kicking one heel against the -other.</p> - -<p>For a few minutes they talked together, stupid, inconsequent badinage, -punctuated by giggles, till Betty, as usual, reminded them that they -would only have an hour together.</p> - -<p>“About time we paired off, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” said Roland. “Come along, Dolly,” and they began to walk -down the lane. At the corner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a>{57}</span> they turned and saw the other two standing -together—Betty, taller, confident and all-powerful; Brewster, looking -up at her, scared and timid, his hands clasped behind him.</p> - -<p>“He looks a bit shy, doesn’t he?” said Dolly.</p> - -<p>Roland laughed.</p> - -<p>“He won’t be for long, I expect.”</p> - -<p>“Rather not. He’ll soon get used to her. Betty doesn’t let her boys stop -shy with her for long. She makes them do as she wants them.”</p> - -<p>And when they returned an hour later they saw the two sitting side by -side chatting happily. But as soon as they reached them Brewster became -silent and shy, and looked neither of them in the face.</p> - -<p>“Had a good time?” asked Dolly.</p> - -<p>“Ask him,” she answered.</p> - -<p>And they laughed, all except Brewster, and made arrangements to meet -again, only a little earlier the next week.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Roland, as soon as they were out of earshot, “and how did -you enjoy yourself?”</p> - -<p>Brewster admitted that it had been pretty good.</p> - -<p>“Only pretty good?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know,” he said, “it was all right. Yes, it was ripping, -really; but it was so different from what I had expected.”</p> - -<p>“How do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, you know. I felt so awkward; she started everything. I didn’t -have any say in it at all. I had thought it was up to me to do all -that.”</p> - -<p>“Betty’s not that sort.”</p> - -<p>“No, but it’s a funny business.”</p> - -<p>“You are coming out next week, though?”</p> - -<p>“Rather!”</p> - -<p>And next week Dolly, as soon as she was alone with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a>{58}</span> Roland, began to ask -him questions about Brewster: “What did he say to you? What did he think -of her? Was she nice to him? You must tell me all about it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think he enjoyed himself all right. She startled him a bit.”</p> - -<p>“Did she? What did he say? Do tell me.”</p> - -<p>She asked him question after question, and he had to repeat to her every -word he could remember of Brewster’s conversation. Did he still feel -shy? Did he think Betty beautiful? Was he at all in love with her? And -then Roland began to ask what Betty had thought of Brewster. Had she -preferred him to Howard? She wasn’t disappointed in him? Did she like -him better than the other boys? They talked eagerly.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t it be fun to go back and have a look at them?” said Dolly. -“I’d give anything to see them together.”</p> - -<p>Their eyes met, and suddenly, with a fervor they had never reached -before, they kissed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a>{59}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><br /> -<small>APRIL’S LOOKING-GLASS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">F</span>OR April the term which brought Roland so much excitement was slow in -passing. In spite of the disastrous evening at the ball, Roland’s return -to school left a void in her life. When she awoke in the morning and -stretched herself in bed before getting up she would ask herself what -good thing she could expect that day to bring her. When she felt happy -she would demand the reason of herself. “Over what are you happy?” she -would ask herself. “In five minutes’ time you will get up. You will put -on your dressing-gown and hurry down the corridor to the bathroom. You -will dress hurriedly, but come down all the same a little late for -breakfast. You will find that your father has eaten, as is his wont, -more than his share of toast, which will mean that you, being the last -down, will have to go without it. You will rush down to school saying -over to yourself the dates of your history lesson. You will hang your -hat and coat on the fourth row of pegs and on the seventh peg from the -right. From nine o’clock to ten you will be heard your history lesson. -From ten o’clock till eleven you will take down notes on chemistry. From -eleven to a quarter past there will be an interval during which you will -try to find a friend to help you with the Latin translation, of which -you prepared only the first thirty lines last night. From a quarter-past -eleven till a quarter-past twelve you will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a>{60}</span> heard that lesson. At a -quarter-past twelve you will attend a lecture on English literature, -which will last till one o’clock. You will then have lunch, and as -to-day is Tuesday you know that your lunch will consist of boiled mutton -and caper sauce, followed by apple dumpling. In the afternoon you will -have gymnastics and a music lesson, after which there will be an hour of -Mademoiselle’s French conversation class. You will then come home. You -will hurry your tea in the hope of being able to finish your preparation -before your father comes back from the office at twenty minutes to -seven, because when once he is back your mother will begin to talk, and -when she begins to talk work becomes impossible. You will then dine with -your parents at half-past seven. You will sit perfectly quiet at the -table and not say a word, while your mother talks and talks and father -listens and occasionally says, ‘Yes, mother,’ or ‘No, mother.’ After -dinner you will read a book in the drawing-room till your mother reminds -you that it is nine o’clock and time that you were in bed. You have, in -fact, before you a day similar in every detail to yesterday, and similar -in every detail to to-morrow. If you think anything different is going -to happen to you, then you are a little fool.” And April would have to -confess that this self-catechism was true. “Nothing happens,” she would -say. “One day is like another, and I am a little fool to wake up in the -morning excited about nothing at all.”</p> - -<p>But all the same she was excited and she did feel, in spite of reason, -that something was bound to happen soon. “Things cannot go on like this -for ever,” she told herself. And, looking into the future, she came -gradually to look upon the day of Roland’s return from school as the -event which would alter, in a way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a>{61}</span> she could not discern, the whole -tenor of her life. It was not in these words that the idea was presented -to her. “It may be different during the holidays when Roland is here.” -That was her first thought, from which the words “when Roland is here” -detached themselves, starting another train of thought, that “Life when -Roland is here is always different”; and she began to look forward to -the holidays, counting the days till his return. “Things will be -different then.”</p> - -<p>It was not love, it was not friendship; it was simply the belief that -Roland’s presence would be a key to that world other than this, of which -shadowy intimations haunted her continually. Roland became the focus for -her disquiet, her longing, her vague appreciation of the eternal essence -made manifest for her in the passing phenomena of life.</p> - -<p>“When Roland comes back....” And though she marked on the calendar that -hung in her bedroom April 2, the last day of her own term, with a big -red cross, it was April 5 that she regarded as the real beginning of her -holidays. And when she came down to breakfast and her father said to -her, “Only seven more days now, April,” she would answer gayly, “Yes, -only a week. Isn’t it lovely?” But to herself she would add, “Ten days, -only ten days more!”</p> - -<p>And so she missed altogether the usual last day excitement. She did not -wake on that first morning happy with the delicious thought that she -could lie in bed for an extra ten minutes if she liked. She had not yet -begun her holidays.</p> - -<p>But two days later she was in a fever of expectation. In twenty-four -hours’ time Roland would be home. How slowly the day passed. In the -evening she said she was tired and went to bed before dinner,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a>{62}</span> so that -the next day might come quickly for her. But when she got to bed she -found that she could not sleep, and though she repeated the word -“abracadabra” many hundred times and counted innumerable sheep passing -through innumerable gates, she lay awake till after midnight, hearing -hour after hour strike. And when at last sleep came to her it was light -and fitful and she awoke often.</p> - -<p>Next day she did not know what to do with herself. She tried to read and -could not. She tried to sew and could not. She ran up and down stairs on -trifling errands in order to pass the time. In vain she tried to calm -herself. “What are you getting so excited about? What do you think is -going to happen? What can happen? The most that can happen is that he -will come round with his father in the evening, and you know well enough -by now what that will mean. Your mother will talk and his father will -say, ‘Yes, Mrs. Curtis,’ and ‘Really, Mrs. Curtis,’ and you and Roland -will hardly exchange a word with one another. You are absurdly excited -over nothing.”</p> - -<p>But logic was of no avail, and all the afternoon she fidgeted with -impatience. By tea-time she was in a state of repressed hysteria. She -sat in the window-seat looking down the road in the direction from which -he would have to come. “I wonder if he will come without his father. It -would be so dear of him if he would, but I don’t suppose he will. No, of -course he won’t. It’s silly of me to think of it. He’ll have to wait for -his father; he always does. That means he won’t be here at the earliest -till after six. And it’s only ten minutes to five now.”</p> - -<p>And to make things worse, seldom had she found her mother more annoying.</p> - -<p>“Now, why don’t you go for a walk, April, dear?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a>{63}</span> she said. “It’s such a -lovely evening and you’ve been indoors nearly all day. It isn’t good, -and I was saying to your father only the other day, ‘Father, dear, I’m -sure April isn’t up to the mark. She looks so pale nowadays.’ ”</p> - -<p>“I’m all right, mother.”</p> - -<p>“No, but are you, dear? You’re looking really pale. I’m sure I ought to -ask Dr. Dunkin to come and see you.”</p> - -<p>“But I’m all right—really, I’m all right, mother. I know when anything -is wrong with me.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t, April, dear. That’s just the point. Don’t you remember -that time when you insisted on going to the tennis party and assured us -that you were quite well, and when you came back we found you had a -temperature of 101° and that you were sickening for measles? I was -saying to Dr. Dunkin only this morning: ‘Dr. Dunkin, I’m really not -satisfied about our little April. I think I shall have to ask you to -give her a tonic’; and he said to me: ‘Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Curtis; -you bring me along to her and I’ll set her straight.’ ”</p> - -<p>April put her hands up to her head and tried not to listen, but her -mother’s voice flowed on:</p> - -<p>“And now, dear, do go out for a walk—just a little one.”</p> - -<p>“But, mother, dear, I don’t want to, really, and I’m feeling so tired.”</p> - -<p>“There, what did I say? You’re feeling tired and you’ve done nothing all -day. There must be something wrong with you. I shall certainly ask Dr. -Dunkin to come and see you to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes, yes, mother. I’ll do anything you like to-morrow. If -you’ll only leave me alone to-night.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a>{64}</span></p> - -<p>But Mrs. Curtis went on talking, and April grew more and more -exasperated, and the minutes went past and Roland did not come. Six -struck and half-past six, and a few minutes later she heard her father’s -latch-key in the door. And then the whole question of her health was -dragged out again.</p> - -<p>“I was saying to you only yesterday, father, that our little April -wasn’t as well as she ought to be. She has overworked, I think. Last -night she went to bed early and to-day she looks quite pale, and she -says that she feels tired although she hasn’t really done anything. I -must send for Dr. Dunkin to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to April that the voice would never stop. It beat and beat -upon her brain, like the ticking of the watch that reminded her of the -flying moments. “He won’t come now,” she said; “he won’t come now.” -Seven o’clock had struck, the lamps were lit, evening had descended upon -the street. He had never come as late as this before. But she still sat -at the window, gazing down the street towards the figures that became -distinct for a moment in the lamplight. “He will not come now,” she -said, and suddenly she felt limp, tired, incapable of resistance. She -put her head upon her knees and began to sob.</p> - -<p>In a moment her mother’s arms were round her. “But, darling, what is it, -April, dear?”</p> - -<p>She could not speak. She shook her head, tried desperately to make a -sign that she was all right, that she would rather be left alone; but it -was no use. She felt too bitterly the need for human sympathy. She -turned, flung her arms about her mother’s neck, and began to sob and -sob.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, mother,” she cried. “I’m so miserable. I don’t know what to -do. I don’t know what to do.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<p>Next morning Dr. Dunkin felt her pulse, prescribed a tonic and told her -not to stay too much indoors.</p> - -<p>“Now, you’ll be all right, dear,” her mother said. “Dr. Dunkin’s -medicines are splendid.”</p> - -<p>April smiled quietly. “Yes, I expect that was what was wanted. I think I -worked a little too hard last term.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you did, my dear. I shall write to Mrs. Clarke about it. I -can’t have my little girl getting run down.”</p> - -<p>And that afternoon April met Roland in the High Street. It was the first -time that she had seen him alone since the evening of the dance, and she -found him awkward and embarrassed. They said a few things of no -importance—about the holidays, the weather and their acquaintances. -Then April said that she must be going home, and Roland made no effort -to detain her—did not even make any suggestion about coming round to -see her.</p> - -<p>“So that is what you have been looking forward to for over a month,” she -said to herself, as he passed out of sight behind an angle of the road. -“This is the date you wanted to mark upon your calendar with a red -cross. Little fool. What did you think you were doing? And what has it -turned out to be in the end? Five minutes’ discussion of indifferent -things. A fine event to make such a fuss about; and what else did you -expect?”</p> - -<p>She was not bitter. It was one of those mild days that in early spring -surprise us with a promise of summer, on which the heart is stirred with -the crowded glory of life and the sense of widening horizons. The long -stretch of roofs and chimney stacks became beautiful in the subdued -sunlight. It was an hour that in the strong might have quickened the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a>{66}</span> -hunger for adventure, but that to April brought a mood of chastened, -quiet resignation. She appreciated, as she had not done before, the -tether by which her scope was measured. For the last month she had made -Roland’s return a focus for the ambitions and desires and yearnings -towards an intenser way of living, for which of herself she had been -unable to find expression. This, in a confused manner, she understood. -“I can do nothing by myself. I have to live in other people. And what I -am now I shall be always. All my life I shall be dependent on someone -else, or on some interest that is outside myself. And whether I am happy -or unhappy depends upon some other person. That is my nature, and I -cannot go beyond my nature.” When she reached home she sat for a long -time in the window-seat, her hands folded in her lap. “This will be my -whole life,” she said. “I am not of those who may go out in search of -happiness.” And she thought that if romance did not come to her, she -would remain all her life sitting at a window. “Of myself I can do -nothing.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><br /> -<small>A SORRY BUSINESS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>PRIL did not see very much of Roland during the holidays, and was not, -on the whole, sorry. Now that the hysterical excitement over his return -had passed, she judged it better to let their friendship lapse. She did -not want any repetition of that disastrous evening, and thought that it -would be easier to resume their friendship on its old basis after the -long interval of the summer term. Roland was still a little piqued by -what he considered her absurd behavior, and had resolved to let the -first step come from her.</p> - -<p>This estrangement was a disappointment to his people.</p> - -<p>“Have you noticed, my dear, that Roland’s hardly been round to the -Curtises’ at all these holidays?” Mr. Whately said to his wife one -evening. “I hope there has not been a row or anything. I rather wish -you’d try and find out.”</p> - -<p>And so next day Mrs. Whately made a guarded remark to her son about -April’s appearance: “What a big girl she’s getting. And she’s prettier -every day. If you’re not careful you’ll have all the boys in the place -running after her and cutting you out.”</p> - -<p>Roland answered in an off-hand manner, “They can for all I care, -mother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but, Roland, you shouldn’t say that; I thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a>{68}</span> you were getting on -so well together last holidays. We were even saying——”</p> - -<p>But Roland never allowed himself to be forced into a confidence.</p> - -<p>“Oh, please, mother, don’t. There was nothing in it; really, there -wasn’t.”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t had a row, have you, Roland?”</p> - -<p>“Of course not, mother. What should we have a row about?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, dear. I only thought——”</p> - -<p>“Well, you needn’t worry about us, mother; we’re all right.”</p> - -<p>Roland was by no means pleased at what seemed to him a distinct case of -interference. It arrived, too, at a most inopportune moment, for he had -been just then wondering whether he ought not to forget about his -high-minded resolves and try to make it up with April. His mother’s -inquiries, however, decided him. He was not going to have others -arranging that sort of thing for him. “And for all I know,” he said to -himself, “Mrs. Curtis may be at the back of this. I shan’t go round -there again these holidays.” And this was the more unfortunate, because -if the intimacy between Roland and April had been resumed, it is more -than likely that Roland, at the beginning of the summer term, would have -decided to give up Dolly altogether. Both he and Brewster were a little -tired of it; the first interest had passed, and they had actually -discussed the wisdom of dropping the whole business.</p> - -<p>“After all,” said Brewster, “it can’t go on forever. It’ll have to stop -some time, and next term we shall both be fairly high in the school, -house prefects and all that, and we shall have to be pretty careful what -we do.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<p>Roland was inclined to agree with him, but his curiosity was still -awake.</p> - -<p>“It’s not so easy to break a thing like this. Let’s wait till the end of -the term. The summer holidays are a long time, and by the time we come -back they’ll very likely have picked up someone else.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” said Brewster, “I don’t mind. And it does add an interest -to things.”</p> - -<p>And so the affair went on smoothly and comfortably, a pleasant interlude -among the many good gifts of a summer term—cricket and swimming and the -long, lazy evenings. Nothing, indeed, occurred to ruffle the complete -happiness of Roland’s life, till one Monday morning during break -Brewster came running across to the School house studies with the -disastrous news that his house master had found out all about it. It had -happened thus:</p> - -<p>On the previous Saturday Roland had sent up a note in break altering the -time of an appointment. It was the morning of a school match and -Brewster received the note on his way down to the field. He was a little -late, and as soon as he had read the note he shoved it into his pocket -and thought no more about it. During the afternoon he slipped, trying to -bring off a one-handed catch in the slips, and tore the knee of his -trousers. The game ended late and he had only just time to change and -take his trousers round to the matron to be mended before lock-up. In -the right-hand pocket the matron discovered Roland’s note, and, judging -its contents singular, placed it before Mr. Carus Evans.</p> - -<p>As Roland walked back with Brewster from the tuckshop a small boy ran up -to tell him that Mr. Carus Evans would like to see him directly after -lunch.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a>{70}</span></p> - -<p>Roland was quite calm as he walked up the hill three hours later. One is -only frightened when one is uncertain of one’s fate. When a big row is -on, in which one may possibly be implicated, one endures agonies, -wondering whether or not one will be found out. But when it is settled, -when one is found out, what is there to do? One must let things take -their course; nothing can alter it. There is no need for fret or fever. -Roland was able to consider his position with detached interest.</p> - -<p>He had been a fool to send that note. Notes always got lost or dropped -and the wrong people picked them up. How many fellows had not got -themselves bunked that way, notes and confirmation? They were the two -great menaces, the two hidden rocks. Probably confirmation was the more -dangerous. On the whole, more fellows had got the sack through -confirmation, but notes were not much better. What an ass he had been. -He would never send a note again, never; he swore it to himself, and -then reflected a little dismally that he might very likely never have -the opportunity.</p> - -<p>Still, that was rather a gloomy view to take. And he stood more chance -with Carus Evans than he would have done with any other master. Carus -Evans had always hated him, and because he hated him would be -desperately anxious to treat him fairly. As a result he would be sure to -underpunish him. It is always safer to have a big row with a master who -dislikes you than with one who is your friend. And from this reflection -Roland drew what comfort he might.</p> - -<p>Mr. Carus Evans sat writing at his desk when Roland came in. He looked -up and then went on with his letter. It was an attempt to make Roland<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a>{71}</span> -feel uncomfortable and to place him at the start at a disadvantage. It -was a characteristic action, for Carus Evans was a weak man. His house -was probably the slackest in the school. It had no one in the XV., -Brewster was its sole representative in the XI. and it did not possess -one school prefect. This should not have been, for Carus Evans was a -bachelor and all his energies were available. He had no second interest -to attract him, but he was weak when he should have been strong; he -chose the wrong prefects and placed too much confidence in them. He was -not a natural leader.</p> - -<p>For a good two minutes he went on writing, then put down his pen.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, yes, Whately. Sit down, will you? Now then, I’ve been talking -to one of the boys in my house and it seems that you and he have been -going out together and meeting some girls in the town. Is that so?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And the suggestion came from you, I gather?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“This is a very serious thing, Whately. I suppose you realize that?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it is, and especially so for a boy in your position. Now, I -don’t know what attitude the headmaster will adopt, but of this I am -quite certain. A great deal will depend on whether you tell me the -truth. I shall know if you tell me a lie. You’ve got to tell me the -whole story. Now, how did this thing start?”</p> - -<p>“On the first night of the Christmas term, sir.”</p> - -<p>“How?”</p> - -<p>“I met them at a dance in the pageant grounds.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a>{72}</span></p> - -<p>“The pageant grounds are out of bounds. You ought to know that.”</p> - -<p>“It was the first night, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t quibble with me. They’re out of bounds. Well, what happened -next?”</p> - -<p>“I danced with her, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Were you alone?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Who was with you?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“If you don’t tell me——”</p> - -<p>“He’s left now, sir. It wouldn’t be fair.”</p> - -<p>They looked each other in the face and in that moment Carus Evans -realized that, in spite of their positions, Roland was the stronger.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, never mind that; we can leave it till later on. And I suppose -you made an appointment?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“You asked me if I made an appointment, sir. I answered I didn’t.”</p> - -<p>Roland was not going to give him the least assistance. Indeed, in the -joy of being able to play once again the old game of baiting masters, -that had delighted him so much when he had been in the middle school and -that he had to abandon so reluctantly when he attained the dignity of -the Fifths and Sixths, he had almost forgotten that he was in a -singularly difficult situation. He would make “old Carus” ask him a -question for every answer that he gave. And he saw that for the moment -Carus had lost his length.</p> - -<p>“Well, then, let me see. Yes, well—er—well, where did you meet her -next?”</p> - -<p>“In a lane beyond Cold Harbour, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Did you go there alone?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“You were with this other fellow?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And what did you do?”</p> - -<p>“Do, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, do. Didn’t you hear me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, but, Do? I don’t quite understand you. What exactly do you -mean by the word ‘do’?”</p> - -<p>“You know perfectly well what I mean, Whately. You flirted, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. I suppose that’s what I did do. I flirted.”</p> - -<p>“I mean you held her hand?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And you kissed her?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Disgusting! Simply disgusting! Is this place a heathen brothel or a -Christian school?” Carus’ face was red, and he drove his fingers through -the hair at the back of his neck. “You go out on a Sunday afternoon and -kiss a shop-girl. What a hobby for a boy in the XV. and Sixth!” And he -began to stamp backwards and forwards up and down the room.</p> - -<p>This fine indignation did not, however, impress Roland in the least. -Carus appeared to him to be less disgusted than interested—pruriently -interested—and that he was angry with himself rather than with Roland, -because he knew instinctively that he was not feeling as a master should -feel when confronted with such a scandal. It was a forced emotion that -was inspiring the fierce flow of words.</p> - -<p>“Do you know what this sort of thing leads to?” he was saying. “But, of -course, you do. I could trust you to know anything like that. Your whole -life may be ruined by it.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a>{74}</span></p> - -<p>“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you didn’t, not this time, though I’ve only your word for it; -but you would have, sooner or later, under different conditions. There’s -only one end to that sort of thing. And even if you were all right -yourself, how did you know that Brewster was going to be? That’s the -beastly part of it. That’s what sickens me with you. Your own life is -your own to do what you like with, but you’ve no right to contaminate -others. You encourage this young fellow to go about with a girl four -years older than himself, about whom you know nothing. How could you -tell what might be happening to him? He may not have your self-control. -He’d never have started this game but for you, and now that he’s once -begun he may be unable to break himself of it. You may have ruined his -whole life, mayn’t you?”</p> - -<p>Roland considered the question.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so, but I didn’t look at it that way.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, you didn’t. But it’s the results that count. That’s what -you’ve got to keep in mind; actions are judged by their results. And -now, what do you imagine is going to happen to you? I suppose you know -that if I go across and report you to the headmaster that it’ll mean the -next train back to London?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And if I did, you’d have no cause for complaint. It would be what you’d -deserved, wouldn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause. They looked at each other. Carus Evans hoped that he -had frightened Roland, but he had not. Roland knew that Carus did not -intend to get him expelled. He would not have talked like that if he -had. He was trying to make Roland<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a>{75}</span> feel that he was conferring a favor -on him in allowing him to stop on.</p> - -<p>“There’s no reason why I should feel kindly disposed towards you,” Carus -said. “We’ve never got on well together. You’ve worked badly in my form. -I’ve never regarded you as a credit to the school. When you were a small -boy you were rowdy and bumptious, and now that you have reached a -position of authority you have become superior and conceited. There’s no -reason why I, personally, should wish to see you remain a member of the -school. As regards my own house, I cannot yet judge what harm you may -have done me. You’ve started the poison here. Brewster will have told -his friends. One bad apple will corrupt a cask. I don’t know what -trouble you may have laid up for me.”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“But all the same, I know what it means to expel a boy. He’s a marked -man for life. I’m going to give you another chance.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ve got to make this thing good first. You’ve got to go to the -headmaster yourself and tell him all about it—now, at once. Do you -see?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>It was going to be an awkward business, and Roland made no attempt to -conceal it from himself. It was just on the half-hour as he walked -across the courts. Afternoon school was beginning. Groups had collected -round the classrooms, waiting for the master to let them in. Johnson -waved to him from a study window and told him to hurry up and help them -with the con.</p> - -<p>“Don’t wait for me,” Roland called back. “I’ve got one or two things to -do. I shall be a little late.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a>{76}</span></p> - -<p>“Slacker,” Johnson laughed.</p> - -<p>It was funny to see the machine revolving so smoothly, with himself, to -all outward appearance, a complacently efficient cog in it. He supposed -that a criminal must feel like this when he watched people hurry past -him in the streets; all of them so intent upon their own affairs and -himself seemingly one with them, but actually so much apart.</p> - -<p>He knocked at the headmaster’s door.</p> - -<p>“Come in.”</p> - -<p>The headmaster was surprised to see Roland at such an hour.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Whately?” he said, and then appeared to remember something, and -began to fumble among some papers on his desk. “One moment, Whately; I -knew there was something I wanted to speak to you about. Ah, yes, here -it is. Your essay on Milton. Will you just come over here a minute? I -wanted to have a few words with you about it. Sit down, won’t you? Now, -let me see, where is it? Ah, yes, here it is: now you say, ‘Milton was a -Puritan in spite of himself. Satan is the hero of the poem.’ Now I want -to be quite certain what you mean by that. I’m not going to say that you -are wrong. But I want you to be quite certain in your own mind as to -what you mean yourself.”</p> - -<p>And Roland began to explain how Milton had let himself be carried away -by his theme, that his nature was so impregnated by the sense of defeat -that defeat seemed to him a nobler thing than victory. Satan had become -the focus for his emotions on the overthrow of the Commonwealth.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I see that, but surely, Whately, the Commonwealth was the -Puritan party. If Milton was so distressed by the return of the -Royalists, how do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a>{77}</span> you square this view with your statement, ‘Milton was -a Puritan in spite of himself’? Surely if his Puritanism was only -imposed, he would have welcomed the return of the drama and a more -highly colored life.”</p> - -<p>Roland made a gallant effort to explain, but all the time he kept saying -to himself, “I came here for a confessional, and yet here I am sitting -down in the Chief’s best arm-chair, enjoying a friendly chat. I must -stop it somehow.” But it was excessively difficult. He began to lose the -thread of his argument and contradicted himself; and the Chief was so -patient, listening to him so attentively, waiting till he had finished.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear Whately,” the Chief said, “you’ve just said that <i>Comus</i> -is a proof of his love of color and display, and yet you say in the same -breath....”</p> - -<p>Would it never cease? And how on earth was he at the end going to -introduce the subject of his miserable amours? He had never anticipated -anything like this. But at last it was finished.</p> - -<p>“You see what you’ve done, Whately? You’ve picked up a phrase somewhere -or other about the paganism of Milton and the nobility of Satan and you -have not taken the trouble to think it out. You’ve just accepted it. I -don’t say that your statement could not be justified. But it’s you who -should be able to justify it, not I. You should never make any statement -in an essay that you can’t substantiate with facts. It’s a good essay, -though, quite good.” And he returned to his papers. He had forgotten -altogether the fact that Roland had come unasked to see him.</p> - -<p>It was one of the worst moments of Roland’s life. He stood silent in the -middle of the room while the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a>{78}</span> Chief continued his letter, thinking the -interview was at an end.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” he said at last.</p> - -<p>The headmaster looked up quickly and said a little impatiently, for he -was a busy man and resented interruption, “Well, Whately? Yes; what is -it?”</p> - -<p>“I came to see you, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, of course you did. I forgot. Well, what is it?”</p> - -<p>“Sir, I’ve come to tell you that Mr. Carus Evans told me to come and -report myself to you and say that—well, sir—that I’ve been going out -for walks with a girl in the town.”</p> - -<p>“What!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, a girl in the town, and that I’d asked a boy in his house to -come with me, sir.”</p> - -<p>The Chief rose from his chair and walked across to the mantelpiece. -There was a long pause.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t quite understand, Whately. You’ve been going out with some -girl in the town?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And you’ve encouraged some boy in Mr. Carus Evans’ house to accompany -you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And he, I suppose, has been going for walks with a girl as well?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>There was another long pause, during which Roland realized that he had -chosen the worst possible moment for his confession. Whatever decision -the Chief might arrive at would be influenced, not only by his -inevitable disappointment at the failure of a boy in whom he had -trusted, but by its violent contrast with the friendly discussion over -the essay and the natural annoyance of a busy man who has been -interrupted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a>{79}</span> in an important piece of work to discuss an unpleasant -situation that has arisen unexpectedly. When the Chief at last began to -speak there was an impatience in his voice that would have been absent -if Roland had tackled him after dinner.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” he said. “I am tempted sometimes to give up faith in you -fellows altogether. I never know where I am with any of you. I feel as -though I were sitting upon a volcano. Everything seems quiet and -satisfactory and then suddenly the volcano breaks out and I find that -the boys in whom I have placed, or am thinking of placing, -responsibility have deceived me. Do you realize the hypocrisy of your -behavior during the last year? You have been meeting Mr. Carus Evans and -myself on friendly, straightforward terms, with an open look on your -face, and all the time, behind our backs, you’ve been philandering with -girls in the town. I haven’t asked you for any details and I am not -going to; that doesn’t enter into the question at all. You’ve been false -and doublefaced. You’ve been acting a lie for a year. It’s the sort of -thing that makes me sick of the whole lot of you. You can go.”</p> - -<p>Roland walked back to the studies, perplexed and miserable. The word -“deceit” had cut hard into him. He loathed crookedness and he had always -considered himself dead straight. It was a boast of his that he had -never told a lie, at least not to a boy; masters were different. Of -course they were, and it was absurd to pretend they weren’t. Everyone -did things that they wouldn’t care to tell the Chief. There was a -barrier between. The relationship was not open like friendship. He saw -the Chief’s point of view, but he did not consider it a sound one. He -disliked these fine gradations of conduct, this talk of acting a lie;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a>{80}</span> -things were either black or white. He remembered how the Chief had once -come round the upper dormitories and had endeavored to persuade him that -it was acting a lie to get into bed without cleaning his teeth. He had -never understood why. An unclean act, perhaps, but acting a lie! oh, no, -it wouldn’t do. It was an unfair method of tackling the problem. It was -hitting a man in the back, this appeal to a better nature. Life should -be played like cricket, according to rules. You could either play for -safety and score slowly, or you could run risks and hit across straight -half-volleys. If one missed it one was out and that was the end of it. -One didn’t talk about acting a lie to the bowler because one played at -the ball as though it were outside the leg stump. Why couldn’t the Chief -play the game like an umpire? Roland knew that he had done a thing -which, in the eyes of authority, was wrong. He admitted that. He had -known it was wrong all the time. He had been found out; he was prepared -for punishment. That was the process of life. One took risks and paid -the penalty. The issue was to Roland childishly simple, and he could not -see why all these good people should complicate it so unnecessarily with -their talk of hypocrisy and deceit.</p> - -<p>That evening the headmaster wrote to Roland’s father:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Whately</span>,—I write to inform you of a matter that will -cause you, I fear, a good deal of pain. I have discovered that for -the last year Roland has been in the habit of going out for walks -on Sunday afternoons with a young girl in the town, and that he has -encouraged another and younger boy to accompany him. These walks -resulted, I am sure, in nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a>{81}</span> beyond a little harmless -flirtation, and I do not regard the actual issue as important. I do -consider, however, and I think that in this you will agree with me, -that Roland’s conduct in the matter is most reprehensible. It has -involved a calculated and prolonged deception of you, his parent, -and of us, his schoolmasters, and he has proved himself, I fear, -unworthy of the responsibility of prefectship that I had hoped to -place in him next term. If he were a younger boy the obvious course -would be a sound thrashing. But Roland is too old for that. Perhaps -he is too old to be at school at all. The leaving age of nineteen -is arbitrary. Boys develop at such different ages; and though I -should not myself have thought so before this affair arose, it may -very well be that Roland has already passed beyond the age at which -it is wise and, indeed, safe to keep him any longer at a school. -For all we know, this trouble may prove to have been a blessing in -disguise, and will have protected him from more serious -difficulties. At any rate, I do not feel that I should be doing my -duty by you or by the other parents who place the welfare of their -boys in my hands if I were to keep Roland here after the summer. -There is, of course, in this not the least suggestion of expulsion. -Roland will leave at the end of the term with many of his -contemporaries in the ordinary course of events. And he will -become, if he wishes, as I hope he will wish, a member of the old -Fernhurstian Society. Perhaps you may yourself decide to come down -and have a talk with Roland. If so, perhaps we might discuss his -future together. I do not myself see why this should prejudice in -any way his going up to the University in a year’s time. Of course -he could not go up now as he has not yet passed responsions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a>{82}</span></p> - -<p>I very much hope that you will come down and that we shall be able -to discuss the whole matter from every point of view. Sincerely -yours,</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">J. F. Harrison</span>.<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>This letter arrived at Hammerton by the evening post. Mr. Whately had -that morning received a letter from Roland, written before the row, with -an account of a house game in which he had made 59 runs and taken 3 -wickets. Mr. Whately was most excited.</p> - -<p>“He’s really doing remarkably well,” he said, after dinner. “He says -that he’s pretty certain for his second XI. colors, and I can’t think -why they don’t give him a trial for the first. I know that Fernhurst -have a pretty strong side this year, but they ought to try all the men -they’ve got.”</p> - -<p>“He ought to get in next year at any rate,” said his wife.</p> - -<p>“Next year! Of course there should be no doubt about that at all. But I -should like to see him get in this. It will make a big difference to his -last term if he knows he’s safe for his place. It’s always a little -worrying having to play for one’s colors, and I should like him to have -a really good last term. He’s deserved it; he’s worked hard; he’s been a -real success at Fernhurst.”</p> - -<p>His soliloquy was at this point interrupted by the double knock of the -postman. Mr. Whately jumped up at once.</p> - -<p>“The Fernhurst postmark, my dear,” he said. “I wonder what this can be -about. The headmaster’s writing!”</p> - -<p>He tore open the envelope eagerly and began to read.</p> - -<p>“Well, dear?” said his wife.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a>{83}</span></p> - -<p>He said nothing, but handed the letter across to her. She read it -through and then sat forward in her chair, her hands lying on her knees.</p> - -<p>“Poor darling,” she said. “So that’s why he saw so little of April last -holidays.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose that’s the reason.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think he was in love with her?”</p> - -<p>“With April?”</p> - -<p>“No, of course not, dear. With this girl at Fernhurst?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. How could I tell?”</p> - -<p>And again they sat in silence. It was such a long while since they had -been called upon to face a serious situation. For many years now they -had lived upon the agreeable surface of an ordered life. They were -unprepared for this disquieting intrusion.</p> - -<p>“And what’s going to happen now?” she said at last. “I suppose you’ll -have to go down to school and see him.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think so. Yes, certainly. I ought to go down to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“And what will you say to him?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. What is it the headmaster says?”</p> - -<p>She handed him the letter and he fumbled with it. “Here it is. ‘I do not -see myself why this should prejudice in any way his going up to the -University.’ That’s what the headmaster says. But I don’t really see how -we could manage it. After all, what would happen? He would have to go to -a crammer’s and everyone would ask questions. We have always said how -good the Fernhurst education is, and now they’ll begin to wonder why -we’ve changed our minds. If we take Roland away and send him to a -crammer’s they would be sure to think something was up. You know what -people are. It would never do.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>“No, I suppose not. But it seems rather hard on Roland if he’s got to -give up Oxford.”</p> - -<p>“Well, it will be his own fault, won’t it?”</p> - -<p>“We haven’t heard the whole story yet.”</p> - -<p>“I know; but what’s the good of discussing it? He knew he was doing -something he ought not to be doing. He can’t expect not to have to pay -for it.”</p> - -<p>And there was another pause.</p> - -<p>“He was doing so well, too,” she said.</p> - -<p>“He would have been a prefect after the summer. He would have been -captain of his house. We should have been so proud of him.”</p> - -<p>“And it’s all over now.”</p> - -<p>They did not discuss the actual trouble. He knew that on the next day he -would have to go over the whole thing with Roland, and he wanted to be -able to think it out in quiet. They were practical people, who had spent -the last fifteen years discussing the practical affairs of ways and -means. They had come nearest to each other when they had sat before -their account-books in the evening, balancing one column with another, -and at the end of it looking each other in the face, agreeing that they -would have to “cut down this expense,” and that they could “save a -little there.” The love of the senses had died out quickly between them, -but its place had been taken by a deep affection, by the steady -accumulation of small incidents of loyalty and unselfishness, of -difficulties faced and fought together. They had never ventured upon -first principles. They had fixed their attention upon the immediate -necessities of the moment.</p> - -<p>And now, although Roland’s moral welfare was a deep responsibility to -them, they spoke only of his career and of how they must shape it to fit -the new requirements. Mr. Whately thought that he might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a>{85}</span> be able to find -a post for him in the bank. But his wife was very much against it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, dear, that would be terrible. Roland could never stand it; he’s -such an open-air person. I can’t bear the idea of his being cooped up at -a desk all his days.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what my life’s been.”</p> - -<p>“I know; but, Roland. Surely we can find something better for him than -that.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll try. I don’t know. Things like the Civil Service are impossible -for him now, and the Army’s no use, and I’ve got no influence in the -City.”</p> - -<p>“But you must try, really, dear. It’s awful to think of him committed to -a bank for the rest of his life just when he was doing so well.”</p> - -<p>“All right. I’ll do my best.”</p> - -<p>A few minutes later he said that he was tired and would go to bed. At -the door he paused, walked back into the room and stood behind his wife. -He wanted to say something to show that he appreciated her sympathy, -that he was glad she was beside him in this disappointment, this hour of -trouble. But he did not know what to say. He stretched out a hand -timidly and touched her hair. She turned and looked up at him, and -without a word said put her arms slowly about his neck, drew his hand -down to her and kissed him. For a full minute he was pressed against -her. “Dear,” he murmured, and though he mounted the stairs sadly, he -felt strengthened by that embrace of mutual disappointment.</p> - -<p>He set off very early next morning, for he would have to go down to the -bank and make arrangements for his absence. He had hoped that Roland -would have written to them, but the post brought only a circular from a -turf accountant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<p>“Have you decided what you are going to say to him?” his wife asked.</p> - -<p>“Not yet. I shall think it out in the train. I shall be able to say the -right thing when the time comes.”</p> - -<p>“You won’t be hard to him. I expect he’s very miserable.”</p> - -<p>It was a bad day for Mr. Whately. During the long train journey through -fields and villages, vivid in the bright June sunlight, he wondered in -what spirit he should receive his son. Roland would be no doubt waiting -for him at the station. What would they say to each other? How would -they begin? He would have lunch, of course, at the Eversham Hotel, and -then, he supposed, he would have to see the headmaster. That would be -very difficult. He always felt shy in the headmaster’s presence. The -headmaster was such an aristocrat; he was stamped with the hallmark of -Eton and Balliol, while he himself was the manager of a bank in London. -He was always aware of his social inferiority in that book-lined study, -with the five austere reproductions of Greek sculpture. The interview -would be very difficult. But the headmaster would at least do most of -the talking; whereas with Roland.... Mr. Whately shifted uneasily in his -corner seat. What on earth was he going to say? Something, surely, about -the moral significance of the act. Roland must realize that he was -guilty of really immoral conduct, and yet how was he to be made to -realize it? What arguments must be produced? Wherein lay the harm of -calf love? And looking back over his own life Mr. Whately could not see -that there was any particular vice attached to it. It was absurd and -preposterous, but it was very pleasant. He remembered how he had once -fancied himself in love with his grandmother’s housemaid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a>{87}</span> He used to -get up early in the morning so that he could sit with her while she laid -the grate, and he had knelt down beside her and joined his breath with -hers in a fierce attempt to kindle the timid flame. He had never kissed -her, but she had let him hold her hand, and the summer holidays had -passed in delicious reveries. He remembered also how, a little later, he -had fallen desperately in love with the girl at the tobacconist’s, and -he could still recall the breathless excitement of that morning when he -had come into the shop and found it empty. For a second she had listened -at the door leading to the private part of the house and had then leaned -forward over the counter: “Quick,” she had whispered.</p> - -<p>Mr. Whately smiled at the recollection and then remembered suddenly for -what cause he was traveling down to Fernhurst. “I must say something to -him. What shall I say?” And for want of any better argument he began to -adapt a speech that he had heard spoken a few weeks earlier in a -melodrama at the Aldwich. The hero, a soldier, had come home from the -war to find his betrothed in the arms of another, and she had protested -that it was him alone she loved, and that she was playing with the -other; but the returned warrior had delivered himself of an oration on -the eternal sanctity of love. “Love cannot be divided like a worm and -continue to exist. It is not a game.” There was something in that -argument, and Mr. Whately decided to tell Roland that love came only -once in a man’s life, and that he must reserve himself for that one -occasion. “If you make love to every girl you meet, you will spoil -yourself for the real love affair. It will be the removal of a shovelful -of gravel from a large pile. One shovelful appears to make no -difference, but in the end the pile<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a>{88}</span> of gravel disappears.” That is what -he would say to Roland. And because the idea seemed suitable, he did not -pause to consider whether or not it was founded upon truth. He lay back -in his corner seat and began to arrange his ideas according to that line -of persuasion.</p> - -<p>But all this fine flow of wit and logic was dispelled when the train -drew up at Fernhurst station and Mr. Whately descended from the carriage -to find Roland waiting for him on the platform.</p> - -<p>“Hullo! father,” he said, and the two of them walked in silence out of -the station, and turned into the Eversham Rooms.</p> - -<p>“I’ve booked a table at the hotel,” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“Good.”</p> - -<p>“I expect you’re feeling a bit hungry after your journey, aren’t you, -father?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am a bit.”</p> - -<p>“Not a bad day for traveling, though?”</p> - -<p>“No, it was very jolly. The country was beautiful all the way down. It’s -such a relief to be able to get out of London for a bit.”</p> - -<p>“I expect it must be.”</p> - -<p>“It’s quite a treat to be able to come here”; and so nervous was he that -he failed to appreciate the irony of his last statement.</p> - -<p>By this time they had reached the hotel. Roland walked with a cheerful -confidence into the entrance, nodded to the porter, hung his straw hat -upon the rack, and suggested a wash.</p> - -<p>Mr. Whately looked at himself in the glass as he dried his hands. It was -a withered face that looked back at him; the face of a bank clerk who -had risen with some industry and much privation to a position of -authority; a face that was lined and marked and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a>{89}</span> undistinguished; the -face of a man who had never asserted himself. Mr. Whately turned from -his own reflection and looked at his son, so strong, and fresh and -eager; unmarked as yet by trouble and adversity. Who was he, a scrubby, -middle-aged little man, emptied of energy and faith, with his life -behind him—who was he to impose his will on anyone?</p> - -<p>“Finished, father?”</p> - -<p>He followed his son into the dining room and picked up the menu; but he -did not know what to choose, and handed the card across to Roland. -Roland ordered the meal; the waiter rubbed his hands, and father and son -sat opposite each other, oppressed by a situation that was new to them. -Roland waited for his father to begin. During the last thirty-six hours -he had been interviewed by three different masters, all of whom had, in -their way, tried to impress upon him the enormity of his offense. He was -by now a little tired of the subject. He wanted to know what punishment -had been fixed for him. He had heard enough of the moral aspect of the -case. “These people treat me as though I were a fool,” he had said to -Brewster. “To hear the way they talked one would imagine that I had -never thought about the damnable business at all. They seem to expect me -to fall down, like St. Paul before Damascus, and exclaim: ‘Now, all is -clear to me!’ But, damn it all, I knew what I was doing. I’d thought it -all out. I’m not going to do the conversion stunt just because I’ve been -found out.” He expected his father to go over the old ground—influence, -position, responsibility. He prepared himself to listen. But as his -father did not begin, and as the soup did not arrive, Roland felt it was -incumbent upon him to say something.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a>{90}</span></p> - -<p>“A great game that against Yorkshire?” he said.</p> - -<p>“What! Which game?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you remember, about a fortnight ago, the Middlesex and Yorkshire -match? Middlesex had over two hundred to get and only three hours to get -them in. They’re a fine side this year.”</p> - -<p>And within two minutes they were discussing cricket as they had -discussed it so often before. At first they talked to cover their -embarrassment, but soon they had become really interested in the -subject.</p> - -<p>“And what chance do you think you have of getting in the XI.? Surely -they ought to give you a trial soon.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know, father; I’m not much class, and there are several old -colors. I ought to get my seconds all right, and next season....”</p> - -<p>He stopped, realizing suddenly that he did not as yet know whether there -would be any next season for him, and quickly changed the conversation, -telling his father of a splendid rag that the Lower Fourth had organized -for the last Saturday of the term.</p> - -<p>Sooner or later the all-important question had to be tackled, but by the -time lunch had finished, son and father had established their old -intimacy of quiet conversation, and they were ready to face and, if need -be, to dismiss the violent intrusion of the trouble. They walked up and -down the hotel grounds, Mr. Whately wondering at what exact point he -should dab in his carefully constructed argument. Then there came a -pause, into which his voice broke suddenly:</p> - -<p>“You know, Roland, about this business....”</p> - -<p>“Yes, father.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I mean, going out with a girl in the town.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a>{91}</span> Do you think -it’s....” He paused. After all, he did not know what to say.</p> - -<p>“I know, father. I know.” And looking at each other they realized that -it would be impossible for them to discuss it. Their relationship was at -stake. It had no technique to deal with the situation. And Roland asked, -as his mother had asked, “What’s going to happen, father?”</p> - -<p>For answer, Mr. Whately put his hand into his pocket, took out the -headmaster’s letter and gave it to Roland. Roland read it through and -then handed it back. “Not a bad fellow, the Chief,” he said, and they -walked up and down the path in silence.</p> - -<p>“It’s a disappointment,” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“For all of us.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”</p> - -<p>And after another pause: “What’s going to happen to me at the end of the -term?”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I’ve got to decide. I suggested a bank, but your mother was -very much against it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not the bank, father!”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll do my best for you, but it’ll be difficult. Oxford’s out of -the question. You can see that, can’t you? I should have to send you to -a crammer, and everyone would talk. It would be sure to leak out. And we -don’t want anything like that to happen, because they would be sure to -think it was something worse than it really was. I’m afraid Oxford’s got -to go. Your mother agreed with me about that.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you’re right, father.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t know what else there is, Roland. I shall have to ask the -headmaster.”</p> - -<p>But the headmaster was not very helpful. He was kind and sympathetic. He -spoke of the moral significance of the situation and the eventual -service<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a>{92}</span> that this trouble might prove to have been. He wished Roland -the very best of luck. He didn’t agree with Mr. Whately about the -impossibility of Oxford, but he appreciated Mr. Whately’s point of view. -After all, Mr. Whately knew his own son better than he did. Was there -anything more Mr. Whately would wish to ask him? He would be always very -glad to give Mr. Whately any advice or help that lay within him. He -hoped Mr. Whately would have a pleasant journey back to town.</p> - -<p>“Dorset’s at its best in June,” he said, as he escorted Mr. Whately to -the door.</p> - -<p>There was an hour to put in before the departure of the London train, -and Roland and his father walked down to the cricket field. They sat on -the grass in the shade of the trees that cluster round the pavilion, and -watched the lazy progress of the various games that were scattered round -the large high-walled ground. It was a pretty sight—the green fields, -the white flannels, the mild sunshine of early summer. It was bitter to -Mr. Whately that he would never again see Fernhurst. For that was what -Roland’s trouble meant to him. And the reflection saddened his last hour -with his son.</p> - -<p>When Roland had left him at the station he walked up and down the -platform in the grip of a deep melancholy. On such an afternoon, five -years ago, he had seen Fernhurst for the first time. He had brought -Roland down to try for a scholarship and they had stayed for three days -together at the Eversham Hotel. Fernhurst had been full of promise for -them then. He had not been to a public school himself. When he was a boy -the public school system had indeed hardly begun to impose its autocracy -on the lower middle classes, and he had always felt himself at a -disadvantage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a>{93}</span> because he had been educated at Burstock Grammar School. -He had been desperately anxious for Roland to make a success of -Fernhurst. He had looked forward to the day when his son would be an -important figure in the school, and when he himself would become -important as Whately’s father. How proud he would feel when he would -walk down to the field in the company of a double-first. He would come -down to “commem” and give a luncheon party at the Eversham Hotel, and -the masters would come and speak to him and congratulate him on his -son’s performance: “A wonderful game of his last week against Tonwich.” -And during the last eighteen months it had indeed seemed that these -dreams were to be realized. Roland had his colors at football, he was in -the Sixth, a certainty for his seconds at cricket: after the summer he -would be a prefect and captain of games in the house. And now it was all -over. As far as he was concerned, Fernhurst was finished. His life would -be empty now without the letter every Monday morning telling of Roland’s -place in form, of his scores during the week, and all the latest news of -a vivid communal life. That was over. And as Mr. Whately mounted the -train, closed the door and sat back against the carriage, he felt as -though he were undergoing an operation; a part of his being was being -wrenched from him.</p> - -<p>Roland felt none of this despondency. After saying good-by to his father -he walked gayly up the Eversham Road. The brown stone of the Abbey tower -was turning to gold in the late sunlight, a cool wind was blowing, the -sky was blue. What did this trouble matter to him? Had he not strength -and faith and time in plenty to repair it? He had wearied of school, he -reminded himself. He had felt caged this last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a>{94}</span> year; he had wanted -freedom; he had outgrown the narrow discipline of the field and -classroom. Next term he would be a man and not a schoolboy. He flung -back his shoulders as though he were ridding them of a burden.</p> - -<p>There was still three-quarters of an hour to put in before lock-up, and -he walked up past the big school towards the hill. He thought he would -like to tell Brewster what had happened. He found him in his study, and -with him an old boy, Gerald Marston, who had been playing against the -school that afternoon.</p> - -<p>“Hullo!” he said. “So here’s the criminal. I’ve just been hearing all -about you. Come along and sit down.”</p> - -<p>Roland was flattered at Marston’s interest in his escapade. He had -hardly known him at all when he had been at Fernhurst. Marston had been -in another house, was two years his senior, and, in addition, a double -first. Probably it was the first time they had even spoken to each -other.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, we’ve been having an exciting time,” laughed Roland.</p> - -<p>“And what’s going to be the end of it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, as far as I can gather, the school will meet without me next -September.”</p> - -<p>“The sack?”</p> - -<p>“Well, hardly that; the embroidered bag.”</p> - -<p>They talked and laughed. Marston was very jolly; he gave himself no -airs, and Roland could hardly realize that three years ago he had been -frightened of him, that when Marston had passed him in the cloister he -had lowered his voice, and as often as not had stopped speaking till he -had gone by.</p> - -<p>“And what’s going to happen to you now?” asked Marston.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a>{95}</span></p> - -<p>“That’s just what I don’t know. My pater talked about my going into a -bank.”</p> - -<p>“But you’d hate that, wouldn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not too keen on it.”</p> - -<p>“Lord, no! I should think not. And there’s no real future in it. You -ought to go into the City. There’s excitement there, and big business. -You don’t want to waste your life like that.”</p> - -<p>It happens sometimes that we meet a person whom we seem to have known -all our life, and by the time the clock began to strike the quarter, -Roland felt that he and Marston were old friends.</p> - -<p>“A good fellow that,” said Marston, after he had gone, “and a bit of a -sport too, by all accounts. I must try and see more of him.”</p> - -<p>And in his study Roland had picked up a calendar and was counting the -days that lay between him and Freedom.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a>{96}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II<br /><br /> -<small>THE RIVAL FORCES</small></h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a>{98}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a>{99}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><br /> -<small>A FORTUNATE MEETING</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>R. WHATELY’S one idea on his return to Hammerton was to hide the fact -that Roland’s sudden leaving was the result of a scandal. He wished the -decision in no way to seem unpremeditated. Two days later, therefore, he -went round to the Curtises’ and prepared the way by a discussion of the -value of university training.</p> - -<p>“Really, you know, Mrs. Curtis,” he said, “I very much doubt whether -Oxford is as useful as we sometimes think it is. What will Roland be -able to do afterwards? If I know Roland he will do precious little work. -He is not very clever; I doubt if he will get into the Civil Service, -and what else is there open to him? Nothing, perhaps, except -schoolmastering, and he would not be much use at that. I am not at all -certain that it is not wiser, on the whole, to take a boy away at about -seventeen or eighteen, send him abroad for a couple of months and then -put him into business.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis was not a little surprised. For a good sixteen years Mr. -Whately had refused to consider the possibility of any education for -Roland other than Fernhurst and Brasenose.</p> - -<p>“But you are not thinking of taking him away from Fernhurst and not -sending him to Brasenose?” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Mrs. Curtis, but I have been thinking that if we could do -things all over again I am not at all sure but that’s not the way I -should have arranged his education.”</p> - -<p>That was the first step.</p> - -<p>A few nights later he came round again, and again talked of the value of -two or three months in France.</p> - -<p>“What does Roland think about it, Mr. Whately?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“As a matter of fact, I only heard from Roland on the subject to-day; he -seems quite keen on it. I just threw it out as a suggestion to him. I -pointed out that most of his friends will have left at the end of the -term, that next year he would be rather lonely, and that there would not -be anything very much for him to do when he came down from Oxford. He -seemed to agree with me.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis, however, was no fool. She had spent the greater part of her -middle age sitting in front of a fire watching life drift past her, and -her one amusement had been the examination of the motives and actions of -her friends.</p> - -<p>“There is something rather curious here,” she said that evening to her -husband. “As long as we have known the Whatelys they have insisted on -the value of public school and university education. Now, quite -suddenly, they have turned round, and they are talking about business -and commerce and the value of French.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Curtis, who was a credulous creature, saw no reason why they should -not change their minds if they wanted to.</p> - -<p>“After all,” he said, “it is quite true that Latin and Greek are of very -little use to anyone in the City.”</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Curtis refused to be convinced.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span></p> - -<p>“I do not care what you say,” she said. “You just wait and see.”</p> - -<p>And, sure enough, within a week Mr. Whately had confessed his intention -of taking Roland away from Fernhurst at the end of the term.</p> - -<p>“And you are going to send him to France?” said Mrs. Curtis.</p> - -<p>“I am not quite certain about that,” he said. “I am going to look round -first to see if I can’t get him a job at once. We both agree that -another year at Fernhurst would be a waste of time.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis smiled pleasantly. As soon as he had gone she expressed -herself forcibly.</p> - -<p>“I do not believe for a moment,” she insisted, “that Mr. Whately has -changed his mind without some pretty strong reason. He was frightfully -anxious to see Roland captain of his house. He was so proud of -everything he did at Fernhurst. There must be a row or something; -unless, of course, he has lost his money.”</p> - -<p>But that idea Mr. Curtis pooh-poohed.</p> - -<p>“My dear Edith,” he said, “that is quite impossible. You know that -Whately’s got a good salaried post in the bank. He has got no private -means to lose and he is not the sort of man to live above his income. It -is certainly not money. I don’t see why a man should not change his mind -if he wants to.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis again refused to be convinced.</p> - -<p>“You wouldn’t,” she said.</p> - -<p>April was of the same opinion. She knew perfectly well that Roland, of -his own free will, would never have agreed to such a plan. There must be -trouble of some sort or other, she said to herself, and Roland instantly -became more interesting in her eyes. She wondered what he had done. Her -knowledge of school<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> life was based mainly upon the stories of Talbot -Baines Reid, and she began to picture some adventure in which he had -taken the blame upon his own shoulders. A friend of his had contracted -liabilities at the Eversham Arms and Roland had become involved; or -perhaps someone had endeavored to steal the papers of a Scholarship -examination and Roland had been falsely accused. She could not imagine -that Roland had himself done anything dishonorable, and she could not be -expected to know the usual cause for which boys are suddenly removed -from their school. Ralph Richmond was the only person who was likely to -know the true story, and to him she went.</p> - -<p>Now, there is in the Latin Grammar a morality contained in an example of -a conditional sentence which runs in the following words: “Even though -they are silent they say enough.” In spite of Ralph’s desperate efforts -to assume ignorance it was quite obvious to April that he knew all about -it, also that it was something that Roland would not want her to know. -She was puzzled and distressed. If there had been no embarrassment -between them during the holidays she would probably have written to -Roland and asked him about it, but under the conditions she felt that -this was impossible.</p> - -<p>“I shall have to wait till he returns,” she said. “Perhaps he will tell -me of his own accord.”</p> - -<p>But when Roland came home he showed not the slightest inclination to -tell her anything. If he were acting a part he was acting it -extraordinarily well. He told her how glad he was that he was leaving -Fernhurst. “One outgrows school,” he said. “It is all right for a bit. -It is great fun when you are a fag and when you are half-way up; but it -is not worth it when you have got responsibilities. And as I went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> there -at thirteen—a year earlier than most people—nearly all my friends will -have left. I should have been very lonely next term. I think I am well -out of it.”</p> - -<p>April reminded him of his eagerness to go to Oxford. That objection, -too, he managed to brush aside.</p> - -<p>“Oxford,” he said; “that is nothing but school over again. It is masters -and work and regulations. I am very glad it is over.”</p> - -<p>For a while she was almost tempted to believe he was telling her the -truth, but as August passed she noticed that Roland seemed less -satisfied with his prospects. He spoke with diminishing enthusiasm of -the freedom of an office. Indeed, whenever she introduced the subject he -changed it quickly.</p> - -<p>“I expect father will find me something decent soon,” he would say, and -began to talk of cricket or of some rag that he remembered.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Whately was not finding it easy to procure a post for his son. -Roland, after all, possessed no special qualifications. He had been in -the Sixth Form of a public school, but he had not been a particularly -brilliant member of it. He had passed no standard examinations. He was -too young for any important competitive work and Mr. Whately had very -few influential friends. Roland began to see before him the prospect of -long days spent in a bank—a dismal prospect. “What will it lead to, -father?” he used to ask, and Mr. Whately had not been able to hold out -very much encouragement.</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose in time if you work well you would become a manager. If -you do anything really brilliant you might be given some post of central -organization.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span></p> - -<p>“But it is not very likely, is it, father?” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“Not very likely; no.”</p> - -<p>The years seemed mapped out before him and he found it difficult to -maintain his pose of complacent satisfaction, so that one evening, when -he felt more than ordinarily depressed, and when the need of sympathy -became irresistible, he found himself telling April the story of his -trouble.</p> - -<p>She listened to him quietly, sitting huddled up in the window-seat, her -knees drawn up towards her, her hands clasped beneath them. She said -nothing for a while after he had finished.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said at last, “that’s the story. You know all about it now.”</p> - -<p>She looked up at him. There was in her eyes neither annoyance nor -repulsion nor contempt, but only interest and sympathy.</p> - -<p>“Why did you do it, Roland?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” he said. And because this happened to be the real -reason, and because he felt it to be inadequate, he searched his memory -for some more plausible account.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” he said. “It seemed to happen this way: Things were -awfully dull at school, and then, during the Christmas holidays, we had -that row. If it hadn’t been for that I think I should have chucked it up -altogether. But you didn’t seem to care for me; it didn’t seem to matter -much either way; and—well one drifts into these things.”</p> - -<p>There was another pause.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t understand, Roland. Do you mean to say if we hadn’t had -that row at Christmas nothing of this would have happened?”</p> - -<p>Because their disagreement had not been without its influence on -Roland’s general attitude towards his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> school romance, and because -Roland was always at the mercy of the immediate influence, and in the -presence of April was unable to think that anything but April could have -influenced him, he mistook the part for the whole, and assured her that -if they had not had that quarrel at the dance he would have given up -Dolly altogether. And because the situation was one they had often met -in plays and stories they accepted it as the truth.</p> - -<p>“It’s all my fault,” she said, “really all my fault.” And turning her -head away from him she allowed her thoughts to travel back to that -ineffectual hour of loneliness and resignation. “I can do nothing, -nothing myself,” she said. “I can only spoil things for other people.”</p> - -<p>At the time Roland was disappointed, but two hours later he decided that -he was, on the whole, relieved that Mrs. Curtis should have chosen that -particular moment to return from her afternoon call. In another moment -he would have been saying things that would have complicated life most -confoundedly. April had been very near tears; he disliked heroics. He -would have had to do something to console her. He would probably have -said to her a great many things that at the time would have seemed to -him true, but which afterwards he would have regretted. He had -sufficient worries of his own already.</p> - -<p>At home life was not made easy for Roland. He received little sympathy. -Ralph told him that he deserved all he had got and had been lucky to get -off so cheaply. His father repeated a number of moral platitudes, the -source of which Roland was able to recognize.</p> - -<p>“After all,” said Mr. Whately, “I have been in a bank all my life; I -have not done badly in it, and you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> with your education and advantages, -should be able to do much better.”</p> - -<p>This was a line of argument which did not appeal to Roland. He was very -fond of his father, but he had always regarded his manner of life as a -fate, at all costs, to be avoided. And though his mother in his presence -endeavored to make him believe that all was for the best in the best of -all possible worlds, when she was alone with her husband she saw only -her son’s point of view.</p> - -<p>“If this is all we have got to offer him,” she said, “all the money and -time we have spent will be wasted. If a desk at a bank is going to be -the end of it, he might just as well have gone to a day school, and all -the extra money we have spent could have been put away for him in a -bank.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Whately reminded her that the change in their plans was due entirely -to Roland.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she said, “that is all very well. But it is a cruel -shame that a boy’s whole life should depend on a thing he does when he -is seventeen years old.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Whately murmured something about it being the way of the world, -adding he himself had been in a bank now for thirty years.</p> - -<p>“Which is the very reason,” said Mrs. Whately, “that I don’t want my son -to go into one”—an argument that did not touch her husband.</p> - -<p>But talk how they might, and whatever philosophic attitude they might -adopt, the practical position remained unchanged. Roland had been -offered a post in a bank, which he could take up at the beginning of -October. Three weeks were left him in which he might try to find -something better for himself; but of this there seemed little prospect.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<p>And as he sat in the free seats at the Oval, on an afternoon of late -September, Roland had to face his position honestly, and own to himself -there was no alternative to the bank.</p> - -<p>He was lonely as he sat there in the mild sunshine watching the white -figures move across the grass. That evening school would be going back -and he would not be with them. It was hard to realize that in four -hours’ time the cloisters would be alive with voices, that feet would be -clattering up and down the study steps, that the eight-fifteen would -have just arrived and the rush to the hall would have begun.</p> - -<p>The play became slow; two professionals were wearing down the bowling. -He began to feel sleepy in the languid atmosphere of this late summer -afternoon. He could not concentrate his attention upon the cricket. He -could think only of himself, and the river that was bearing him without -his knowledge to a country he did not know.</p> - -<p>It was not merely that he had left school, that he had exchanged one -discipline for another; he had altered entirely his mode of life, and -for this new life a new technique would be required. Up till now -everything had been marked out clearly in definite stages; he had been -working in definite lines. It was not merely that the year was divided -into terms, but his career also was so divided. There had been a -gradation in everything. It had been his ambition to get his firsts at -football, and the path was marked out clearly for him—house cap., -seconds, firsts: in form he had wanted to get into the Sixth, and here -again the course had been clear—Fourth, Fifth, Sixth: he had wanted to -become a house prefect; the process was the same—day room table, Lower -Fourth table, Fifth Form table, Sixth Form table. He had known<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> exactly -what he was doing; everything had been made simple for him. His -ambitions had been protected. It was quite different now; nothing was -clearly defined. He would have to spend a certain number of hours a day -in an office. Outside of that office he would be free to do what he -liked. He could choose his own ambition, but as yet he could not decide -what that would be. He was as dazed by the imminence of this freedom as -a mortal man whose world is ordered by the limits of time and space when -confronted suddenly with the problem of infinity. Roland could not come -to terms with a world in which he would not be tethered to one spot by -periods of three months. His reverie was interrupted by a hand that -descended heavily on his shoulder and a voice he recognized, that -addressed him by his name. He turned and saw Gerald Marston standing -behind him.</p> - -<p>“So you are a free man at last,” he said. “How did the rest of the term -go?”</p> - -<p>It was a pleasant surprise; and Roland welcomed the prospect of a cheery -afternoon with a companion who would soon dispel his melancholy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not so badly,” he said. “I lay pretty quiet and saw as little of -Carus Evans as I could.”</p> - -<p>“And how is the amiable Brewster?” asked Marston.</p> - -<p>“He’s all right, I suppose. He won’t have much of a time this year, -though, I should think. He ought to have been captain of the XI., but -they say now he is not responsible enough, and Jenkins, a man he -absolutely hates, is going to run it instead.”</p> - -<p>“So you’re not sorry you have left?”</p> - -<p>Roland shrugged his shoulders.</p> - -<p>“In a way not; if there hadn’t been a row, though, I should have had a -pretty good time this term.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, you can’t have things both ways. What’s going to happen to you -now?”</p> - -<p>With most people Roland would have preferred to pass the matter off with -some casual remark about his father having got him a good job in the -City. He liked sympathy, but was afraid of sympathy when it became pity. -He did not want the acquaintances who, six months ago, had been talking -of him as “that lucky little beast, Whately,” to speak of him now as -“poor old Whately; rotten luck on him; have you heard about it?” But it -is always easier to make a confession to a stranger than to a person -with whom one is brought into daily contact. Marston was a person with -whom he felt intimate, although he knew him so little; and so he found -himself telling Marston about the bank and of the dismal future that -awaited him.</p> - -<p>Marston was highly indignant.</p> - -<p>“What a beastly shame,” he said. “You will simply hate it. Cannot your -father get you something better?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so. He has always lived a very quiet life; he has not got -any influential friends—but really, what’s the good of talking about -it? Something may turn up. Let’s watch the cricket.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, rot, man!” expostulated Marston. “You can’t let the thing drop like -this. After all, my father is rather a big pot in the varnish world; he -may be able to do something.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t know anything about varnish.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t need to, my dear fellow. The less you know about it the -better. All you’ve got to do is to believe that our kind of varnish is -the best.” And as they walked round the ground during the tea interval a -happy idea occurred to Marston.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span></p> - -<p>“I’ve got it,” he said. “We have got a cricket match on Saturday against -the village; we’re quite likely to be a man short; at any rate we can -always play twelve-a-side. You come down and stay the week-end with us. -The pater’s frightfully keen on cricket. If you can manage to make a few -he’s sure to be impressed, and then I’ll tell him all about you. You -will get a pleasant week-end and I expect quite a good game of cricket.”</p> - -<p>Roland naturally accepted this proposal eagerly. He did not, however, -tell his people of the prospect of a job in Marston & Marston, Limited; -he preferred to wait till things were settled one way or another. If he -were to be disappointed, he would prefer to be disappointed alone. He -did not need any sympathy at such a time.</p> - -<p>But when he went round to the Curtises’ April could tell, from the glow -in his face, that he was unusually excited about something. She did not -have a chance to speak to him when he was in the drawing-room. Her -mother talked and talked. Arthur had just gone back to school and she -was garrulous about his outfit.</p> - -<p>“It is so absurd, you know, Mr. Whately,” she said, “the way people say -women care more about clothes than men. There is Arthur to-day; he -insisted on having linen shirts instead of woolen ones, although woolen -shirts are much nicer and much warmer. ‘My dear Arthur,’ I said, ‘no one -can see your shirt; your waistcoat hides most of it and your tie the -rest.’ But he said that all the boys wore linen shirts instead of -flannel. ‘But, my dear Arthur,’ I said, ‘who is going to see what kind -of a shirt you are wearing if it is covered by your waistcoat and tie? -And I can cut your sleeves shorter so that they would not be seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> -beneath your coat.’ And do you know what he said, Mr. Whately? He said, -‘You don’t understand, mother; the boys would see that I was wearing a -flannel shirt when I changed for football, and I would be ragged for -it.’ Well, now, Mr. Whately, isn’t that absurd?”</p> - -<p>She went on talking and talking about every garment she had bought for -her son—his ties, his boots, his socks, his coat.</p> - -<p>Roland hardly talked at all. His father mentioned that he was going down -for the week-end to stay with some friends and take part in a cricket -match.</p> - -<p>“So that is what you are so excited about!” April had interposed. And -Roland had laughed and said that that was it.</p> - -<p>But she would not believe that he could be so excited about a game of -cricket, and in the hall she had pulled him by his coat sleeve.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she had whispered. “Something has happened. It is not only -a cricket match.”</p> - -<p>And because he wanted to share his enthusiasm with someone, and because -April looked so pretty, and because he felt that courage would flow to -him from her faith in him, he confided in her his hope.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that would be lovely,” she said. “I do hope things will turn out -all right. I’ve felt so guilty all along about it; if it hadn’t been for -me none of this would ever have happened.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t worry about that,” said Roland. “Things are beginning to turn -right now.”</p> - -<p>There was no time for further conversation; Mrs. Curtis had completed -her doorstep homily to Mr. Whately. April pressed Roland’s hand eagerly -as she said good-by to him.</p> - -<p>“Good luck!” she whispered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX<br /><br /> -<small>HOGSTEAD</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T was a glorious week, and through Thursday and Friday Roland watched -in nervous anticipation every cloud that crossed the pale blue sky. -Sooner or later the weather must break, he felt; and it would be fatal -for his prospects if it rained now. It is miserable to sit in a pavilion -and watch the wicket slowly become a bog; cheeriness under such -conditions is anti-social. Mr. Marston would be unable to work up any -sympathy for him, and would remember him as “that fellow who came down -for the cricket match that was such a fiasco”—an unfortunate -association.</p> - -<p>Everything went well, however. Roland traveled down on the Friday night, -and as he got out of the train at Hogstead station he saw the spire of -the church black against a green and scarlet sky. “With such a sky it -can hardly be wet to-morrow,” he said.</p> - -<p>The Marstons were a rich family, and it was the first time Roland had -seen anything of the life of really wealthy people. He was met at the -station and was driven up through a long, curving drive to a Georgian -house surrounded by well-kept lawns. Marston received him in a large, -oak-paneled hall, and although at first Roland was a little embarrassed -by the attentions of the footman, who took his hat and coat and bag, -within five minutes he found himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> completely at his ease, sitting in -a deep arm-chair discussing with Mr. Marston the prospects of a certain -young cricketer who had made his first appearance that summer at the -Oval.</p> - -<p>Mr. Marston was a fine healthy man, in the autumn of life. The -enthusiasm of his early years had been spent in a bitter struggle to -build up his business and he had had very little time for amusement. -During the long hours at his desk and the long evenings with ledgers and -account-books piled before him he had looked forward to the days when he -would be able to delegate his authority and spend most of his time in -the country, within the sound of bat and ball. Having had little -coaching he was himself a poor performer; for which reason he was the -more kindly disposed to anyone who showed promise. It was a rule of his -estate that, winter as well as summer, every gardener, groom and servant -should spend ten minutes each morning bowling at the nets. He lived in -the hope that one day an under-gardener would be deemed worthy of -transportation to the county ground.</p> - -<p>“My son tells me you are a great performer,” he said to Roland.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, sir; only very moderate. I did not get into the first XI. at -Fernhurst.”</p> - -<p>“They had an awfully strong XI.,” interposed Marston. “And he had a -blooming good average for the second. Didn’t you make a century against -the town?”</p> - -<p>Roland confessed that he had, but remarked that with such bowling it was -very hard to do anything else.</p> - -<p>“Well, ten other people managed to,” said Marston.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span></p> - -<p>“And a century is a century whoever makes it,” said his father, who had -never made as many as fifty in his life. “You’ve got to make a lot of -good shots to make a hundred.”</p> - -<p>“At any rate,” said Marston, “I don’t mind betting he gets a few -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>And for half an hour they exchanged memories of the greatest of all -games.</p> - -<p>Roland found his evening clothes neatly laid out on his bed when he went -up to change for dinner; and when he came down the whole family was -assembled in the drawing-room. There were Mrs. Marston, a large rather -plump woman of about fifty years old; her daughter Muriel, a small and -pretty girl, with her light hair scattered over her shoulders; and two -or three other members of the next day’s side. There was an intimate -atmosphere of comfort and well-being to which Roland was unaccustomed. -At home they had only one servant, and had to wait a good deal upon -themselves. He enjoyed the silent, unobtrusive methods of the two men -who waited on them. He never needed to ask for anything; as soon as he -had finished his bread another piece was offered him; his glass was -filled as it began to empty; and the conversation was like the -meal—calm, leisured, polished.</p> - -<p>Roland sat next to Muriel and found her a delightful companion. She was -at an age when school and games filled her life completely. She told -Roland of a rag that they had perpetrated on their French mistress, and -he recounted her the exploits of one Foster, who used to dress up at -night, go down to the Eversham Arms, sing songs and afterwards pass -round the hat.</p> - -<p>Roland had his doubts as to the existence of Foster;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> he had become at -Fernhurst one of those mythical creatures which every school -possesses—a fellow who took part in one or two amusing escapades, and -around whose name had accumulated the legends of many generations. His -story was worth telling, none the less.</p> - -<p>After dinner they walked out into the garden, with the chill of the -autumn night in the air. It reminded Roland that his sojourn in that -warmly colored life was only temporary, and that outside it was the -cold, cheerless struggle for existence.</p> - -<p>“It is so ripping this,” he said to Muriel, “and it is so rotten to -think that in a few weeks I shall be sitting down in front of a desk and -adding up figures.” He told her, though she was already acquainted with -the facts, of how he had left Fernhurst at the end of the term, and in a -few weeks would be going into a bank.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how beastly,” she said. “I suppose you will have rotten short -holidays?”</p> - -<p>“A fortnight a year.”</p> - -<p>“I think it is a shame,” she said. “I am sure a boy like you ought to be -leading an open-air life somewhere.”</p> - -<p>And that night, before he fell asleep, Roland thought wistfully of the -company he had met that day. It was marvelous how money smoothed -everything. It was the oil that made the cogs in the social machine -revolve; without it there was no rhythm or harmony, but only a broken, -jarring movement. Without money he felt life must be always in a degree -squalid. He remembered his own home and the numerous worries about small -accounts and small expenses; he knew how it had worn down the energy of -his father. He knew that such worries would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> never touch a girl like -Muriel. How easy and good-natured all these people were; they were -flowers that had been grown in a fertile soil. Everything depended upon -the soil in which one was planted; the finest plants would wither if -they grew far from the sunshine in a damp corner of a field.</p> - -<p>Next day Roland awoke to a world heavy with a dripping golden mist, that -heralded a bright hot day. There had been a heavy dew, and after -breakfast they all walked down to the ground to look at the wicket.</p> - -<p>“If we win the toss to-day, Gerald,” said Mr. Marston to his son, “I -think we had better put them in first. It is bound to play a bit -trickily for the first hour or so.”</p> - -<p>There was no need for such subtlety, however, for the village won the -toss, and, as is the way with villagers, decided to go in first.</p> - -<p>“Good,” said Mr. Marston, “and if we have not got eight of them out by -lunch I shall be very surprised.”</p> - -<p>And, sure enough, eight of the village were out by lunch, but the score -had reached one hundred and five. This was largely due to three erratic -overs that had been sent down by an ecclesiastical student from Wells -who had bowled, perhaps in earnest of future compromise, on the leg -theory, with his field placed upon the off.</p> - -<p>The local butcher had collected some thirty runs off these three overs, -and thirty runs in a village match when the whole score of a side does -not usually reach more than fifty or sixty is a serious consideration.</p> - -<p>At lunch time Mr. Marston was most apologetic. “I had heard he was a -good bowler,” he said to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> Roland, “and I thought it would be a good -thing to give him a chance to bowl early on; and then when I saw him -getting hit all over the place I imagined he was probably angling for a -catch or something; and then after he had been hit about in the first -two overs I had to give him a third for luck.”</p> - -<p>“An expensive courtesy,” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it was; but, after all, a hundred and five is not a great deal, -and we have a good many bats on our side.”</p> - -<p>Within half an hour’s time a hundred and five for eight had become a -hundred and fifty. Under the kindly influence of his excellent champagne -cup Mr. Marston had decided to give the ecclesiastical student another -opportunity of justifying his reputation. He did not redeem that -reputation. He sent down two overs, which resulted—in addition to three -wides and a “no ball”—in twenty-five runs; and a hundred and fifty -would take a lot of getting. Indeed, Mr. Marston’s XI. never looked at -all like getting them.</p> - -<p>Roland, who was sent in first, was caught at short leg in the second -over; it was off a bad ball and a worse stroke—a slow, long hop that he -hit right across, and skied. He was bitterly disappointed. He did not -mind making ducks; it was all in the run of a game, and he never minded -if he was got out by a good ball. But it was hard on such a day to throw -away one’s wicket.</p> - -<p>“Very bad luck indeed,” said Muriel, as he reached the pavilion.</p> - -<p>“Not bad luck, bad play!” he remarked good humoredly. Having taken off -his pads he sat down beside her and watched the game. It was not -particularly exciting; wickets fell with great regularity. Mr. Marston -made a few big hits, and his son stayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> in for a little while without -doing anything much more than keep his end up. In the end the total -reached a hundred and thirteen, and in a one-day match a first innings -result was usually final. But Mr. Marston was not at all despondent. He -refused to wait for the tea interval and led his side straight on to the -field.</p> - -<p>“We don’t want any rest,” he said. “Most of us have rested the whole -afternoon, and those of the other side who are not batting can have -tea.”</p> - -<p>It was now four-thirty; two hours remained before the drawing of stumps, -and from now on the game became really exciting. Marston took two -wickets in his first over, and at the other end a man was run out. Three -wickets were down for two runs; a panic descended upon the villagers. -The cobbler was sent in to join the doctor, with strict instructions not -to hit on any account. The cobbler was not used to passive resistance; -he played carefully for a couple of overs, then a faster ball from -Marston found the edge of the bat. Short slip was for him, -providentially, asleep, and the umpire signaled a four. This seemed to -throw him off his balance.</p> - -<p>“It is no good,” he said. “If I start mucking about like that I don’t -stand the foggiest chance of sticking in. I’m going to have a hit.”</p> - -<p>At the next ball he did have a hit—right across it, and his middle -stump fell flat.</p> - -<p>After this there was no serious attempt to wear down the bowling. Rustic -performers—each with a style more curious than the last—drove length -balls on the off stump in the direction of long on. Wickets fell -quickly. The score rose; and by the time the innings was over only an -hour was left for play, and ninety-two runs were required to -win—ninety-two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> runs against time in a fading light, on a wicket that -had been torn up by hob-nailed boots, was not the easiest of tasks.</p> - -<p>“Still, we must have a shot for it,” Mr. Marston said. “We cannot be -more than beaten, and we are that already.”</p> - -<p>And so Gerald Marston and Roland went in to open the innings with the -firm intention of getting on or getting out.</p> - -<p>The start was sensational. Marston had few pretensions to style; and -indeed his unorthodox, firm-footed drive had been the despair of the -Fernhurst Professional. The ball, when he hit it, went into the air far -more often than along the ground. And probably no one was more surprised -than he was when he hit the first two balls that he received right along -the ground to the boundary, past cover-point. The third ball was well -up; he took a terrific drive at it, missed it, and was very nearly -bowled. Roland, who was backing up closely, called him for a run, and if -surprise at so unparalleled an example of impertinence had not rendered -the wicket-keeper impotent, nothing could have saved him from being run -out. A fever entered into Roland’s brain. He knew quite well that he -ought to play carefully for a few balls to get his eye in, but that -short run had flung him off his balance. The first ball he received he -hit at with a horizontal bat, and it sailed, fortunately for him, over -cover-point’s head for two. He attempted a similar stroke at the next -ball, was less fortunate, and saw cover-point prepare himself for an -apparently easy catch. But there is a kindly Providence which guards the -reckless.</p> - -<p>Cover-point was the doctor, and probably the safest man in the whole -field to whom to send a catch. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> was not, however, proof against the -impetuous ardor of mid-off. Mid-off saw the ball in the air and saw -nothing else. He rushed to where it was about to fall. He arrived at the -spot just when the doctor’s hands were preparing a comfortable nest for -the ball, and the doctor and mid-off fell in a heap together, with the -ball beneath them!</p> - -<p>Twelve runs had been scored in the first five balls; there had been a -possible run out; a catch had been missed at cover-point. It was a -worthy start to a great innings.</p> - -<p>After that everything went right with Roland. He attempted and brought -off some remarkably audacious shots. He let fly at everything that was -at all pitched up to him. Sometimes he hit the ball in the center of the -bat, and it sailed far into the long field, but even his mishits were -powerful enough to lift the ball out of reach of the instanding -fieldsman; and fortune was kind. By the time Marston was caught at the -wicket the score had reached fifty-seven, and there were still -twenty-five minutes left for play. At the present rate of scoring there -would be no difficulty in getting the runs. At this point, however, a -misfortune befell them.</p> - -<p>In the first innings the ecclesiastical student had made a duck; he had -not, indeed, received a single ball. His predecessor had been bowled by -the last ball of an over, and off the first ball of the next over the -man at the other end had called him for an impossible run and he had -been run out. To recompense him for this ill luck Mr. Marston had put -him in first wicket down. “After all,” he had said, “we ought to let the -man have a show, and if he does make a duck it won’t make any -difference.” He was not prepared, however, for what did occur. The -ecclesiastical<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> student was a left-handed batsman, and a sigh of relief -seemed to go up from the fielding side at the revelation. They were -sportsmen; they were prepared to run across in the middle of the over; -but even so, the preparation of a field for a left-hander was a lengthy -business.</p> - -<p>A gray gloom descended on the pavilion.</p> - -<p>“Well, I declare!” said Mr. Marston. “First of all he bowls on the leg -theory, with his field placed on the off, and then at a moment like this -he doesn’t let us know that he’s a left-hander!”</p> - -<p>And the prospective divine appeared to be quite unconscious of the -situation. He had come out to enjoy himself; so far he had not enjoyed -himself greatly. He had taken no wickets, and had been responsible for -the loss of some fifty runs. This was his last chance, and he was not -going to hurry himself. He played his first three balls carefully, and -placed the last ball of the over in front of short leg for a single. -During the next four overs only eight runs were scored; four of these -were from carefully placed singles, off the fifth and sixth balls in the -over. Roland only had three balls altogether, and off one of these he -managed to get a square leg boundary.</p> - -<p>The total had now reached sixty-five, twenty-eight runs were still -wanted, and only a quarter of an hour remained. Unless the left-hander -were got out at once there seemed to be no chance of winning; this fact -the village appreciated.</p> - -<p>One would not say, of course, that the bowlers did not do their best to -dismiss the ecclesiastical student; they were conscientious men. But it -is very hard to bowl one’s best if one knows that one’s success will be -to the eventual disadvantage of one’s side; a certain limpness is bound -to creep into the attack. And if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> Roland had received the balls that -were being sent down to his partner, there is little doubt that a couple -of overs would have seen the end of the match.</p> - -<p>Roland realized that something desperate must be done. Either the -left-hander must get out, or he himself must get down to the other end; -and so off the first ball of the next over Roland backed up closely. He -was halfway down the pitch by the time the ball reached the batsman. It -was a straight half-volley, which was met with a motionless, if -perpendicular, bat. The ball trickled into the hands of mid-off.</p> - -<p>“Come on!” yelled Roland.</p> - -<p>It was an impossible run, and the left-hander stood, in startled dismay, -a few steps outside the crease.</p> - -<p>“Run!” yelled Roland. His partner ran a few steps, saw the ball was in -the hands of mid-off, and prepared to walk back to the pavilion. -Mid-off, however, was in a highly electric state. He had already -imperiled severely the prospects of his side by colliding with -cover-point, and was resolved, at any rate, not to make a second -blunder. He had the ball in his hands. There was a chance of running a -batsman out; he must get the ball to the unprotected wicket as soon as -possible, and so, taking careful aim, he flung the ball at the wicket -with the greatest possible violence. It missed the wicket; and a student -of the score book would infer that, after having played himself in -carefully and scoring four singles, F. R. Armitage opened his shoulders -in fine form. He might very well remain in this illusion, for there is -no further entry in the score book against that gentleman’s name. There -are just four singles and a five. He did not receive another ball.</p> - -<p>Off the next four balls of the over Roland hit two fours and a two; off -the last ball he got another dangerously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> close single. Only ten more -runs were needed: there was now ample time in which to get them. Roland -got them indeed off the first four balls of the next over.</p> - -<p>At the end of the match there was a scene of real enthusiasm, in which -Mr. Armitage was the only person who took no part. He was still -wondering what had induced Roland to call him for those absurd singles. -He indeed took Mr. Marston aside after dinner and pointed out to him -that that young man should really be given a few lessons in backing up.</p> - -<p>“My dear sir,” he said, “it was only the merest fluke that saved my -wicket—another inch and I should have been run out.”</p> - -<p>“Well, he managed to win the match for us,” replied Mr. Marston.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps, perhaps, but he nearly ran me out.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Armitage was, however, the only one of the party at all alarmed by -Roland’s daring. That evening Roland was a small hero. Mr. Marston could -find no words too good for him.</p> - -<p>“A splendid fellow,” he said to Gerald afterwards. “A really splendid -fellow—the sort of friend I have always wanted you to make—a -first-class, open, straight fellow.”</p> - -<p>Marston thought this a good opportunity to drop a hint about Roland’s -position.</p> - -<p>“Yes—a first-class fellow,” he said. “Isn’t it rotten to think a chap -like that will have to spend the whole of his life in a bank, with only -a fortnight’s holiday a year, and no chance at all to develop his game!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Marston’s rubicund face expressed appropriate disapproval.</p> - -<p>“That fellow going to spend all his life in a bank?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> Preposterous! He -will be simply ruined there—a fellow who can play cricket like that!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Marston, having spent his own life at a desk, was anxious to save -anyone else from a similar fate, especially a cricketer.</p> - -<p>“Well, it seems the only thing for him to do, father; his people haven’t -got much money and have no influence. I know they have tried to get him -something better, but they haven’t been able to.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Gerald, why didn’t you tell me about it? If I had known a -fellow like that was being tied up in a bank I’d have tried to do -something to help him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s not too late now, is it?”</p> - -<p>“No, but it’s rather short notice, isn’t it? What could he do?”</p> - -<p>“Pretty well anything you could give him, father. He is jolly keen.”</p> - -<p>“Um!” said Mr. Marston; and Gerald, who knew his father well, recognized -that he was about to immerse himself in deep thought, and that it would -be wiser to leave him alone.</p> - -<p>By next morning the deep thought had crystallized into an idea.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Gerald,” said Mr. Marston. “I don’t know what this young man -is worth to me from a business point of view—probably precious little -at present. But he is a good fellow, the sort of young chap we really -want in the business. None of us are any younger than we were. As far as -I know, you are the only person under thirty in the whole show. Now, -what we do want badly just now are a few more foreign connections. We -have got the English market pretty well, but that is not enough. We want -the French and Belgian and German markets, and later on we shall want -the South American markets. Now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> what I suggest is this: that when you -go out to France in November you should take young Whately with you, -show him round, and see what he is worth generally; and then we will -send him off on a tour of his own and see how many clients he brings us. -He is just the sort of fellow I want for that job. We don’t want the -commercial traveler type at all; he is very good at small accounts, but -he does not do for the big financiers. I want a man who is good enough -to mix in society abroad—whom big men like Bertram can ask to their -houses. A man like that would always have a pull over a purely business -man. Now, if your young friend would care to have a shot at that, he -can; and if he makes good at it he will be making more at twenty-five -with us than he would be at a bank by the time he was fifty.”</p> - -<p>Marston carried the news at once to Roland.</p> - -<p>“My lad,” he said, “that innings of yours is about the most useful thing -that has ever happened to you in your life. The old man thinks so much -of you he is prepared to cut me out of his will almost; at any rate, as -far as I can make out, he is going to offer you a job in our business.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“You will have to fix it up with him, of course, but he suggested to me -that you and I should go out together to France in November, and you -will be able to see the sort of way we do things, and then he will give -you a shot on your own as representative. If you do well at it—well, my -lad, you will be pretty well made for life!”</p> - -<p>It was wonderful news for Roland. Life, at the very moment when it had -appeared to be closing in on him, had marvelously broadened out. He -returned home on the Monday morning, not only excited by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> the prospect -of a new and attractive job, but moved irresistibly by this sudden -vision of a world to which he was unaccustomed—by the charm, the -elegance and the direct good-naturedness of this family life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X<br /><br /> -<small>YOUNG LOVE</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>OLAND said nothing to his people of Mr. Marston’s conversation with -Gerald. He disliked scenes and an atmosphere of expectation. When -everything was settled finally he would tell them, but he would not risk -the exposure of his hope to the chill of disappointment. He could not, -however, resist the temptation to confide in April. She was young; she -could share his failures as his successes. Life was before them both.</p> - -<p>No sooner had he turned the corner of the road than he saw the door of -the Curtises’ house open. April was in the porch waiting for him. “She -must have been looking for me,” he thought. “Sitting in the window-seat, -hoping that I would come.” His pride as well as his affection was -touched by this clear proof of her interest in him.</p> - -<p>“Well?” she said.</p> - -<p>“I made a duck,” he answered; and his vanity noted that her brown eyes -clouded suddenly with disappointment. “But that was only in the first -innings,” he added.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you pig!” she said, “and I thought that after all it had come to -nothing.”</p> - -<p>Roland laughed at the quick change to relief.</p> - -<p>“But how do you know that I did do anything in the second innings?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span></p> - -<p>“You must have.”</p> - -<p>“But why?”</p> - -<p>“ ‘Cos—oh, I don’t know. It’s not fair to tease me, Roland; tell me what -happened.” They had passed into the hall, shutting the door behind them, -and she pulled impatiently at his sleeve: “Come on, tell me.”</p> - -<p>“Well, as a matter of fact, I made forty-eight not out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how ripping, how ripping! Come and tell me all about it,” and -catching him by the hand she led him to the window-seat, from which, on -that miserable afternoon, she had gazed for over an hour down the -darkening street. “Come on, tell me everything.”</p> - -<p>And though he at first endeavored to assume an attitude of superior -indifference, he soon found himself telling the story of the match -eagerly, dramatically. Reticence was well enough in the presence of the -old and middle-aged—parents, relatives and schoolmasters—for all those -who had put behind them the thrill of wakening confidence and were -prepared to patronize it in others, from whose scrutiny the young had to -protect their emotions with the shield of “it is no matter.” But April’s -enthusiasm was fresh, unquestioning and freely given; he could not but -respond to it.</p> - -<p>She listened to the story with alert, admiring eyes. “And were they -awfully pleased with you?” she said when he had finished.</p> - -<p>“Well, it was pretty exciting.”</p> - -<p>“And did Mr. Marston say anything to you?”</p> - -<p>“Rather! Quite a lot. He was more excited than anyone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, but I didn’t mean the cricket. Did he say anything about the -business?”</p> - -<p>Roland nodded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, but, Roland, what?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m not quite certain what, but I think he’s going to let me have -a shot at some sort of foreign representative affair.”</p> - -<p>“But, how splendid!” She felt that she shared, in a measure, in his -success. It was in her that he had confided his hopes; it was to her -that he had brought the news of his good fortune. Her face was flushed -and eager, its expression softened by her faith in him. And Roland who, -up till then, had regarded her as little more than a friend, her charm -as a delicate, elusive fragrance, was unprepared for this simple joy in -his achievement. The surprise placed in his mouth ardent, unconsidered -words.</p> - -<p>“But I shouldn’t have been able to do anything without you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” she asked, feeling herself grow nervous, taut, -expectant.</p> - -<p>“You encouraged me when I was depressed,” he said. “You believed in me. -You told me that things would come right. And because of your belief -they have come right. If it hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t have -worried; I should have resigned myself to the bank. As likely as not I -shouldn’t have gone down to the Marstons’ at all. It’s all you.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause. And when at last she spoke, the intonation of her -voice was tender.</p> - -<p>“Is that true, Roland, really true?”</p> - -<p>And as she looked at him, with her clear brown eyes, he believed -implicitly that it was true. He was not play-acting. His whole being was -softened and made tender by her beauty, by the sight of her calm, oval -face and quiet color, her hair swept in a wide curve across her -forehead, gathered under the smooth skin of her neck. His manhood grew -strong through her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> belief in him. She was the key that would open for -him the gate of adventure. He leaned forward, took her hands in his, and -the touch of her fingers brought to his lips an immediate avowal.</p> - -<p>“It’s quite true, April, every word of it. I shouldn’t have done -anything but for you.” Her brown eyes clouded with a mute gratitude. -Gently he drew her by the hand towards him, and she made no effort to -resist him. “April,” he murmured, “April.”</p> - -<p>It was the first real kiss of his life. His mouth did not meet hers as -it had met Dolly’s, in a hungry fierceness; he did not hold her in his -arms as he had held Dolly; did not press her to him till she was forced, -as Dolly had been, to fling her head back and gasp for breath. For an -instant April’s cheek was against his and his mouth touched hers: -nothing more. But in that cool contact of her lips he found for the -first time the romance, poetry, ecstasy, and what you will, of love. And -when his arms released her and she leaned back, her hand in his, a deep -tenderness remained with them. He said nothing. There was no need for -words. They sat silent in face of the mystery they had discovered.</p> - -<p>Roland walked home in harmony with himself, with nature; one with the -rhythm of life that was made manifest in the changing seasons of the -year; the green leaf and the bud; the flower and the fruit; the warm -days of harvesting. Hammerton was stretched languid beneath the -September sunshine. The sky was blue, a pale blue, that whitened where -it was cut by the sharp outline of roof and chimney-stack. The leaves -that had been fresh and green in May, but had grown dull in the heat and -dust of summer, were once more beautiful. The dirty green had changed to -a shriveled, metallic copper. A few mornings of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> golden mist would break -into a day of sultry splendor; then would come the first warning of -frost—the chill air at sundown, the gray dawn that held no promise of -sunshine. Oh, soon enough the boughs would be leafless, the streets bare -and wintersome. But who could be sad on this day of suspended decadence, -this afternoon laden with the heavy autumn scents? Were not the year’s -decay, the lengthening evenings, part of the eternal law of -nature—birth and death, spring and winter, and an awakening after -sleep? The falling leaves suggested to him no analogy with the elusive -enchantments of the senses.</p> - -<p>Two days later he received a letter from Mr. Marston offering him a post -of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, with all expenses found.</p> - -<p>“You will understand, of course,” the letter ran, “that at present you -are on probation. Our work is personal and requires special gifts. These -gifts, however, I believe you to possess. For both our sakes I hope that -you will make a success of this. Gerald is sailing for Brussels at the -end of October, and I expect that you will be able to arrange to -accompany him. He will tell you what you will need to take out with you. -We usually make our representatives an allowance of fifteen pounds for -personal expenses, but I daresay that we could in your case, if it is -necessary, increase this sum.”</p> - -<p>Roland handed the letter to his father.</p> - -<p>Mr. Whately, as usual in the morning, was in a state of nervous -excitement. He was always a considerable trial to his family at -breakfast. And as often as possible Roland delayed his own appearance -till he had heard the slam of the front door. It is not easy to enjoy a -meal when someone is bouncing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> from table to sideboard, reading extracts -from the morning paper, opening letters, running up and down stairs, -forgetting things in the hall. Mr. Whately had never been able to face -the first hour of the morning with dignity and composure. When Roland -handed him Mr. Marston’s letter he received it with the impatience of a -busy man, who objects to being worried by an absurd trifle.</p> - -<p>“Yes, what is it? What is it?”</p> - -<p>“A letter from Mr. Marston, father, that I thought you might like to -read.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, of course; well, wait a minute,” and he projected himself out -of the door and up the stairs. He returned to the table within a minute, -panting and flustered.</p> - -<p>“Yes; now what’s the time? Twenty-five past eight. I’ve got seven -minutes. Where’s this letter of yours, Roland? Let me see.”</p> - -<p>He picked up the letter and began to read it as he helped himself to -another rasher of bacon. His agitation increased as he read.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t understand,” he said impatiently. “What’s all this about -Mr. Marston offering you a post in his business?”</p> - -<p>“What’s that, dear?” said Mrs. Whately quickly. “Isn’t Roland going into -the bank after all?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course he is going into the bank,” her husband replied hastily. -“It’s all settled. Don’t interrupt me, Roland. I can’t understand what -you’ve been doing!”</p> - -<p>And he flung the back of his hand against his forehead, a favorite -gesture when the pressure of the conversation grew intense.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what it’s all about, Roland,” he continued. “I don’t know -anything about this man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> Who he is, and what he is. And I don’t know -why you’ve been arranging all these things behind my back.”</p> - -<p>Roland expressed surprise that his father had not welcomed the offer of -so promising a post. But Mr. Whately was too flustered to consider the -matter in this light. “It may be a better job,” he said, “I don’t know. -But the bank has been settled and I can’t think why you should want to -alter things. At any rate, I can’t stop to discuss it now,” and a minute -later the front door had banged behind a querulous, irritable little -man, who considered no one had any right to disturb—especially at the -breakfast table—the placid course of his existence. As he left the room -he flung the letter upon the table, and Mrs. Whately snatched it up -eagerly. Roland watched carefully the expression of her face as she read -it. At first he noted there only a relieved happiness, but as she folded -the letter and handed it back he saw that she was sad.</p> - -<p>“Of course it’s splendid, Roland,” she said. “I’m delighted, but.... Oh, -well, I do think you might have told us something about it before.”</p> - -<p>“I wanted to, mother, but one doesn’t like to shout till one’s out of -the wood.”</p> - -<p>“With friends, no, but with one’s parents—surely you might have -confided in us.”</p> - -<p>There was no such implied disapproval in April’s reception of the news. -He had not seen her since the afternoon when he had kissed her, and he -had wondered in what spirit she would receive him. Would there be -awkward stammered explanations? Would she be coy and protest “that she -had been silly, that she had not meant it, that it must never happen -again?” He had little previous experience to guide<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> him and he was still -debating the point when he arrived at No. 73 Hammerton Rise.</p> - -<p>What April Curtis did was to open the door for him, close it quickly -behind him as soon as he was in the porch, take him happily by both -hands and hold her face up to be kissed. There was not the least -embarrassment in her action.</p> - -<p>“Well?” she said, on a note of interrogation.</p> - -<p>For answer he put his hand into his pocket, drew out Mr. Marston’s -letter and gave it to her.</p> - -<p>April pulled it out of the envelope, hurriedly unfolded it, and ran an -engrossed eye over its contents.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but how splendid, Roland; now it’s all right. Now there’s no need -to worry about anything. Come at once and tell mother. Mother, mother!” -she shouted, and catching Roland by the hand dragged him after her -towards the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis had, through the laborious passage of fifty-two uneventful -years, so trained her face to assume on all occasions an expression of -pleasant sentimental interest in the affairs of others that by now her -features could not be arranged to accommodate any other emotion. She -appeared therefore unastonished when her name was called loudly in the -hall, when the drawing-room door was flung open and a flushed, excited -April stood in the doorway grasping by the hand an equally flushed but -embarrassed Roland. Mrs. Curtis laid her knitting in her lap; a kindly -smile spread over her glazed countenance.</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, and what’s all this about?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s so exciting, mother. Roland’s not going into a bank after -all.”</p> - -<p>“No, dear?”</p> - -<p>“No, mother. A Mr. Marston, you know the man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> whom Roland went to stay -with last week, has offered him a post in his firm. It’s a lovely job. -He’ll be traveling all over the world and he’s going to get a salary; of -how much is it—yes, a hundred and fifty pounds a year and all expenses -paid. Isn’t it splendid?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis purred with reciprocated pleasure: “Of course it is, and how -pleased your parents must be. Come and sit down here; yes, shut the -door, please. You know I always said to Mr. Whately, ‘Roland is going to -do something big; I’m sure of it.’ And now you see my prophecy has come -true. I shall remind Mr. Whately of that next time he comes round to see -me, and I shall remind him, too, that I said exactly the same thing -about Arthur. ‘Mr. Whately,’ I said,” and her voice trailed off into -reminiscences.</p> - -<p>But though Mrs. Curtis was in many—and indeed in most—ways a -troublesome old fool, she was not unobservant. She knew that a young -girl does not rush into a drawing-room dragging a young man by the hand -simply because that young man has obtained a lucrative post in a varnish -factory. There must be some other cause for so vigorous an ebullition. -And as Mrs. Curtis’s speculation was unvexed by the complexities of -Austrian psychology, she assumed that Roland and April had fallen in -love with each other. She was not surprised. She had indeed often -wondered why they had not done so before. April was such a dear girl, -and Roland could be trained into a highly sympathetic son-in-law. He -listened to her conversation with respect and interest, whereas Ralph -Richmond insisted on interrupting her. Roland would make April a good -husband. Certainly she had been temporarily disquieted by Mr. Whately’s -sudden decision to remove his son from school; but no doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> he had had -this post in his mind’s eye and had not wished to speak of it till -everything had been fixed.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis’s reverie traversed into an agreeable future; she pictured -the wedding at St. Giles; they would have the full choir. There would be -a reception afterwards at the Town Hall. April would look so pretty in -orange blossom. Arthur would be the best man. He would stand beside the -bridegroom, erect and handsome. “What fine children you have, Mrs. -Curtis!” That’s what everyone would say to her. It would be the -prettiest wedding there had ever been at St. Giles.... She collected -herself with a start. She must not be premature. Nothing was settled -yet; they were not even engaged. And of course they could not be engaged -yet: They were too absurdly young. Everyone would laugh at her. Still, -there might be an understanding. An understanding was first cousin to an -engagement; it bound both parties. And then April and Roland would be -allowed to go about together. It would be so nice for them.</p> - -<p>When Roland had gone, she fixed on her daughter a deep, questioning -look, under which April began to grow uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“Well, mother?” she said.</p> - -<p>“You like Roland very much, don’t you, dear?”</p> - -<p>“We’re great friends.”</p> - -<p>“Only friends?”</p> - -<p>April did not answer, and her mother repeated her question. “But you’re -more than friends, aren’t you?” But April was still silent. Mrs. Curtis -leaned forward and took April’s hand, lifted for a moment out of her -vain complacency by the recollection of herself as she had been a -quarter of a century ago, like April, with life in front of her. Through -placid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> waters she had come to a safe anchorage, and she wondered -whether for April the cruise would be as fortunate, the hand at the helm -as steady. Her husband had risked little, but Roland would scarcely be -satisfied with safe travel beneath the cliffs. Would April be happier or -less happy than she had been? Which was the better—blue skies, calm -water, gently throbbing engines, or the pitch and toss and crash of -heavy seas?</p> - -<p>“Are you very fond of him, dear?” she whispered.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mother.”</p> - -<p>“And he’s fond of you?”</p> - -<p>“I think so, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Has he told you so, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, stung her, welled, fell upon -her cheek, and this welcome relief recalled her to what she considered -the necessities of the moment.</p> - -<p>“Of course I shall have to speak to the Whatelys about it.”</p> - -<p>A shocked, surprised expression came into April’s face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but why, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Because, my dear, they may have other plans for Roland.”</p> - -<p>“But ... oh, mother, dear, there’s no talk of engagements or anything; -we’ve just ... oh, why can’t we go on as we are?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis was firm.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear,” she said, “it would be fair neither to you nor to them. -It’s not only you and Roland that have to be considered. It’s your -father and myself and Mr. and Mrs. Whately. We shall have to talk it -over together.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span></p> - -<p>And so when Roland returned that evening from an afternoon with Ralph he -found his father and mother sitting in the drawing-room with Mrs. -Curtis.</p> - -<p>“Ah, here’s Roland,” said Mrs. Curtis. “Come along, Roland, we’ve just -been talking about you.”</p> - -<p>Roland entered and sat on the chair nearest him. He looked from one to -the other, and each in turn smiled at him reassuringly; their smile -said, “Now don’t be nervous. We mean you well. You’ve only got to agree -to our conditions and we’ll be ever so nice to you.” In the same way, -Roland reflected, the Spanish Inquisitors had recommended conversion to -the faith with a smile upon their lips, while from the adjoining room -sounds came that the impenitents would be wise to associate with -furnaces and screws and pliant steel.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Roland,” said Mr. Whately, “we’ve been talking about you and -April.”</p> - -<p>“Damn!” said Roland to himself. It was like that ridiculous Dolly affair -all over again. It was useless, of course, to be flustered. He was -growing accustomed to this sort of scene. He supposed that April had got -frightened and told her mother, or perhaps the maidservant had seen them -kissing in the porch. In any case it was not very serious. They would -probably forbid him to see April alone. It would be rather rotten; but -the world was wide. In a few weeks’ time he would be going abroad; he -could free himself of these entanglements, and when he returned he would -decide what he should do. He would be economically independent. In the -meantime let them talk. He settled himself back in his chair and -prepared to hear at least, with patience, whatever they might have to -say to him. What they did have to say came to him as a surprise.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span></p> - -<p>“I was talking to April about it this morning,” said Mrs. Curtis. “Of -course I’ve noticed it for a long time. A mother can’t help seeing these -things. Several times I’ve said to my husband: ‘Father, dear, haven’t -you noticed that Roland and April are becoming very interested in each -other?’ and he’s agreed with me. Though I haven’t liked to say anything. -But then this morning it was so very plain, wasn’t it?” She paused and -smiled. And Roland feeling that an answer was expected of him, said that -he supposed it was.</p> - -<p>“Yes, really quite clear, and so afterwards I had a talk with my little -April and she told me all about it. And, of course, we’re all of us very -pleased that you should be fond of one another, but you must realize -that at present you’re much too young for there to be any talk of -marriage.”</p> - -<p>“But ...” Roland began.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know that you’ve got a good post in this varnish factory; but as -I was saying to Mr. Whately before you came, you’re only on probation, -and it’s a job that means a lot of traveling and expense that you -wouldn’t be able to afford if you were a married man or were even -contemplating matrimony.”</p> - -<p>“But ...” Roland began again, and again Mrs. Curtis stopped him.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know what you’re thinking; you say that you are content to wait; -that four years, five years, six years—it’s nothing to you, that you -want to be engaged now. I can quite understand it. We all can. We’ve all -been young, but I’m quite certain that....”</p> - -<p>Roland could not believe that it was real, that he was sitting in a real -room, that a real woman was talking, a real scene was in the process of -enaction.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> He listened in a stupefied amazement. What, after all, had -happened? He had kissed April three times. She had asked no vows and he -had given none. They were lovers he supposed, but they were boy and girl -lovers. The romances of the nursery should not be taken seriously. By -holding April’s hand and kissing her had he decided the course of both -their lives? What were they about, these three solemn people, with their -talk of marriage and engagements?</p> - -<p>“But you don’t understand,” he began.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, we do,” Mrs. Curtis interrupted. “We old people know more than -you think.”</p> - -<p>And she began to speak in her droning, mellifluous voice of the sanctity -of love and of the good fortune that had led him so early to his -affinity. And then all three of them began to speak together, and their -words beat like hammers upon Roland’s head, till he did not know where -he was, nor what they were saying to him. “It can’t be real,” he told -himself. “It’s preposterous. People don’t behave like this in real -life.” And when his mother came across and kissed him on the forehead -and said, “We’re all so happy, Roland,” he employed every desperate -device to recall himself to reality that he was accustomed to use when -involved in a nightmare. He fixed his thoughts upon one issue, focused -all his powers on that one point: “I will wake up. I will wake up.”</p> - -<p>And even when it was all over, and he was in his bedroom standing before -the looking-glass to arrange his tie, he could not believe that it had -really happened. It was impossible that grown-up people should be so -foolish. He could understand that Mrs. Curtis should be annoyed at his -attentions to her daughter. He had been prepared for that. If she had -said, “Roland, you’re both of you too old for that. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> was well enough -when you were both children, but it won’t do now; April is growing up,” -he could have appreciated her point of view. Perhaps they were too old -for the love-making of childhood. But that she should take up the -attitude that they were too young for the serious matrimonial -entanglements of man and womanhood! It was beyond the expectation of any -sane intelligence.</p> - -<p>In a way he could not help feeling annoyed with April. If she had not -told her mother nothing would have happened.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but how silly,” she said, when he told her about it next day. “I do -wish I had been there. It must have been awfully funny!”</p> - -<p>Roland had not considered it in that light and hastened to tell her so.</p> - -<p>“I felt a most appalling fool. It was beastly. I can’t think why you -told your mother anything about it.”</p> - -<p>She looked up quickly, surprised by the note of impatience in his voice.</p> - -<p>“But, Roland, dear, what else could I do? She asked me and I couldn’t -tell a lie. Could I?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Roland. And he began to walk backwards and -forwards, up and down the room. “I suppose you couldn’t help it, but.... -Oh, well, what did you say to her?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing much. She asked me.... Oh, but, Roland, do sit down,” she -pleaded. “I can’t talk when you’re walking up and down the room.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” said Roland, sitting down. “Go on.”</p> - -<p>“Well, she asked me if I liked you and I said that we were great -friends, and then she asked if we weren’t more than friends.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes, I know,” said Roland, rising impatiently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> from his chair -and walking across the room. “Of course you said we were, and that I had -been making love to you, and that—oh, but what’s the good of going on -with it? I know what she said and what you said, and the whole thing was -out in three minutes, and then your mother comes round to my mother and -they talk and they talk, and that’s how all the trouble in the world -begins.”</p> - -<p>While he was actually speaking he was sustained by the white heat of his -impatience, but the moment he had stopped he was bitterly ashamed of -himself. What had he done? What had he said? And April’s silence -accentuated his shame. She neither turned angrily upon him nor burst -into tears. She sat quietly, her hands clasped in front of her knees, -looking at the floor.</p> - -<p>After a while she rose and walked across to the window. Her back was -turned to him. He felt that he must do something to shatter the poignant -silence. He drew close to her and touched her hand with his, but she -drew her hand away quietly, without haste or anger.</p> - -<p>“April,” he began, “I’m....”</p> - -<p>But she stopped him. “Don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything.”</p> - -<p>“But I must, April. I’ve been a beast. I didn’t mean it.”</p> - -<p>“It’s quite all right. I’ve been very foolish. There’s nothing more to -be said.”</p> - -<p>Her voice was calm and level. She kept her back turned to him, distant -and unapproachable. He did not know what to do nor what to say. He had -been a beast to her. He knew it. And because he had wronged her, because -she had made him feel ashamed of himself, he was angry with her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, very well then,” he said. “If you won’t talk to me, I’m going -home.”</p> - -<p>He turned and walked out of the room. In the porch he waited for a -moment, thinking that she would call after him. But no sound came from -the drawing-room, not even the rustle of clothes, that might have -indicated the change of her position. “Oh, well,” he said, “if she’s -going to sulk, let her sulk,” and he walked out of the house.</p> - -<p>For the rest of the day he endured the humiliating discomfort of -contrition. He was honest with himself. He made no attempt to excuse his -behavior. There was no excuse for it. He had behaved like a cad. There -was only one thing to do and that was to grovel as soon as possible. It -would be an undignified proceeding, but he was quite ready to do it, if -he could be certain that the performance would be accepted in the right -spirit. It was not easy to grovel before a person who turned her back on -you, looked out of the window and refused to listen to what you had to -say.</p> - -<p>When evening came he decided that he might do worse than make a -reconnaissance of the enemy’s country under the guidance of an armed -escort—in other words, that if he paid a visit to the Curtises’ with -his father he would be able to see April without having the -embarrassment of a private talk forced on him.</p> - -<p>And so when Mr. Whately returned from the office he found his son -waiting to take him for a walk.</p> - -<p>“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I never expected to find you here. -I thought you would be spending all your time with April now.”</p> - -<p>Roland laughed.</p> - -<p>“Well, as a matter of fact,” he said, “I thought we might go round and -see the Curtises together.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<p>“And you thought you wanted a chaperon?”</p> - -<p>“Hardly that.”</p> - -<p>“But you felt shy of facing the old woman?”</p> - -<p>“That’s more like it.”</p> - -<p>“All right, then, we’ll tackle her together.”</p> - -<p>Roland was certain, when they arrived, that the idea of employing his -father as a shield was in the nature of an inspiration. April received -him without a smile; she did not even shake hands with him. Fortunately, -in the effusion of Mrs. Curtis’s welcome, this omission was not noticed.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad you have come, both of you. April told me, Roland, that you -had been round to see her this morning, and I must say I began to feel -afraid that I should never see you again. I thought you would only want -to come round when you could have April all to yourself. It would have -been such a disappointment to me if you had; I should have so missed our -little evening talks. As I was saying to my husband only yesterday, ‘I -don’t know what we should do without the Whatelys,’ and he agreed with -me. You know, Mr. Whately, there are some people whom we quite like, but -whom we shouldn’t miss in the least if they went away and we never saw -them again, and there are others who would leave a real gap. It’s funny, -isn’t it? And it’s so nice, now, to think that Roland and April—though -we mustn’t talk like that, must we, or they’ll begin to think they’re -engaged. And we couldn’t allow that, could we, Mr. Whately?”</p> - -<p>His body rattled with a deep chuckle. Out of the corner of his eye -Roland flung a glance at April, to see what effect this wind of words -was having on her, but her face was turned from him.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis then proceeded to speak of Arthur and of the letter she had -received from him by the evening<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> post. “He says—now what is it that he -says? Ah, yes, here it is; he says, ‘As I am too old for the Junior -games, I have been moved into the Senior League.’ Now that’s very -satisfactory, isn’t it, Mr. Whately, that he should be in the Senior -League? I always said he would be good at games, and April too, Mr. -Whately; she would have been very good at games if she had played them. -When they used to play cricket in the nursery she used to hit at the -ball so well, with her arms, you know. She would have been very good, -but she hasn’t had the time and they don’t go in for games very much at -St. Stephen’s. Now what do you think of that new frock of hers? I got it -so cheap—you can’t think how cheaply I got it. And then I got Miss -Smithers to make it up for her, and April looks so pretty in it; don’t -you think so, Mr. Whately?”</p> - -<p>“Charming, of course, Mrs. Curtis, absolutely charming!”</p> - -<p>“I thought you’d like it. And I’m sure Roland does too, though he would -be too shy to own to it. You know, Mr. Whately, I felt like telling her -when she put it on that Roland would have to be very careful or he would -find a lot of rivals when he came back from Brussels.”</p> - -<p>It was more than April could bear. She had endured a great deal that day -and this was the final ignominy.</p> - -<p>“How can you, mother?” she said. “How can you?” and jumping to her feet, -she ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.</p> - -<p>The sudden crash reverberated through the awkward silence; then came the -soft caressing voice of Mrs. Curtis: “I’m so sorry, Mr. Whately; I don’t -know what April can be thinking of. But she’s like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> that sometimes. -These young people are so difficult; one doesn’t know where to find -them. Yes, that’s right, Roland, run and see if you can’t console her.”</p> - -<p>For Roland had risen, moved deeply by the sight of April’s misery, her -pathetic weakness. It was not fair. First of all he had been beastly to -her, then her mother had made a fool of her. He found her in the dining -room, huddled on a chair beside the fire. She turned at once to him for -sympathy. She stretched out her arms, and he ran towards them, knelt -before her and buried his face in her lap.</p> - -<p>“We have been such beasts to you, April, all of us. I have felt so -miserable about it all day. I didn’t know what to do. I thought you -would never forgive me. I don’t deserve to be forgiven; but I love you; -I do, really awfully!”</p> - -<p>“That’s all right,” she said; “don’t worry,” and placing her hand -beneath his chin she raised gently his face to hers.</p> - -<p>It was a long kiss, one of those long passionless kisses of sympathy, -pity and contrition that smooth out all difficulties, as a wave that -passes over a stretch of sand leaving behind it a shining surface. For a -long while they sat in each other’s arms, saying nothing, his fingers -playing with her hair, her lips from moment to moment meeting his. When -at last they reverted to the subject of their morning’s quarrel there -was little possibility of dissension.</p> - -<p>It was with a gay smile that she asked him why he had been so angry with -her. “Why shouldn’t our parents know, Roland? They would have had to -some day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, of course, but——”</p> - -<p>“And surely, Roland, dear,” she continued, “it’s better for us that they -should know. I should have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> hated having to do things in secret. It -would have been exciting, of course; I know that; but it wouldn’t have -been fair to them, would it? They are so fond of us; they ought to have -a share in our happiness.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just what I felt,” Roland objected. “I had felt that our love -had ceased to be our own, that they had taken too big a share of it. It -didn’t seem to be our love affair any longer.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you silly darling!” and she laughed happily, relieved of her fear -that there might be some deeper cause for Roland’s behavior to her. “Why -should you worry about that? What does it matter if other people do know -about it? Why, what’s an engagement but a letting of a lot of other -people into our secret; and when we’re married, why, that’s a telling of -everyone in the whole world that we’re in love with one another. What -does it matter if others know?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it doesn’t,” Roland dubiously admitted.</p> - -<p>“Of course it doesn’t. The only thing that does matter,” she said, -twisting a lock of his hair round her little finger and smiling at him -through half-closed eyes, “is that we’ve made up our silly quarrel and -are friends again,” and bending forward she kissed him quietly and -happily.</p> - -<p>He was naturally relieved that the sympathy between them had been -reëstablished; but he realized how little he had made her appreciate his -misgivings. Indeed, he would have found it hard to explain them to -himself. Their love was no longer fresh and spontaneous. Its growth, as -that of a wild flower that is taken from a hedge and planted in a -conservatory, would be no longer natural. Other hands would tend it. In -April’s mind the course of love was marked by certain fixed -boundaries—the avowal, the engagement, the marriage service. She did -not conceive of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> love as existing outside these limits. She had never -been in love before; and naturally she regarded love as a state of mind -into which one was suddenly and miraculously surprised, and in which one -continued until the end of one’s life. There was no reason why she -should think differently. Her training had taught her that love could -not exist outside marriage—marriage that ordained one woman for one -man.</p> - -<p>But it was different for Roland, who had learned from the vivid and -fleeting romances of his boyhood that love comes and goes, irresponsible -as the wind that at one moment is shaking among the branches, scattering -the leaves, tossing them in the air, only to subside a moment later into -calm.</p> - -<p>These misgivings passed quickly enough, however, in the delightful -novelty of the situation. It was great fun being in love; to wake in the -early morning with the knowledge that as soon as breakfast was over you -would run down the road and be welcomed by a charming girl, whom you -would counsel to shut the door behind you quickly so that you could kiss -her before anyone knew you were in the house, who would then tilt up her -face prettily to yours. It was charming to sit with her in the -drawing-room and hold her hand and rest your cheek against hers, to -answer such questions as, “When did you first begin to love me?”</p> - -<p>Often they would go for walks together in the autumn sunshine; -occasionally they would take a bus and ride out to Kew or Hampstead, and -sit on the green grass and hold hands and talk of the future. These -talks were a delicious excitant to Roland’s vanity. His ambitions were -strengthened by her faith in him. He saw himself rich and famous. “We’ll -have a wonderful house, with stables and an orchard, and we’ll have a -private cricket ground and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> we’ll get a pro. down from Lord’s to look -after it. And we’ll have fine parties in the summer—cricket and tennis -during the day, and dances in the evening!”</p> - -<p>“And a funny little cottage,” she would murmur, “somewhere down the -river, for when we want to be all by ourselves.”</p> - -<p>It was exciting, too, when other people, grown-up people, made -significant remarks.</p> - -<p>One afternoon he was at a tea-party and a lady asked him if he would -come round to lunch with them the next day. “We’ve got a nephew of ours -stopping with us. An awfully jolly boy. I’m sure you and he would get on -well together.” Roland, however, had to excuse himself on the grounds of -a previous engagement.</p> - -<p>“I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “but I’ve promised to go on the river.”</p> - -<p>“With April Curtis? Ah, I thought so.”</p> - -<p>And the smile that accompanied the question made Roland feel very grown -up and important.</p> - -<p>These weeks of preparation for the foreign tour Roland considered -however, in spite of their charm, as an interlude, a pause in the -serious affairs of life. It was thus that he had always regarded his -holidays. He had divided with a hard line his life at school and his -life at home. The two were unrelated. April and Ralph, his parents and -the Curtises belonged to a world that must remain for him always -episodic. It was a pleasant world in which from time to time he might -care to sojourn. But what happened to him there was of no great -importance.</p> - -<p>As he leaned over the taffrail of the steamer and felt the deck throb -under him he knew that his real life had begun again. What significance -had these encumbrances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> of his home life if he could cast them off so -easily? Already they were slipping from him. The waves beat against the -side of the ship, splashing the spray across the deck, and the sting of -the water on his face filled him with a buoyant confidence. The thud of -the engines beat through his body to a tune of triumph.</p> - -<p>The gray line that was England faded and was lost.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI<br /><br /> -<small>THE ROMANCE OF VARNISH</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> SEPARATION of six months makes in the middle years of a man’s life -little break in a relationship. Human life was compared over two -thousand years ago by a Greek philosopher to the stream that is never -the same from one moment to another. And though, indeed, nothing is -permanent, though everything is in flux, the stream during the later -stages of its passage flows quietly through soft meadows to the sea. A -man of forty-five who has been married for several years may leave his -family to go abroad and returning at the end of the year find his wife, -his home, his friends, to all appearances, exactly as he left them.</p> - -<p>Roland returned from Belgium a different person. He was no longer a -schoolboy; he was a business man. He had been introduced to big -financiers; he had listened to the discussion of important deals; he had -witnessed the signatures of contracts. In the evenings he had sat with -Marston and gone carefully over the accounts of the day’s transactions.</p> - -<p>“There’s not much profit here,” Marston would say, “hardly any, in fact, -when we’ve taken over-head charges, office expenses and all that into -consideration. But we’re not out for profits just now. We’re building up -connections. If we can make these foreign deals pay their way we’re all -right. We shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> crowd the other fellows out of the market, we shall -make ourselves indispensable, and then we can shove our prices as high -as we blooming well like.”</p> - -<p>To Roland it was a game, with the thrills, the dangers, the recompenses -of a game. He did not look on business as part of the social fabric. He -did not regard wealth as a thing important in itself. A credit balance -was like a score at cricket. You were setting your brains against an -opponent’s. You made as many pounds as you could against his bowling. He -did not allow first principles to attach disquieting corollaries. He did -not ask himself whether it was just for a big firm to undersell their -smaller rivals and drive them out of the market by the simple expedient -of taking money out of one pocket and putting it into another. Business -was a game; if one was big enough to take risks one took them.</p> - -<p>Within a month Gerald was writing home to his father with genuine -enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“He really is first class, father. I thought he would be pretty useful, -but I never expected him to be a patch on what he is. He’s really keen -on the job and he’s got the hang of it already. He ought to do jolly -well when he comes out here alone. The big men like him; old Rosenheim -told me the other day that it was a pleasure to see him about the place. -‘Such a relief,’ he said, ‘after the dried-up, hard-chinned provincials -that pester me from morning to night.’ I believe it’s the best thing we -ever did, getting Roland into the business.”</p> - -<p>Roland, realizing that his work was appreciated, grew confident and -hopeful of the future. They were happy days.</p> - -<p>It is not easy to explain the friendship of two men. And Roland would -have been unable to say why exactly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> he valued the companionship and -esteem of Gerald Marston more highly than that of the many boys, such as -Ralph Richmond, whom he had known longer and, on the whole, more -intimately. Gerald never said anything brilliant; he was not -particularly amusing; he was often irritable and moody. But from the -moment when he had seen him for the first time in Brewster’s study -Roland had recognized in him a potential friend. Later, when they had -met at the Oval, he had felt that they understood each other, that they -spoke the same language, that there was between them no need for the -usual preliminaries of friendship. And during their weeks in France and -Belgium this relationship or intuition was fortified by the sharing of -common interests and common adventures.</p> - -<p>The majority of these adventures were, it must be confessed, of doubtful -morality, for it was only natural that Roland and Gerald should in their -spare time amuse themselves after the fashion of most young men who find -themselves alone in a foreign city.</p> - -<p>In the evenings, after they had balanced their accounts, they used to -walk through the warm lighted streets, surrounded by the stir of a world -waking to a night of pleasure, select a brightly colored café, sit back -on the red plush couch that ran the length of the room, and order iced -champagne. The band would play soft, sentimental music that, mixing with -the wine in their heads, would render them eager, daring and responsive, -and when two girls walked slowly down the center of the room, swaying -from the hips, and casting to left and right sidelong, alluring glances, -naturally they smiled back, and indicated two vacant seats on either -side of them. Then there would be talk and laughter and more champagne, -and afterwards....<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> But what happened afterwards was of small -importance. Gerald had had too much experience to derive much excitement -from bought kisses. And for Roland, these romances were the focus of -little more than a certain lukewarm kindliness and curiosity. They were -not degrading, because they were not regarded so. They were equally -unromantic, because neither was particularly interested in the other. -Indeed, Roland was a little dismayed to find how slight, on the whole, -was the pleasure, even the physical pleasure, that he received from his -companion’s transports; these experiences, far from having the -devastating effect that they are popularly supposed to have on a young -man’s character, would have had in Roland’s life no more significance -than an act of solitary indulgence, had they not been another bond -between himself and Gerald. And this they most certainly were.</p> - -<p>It was amusing to meet in the morning afterwards and exchange -confidences. And as everything is transmuted by the imagination, Roland -in a little while came to look on those evenings—the wine, the music, -the rustle of skirts, the low laughter—not as they had been actually, -but as he would have wished to have them. They became for him a gracious -revel. And in London his thoughts would wander often from his -ink-stained desk, from the screech of the telephone, from the eternal -tapping of the typewriter, to those brightly colored cafés, with their -atmosphere of warm comfort, the soft sensuous music, the cool sparkling -champagne, the low whisper at his elbow. When he went out to lunch with -Marston he would frequently contrast the glitter of a Brussels -restaurant with the tawdry furniture and over-heated atmosphere of a -City eating-house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span></p> - -<p>“A bit different this, isn’t it?” he would say. “Do you remember that -evening when we went down the Rue de la Madeleine and found a café in -that little side street?”</p> - -<p>“That was where we met the jolly little girl in the blue dress, wasn’t -it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. And do you remember what she said about the old Padre?”</p> - -<p>And they would laugh together over the indelicacies that had slipped so -charmingly in broken English from those red lips.</p> - -<p>But Gerald was the one figure that remained distinct for Roland. The -girls, for the most part, resembled each other so closely that he could -only in rare instances recall their features or what they had worn or -what they had said. He remembered far more vividly his walks with Gerald -through the lighted streets, their confidences and hesitations. Should -they go into this café or into that; and then when they had selected -their café how Gerald would open the wine fist and carefully run his -finger down the page, while the waiter would hover over him: “Yes, yes, -sir, a very good wine that, sir, a very good wine indeed!” And then when -the wine was ordered how they would look round at the girls who sat in -couples at the marble-topped tables, sipping a citron or a bock. “What -do you think of that couple over there?” “Not bad, but let’s wait a bit; -something better may turn up soon”; and a little later: “Oh, look, that -girl over there, the one with the green dress, just beneath the picture; -try and catch her eye, she looks ripping!” They had been more exciting, -those moments of expectation, than the subsequent embraces.</p> - -<p>Gerald was always the dominant figure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<p>It was the expression of Gerald’s face that Roland remembered most -clearly on that disappointing evening when they had taken two chorus -girls to dinner at a private room and Roland’s selected had refused -champagne and preferred fried sole to pheasant—an abstinence so -alarming that, in spite of Roland’s protests, Gerald had suddenly -decided that they would have to catch a train to Paris that evening -instead of being able to wait till the morning.</p> - -<p>And it was Gerald whom Roland particularly associated with the memory of -that ignominious occasion on which he had thought at last to have -discovered real romance.</p> - -<p>They had dropped into a restaurant in the afternoon for a cup of -chocolate, and had seen sitting by herself a girl who could hardly have -been twenty years of age. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, under which -Roland could just see, as she bent her head over her ice, the tip of her -nose, the smooth curve of a cheek, the strain on the muscles of her -neck. She raised the spoon delicately to her mouth, her lips closed on -it and held it there. Her eyelids appeared to droop in a sort of sensual -contentment. Roland watched her, fascinated; watched her till she drew -the spoon slowly from her mouth. She lingered pensively, and between the -even rows of her white teeth the red tip of her tongue played for a -moment on the spoon. At that moment she raised her eyes, observed that -Roland was staring at her, smiled, and dropped her eyes again.</p> - -<p>“Did you see that?” whispered Roland excitedly. “She smiled at me, and -she’s ripping! I must go and speak to her!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be a fool,” said Gerald; “a smile may not mean anything. Besides, -she’s obviously not a tart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> and she may be known here. If she is she -won’t want to be seen talking to a stranger. You sit still, like a good -boy, and see if she smiles at you again.”</p> - -<p>Against his will Roland consented. But he had his reward a few minutes -later when she turned her chair to catch the waitress’s attention, and -her eyes, meeting his, smiled at them again—a challenging, alluring -smile, that seemed to say, “Well, are you brave enough?” He was -dismayed, however, to notice that she had turned in order to ask for her -bill. He saw her run her eye down the slip of paper, take some money -from her purse and begin to button on her gloves, long gauntlet gloves -that fastened above the elbow.</p> - -<p>“She’s going! what shall I do?” he asked.</p> - -<p>For answer Marston took a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote on -it: “Meet me at the Café des Colombes to-night at eight-thirty.”</p> - -<p>“Now, walk up to the counter and pretend to choose a cake; if she wants -to see any more of you she will drop her handkerchief, or purse, or at -any rate give you an opportunity of speaking to her; if she does, slip -this note into her hand. If she doesn’t, you can buy me an éclair, and -thank your lucky stars that you’ve been preserved from making a most -abandoned fool of yourself.”</p> - -<p>Roland was in such a hurry to get to the counter that he tripped against -a table and only saved himself from falling by gripping violently the -shoulder of an elderly bourgeois. By the time he had completed his -apologies his charmer had very nearly reached the door.</p> - -<p>“It’s all up,” he told himself; “she thinks me a clumsy fool, that it’s -not worth her while to worry about. I ought to have gone straight up to -her at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> once”; and he followed with dejected eyes her progress towards -the door.</p> - -<p>She was carrying in one hand an umbrella and in the other a little -velvet bag. As she raised her hand to open the door, the bag slipped -from her fingers and fell upon the floor. There were three persons -nearer to the bag than Roland, but before even a hand had been stretched -out to it he had precipitated himself forward, had picked it up and was -handing it to the lady. She smiled at him with gracious gratitude. So -far all had gone splendidly. Then he began to fumble. The note was in -the other hand, and in the flurry of the moment he did not know how to -maneuver the bag and the note into the same hand. First of all, he tried -to change the bag from the right hand to the left. But his forefinger -and thumb were so closely engaged with the note that the remaining three -fingers failed to grasp the handle of the bag. He made a furious dive -and caught the bag in his right hand just before it reached the floor. -Panic seized him. He lost all sense of the proprieties. He handed the -bag straight to her, and then realizing, before she had had time to take -it from him, that somehow or other the note also had to come into her -possession, he offered it to her between the forefinger and thumb of his -left hand with less secrecy than he would have displayed in giving a tip -to a waiter. The sudden change of the lady’s expression from inviting -kindliness to a surprised affronted indignation threw him into so acute -a fever of embarrassment that once again he endeavored to move the bag -from the right hand to the left. Again he fumbled, but with a different -result. He piloted the bag successfully into the lady’s hands, but -allowed the note to slip from between his fingers. It fell face upwards -on the floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<p>Several ways of escape were open to him. He might have affected -unconcern, and either picked up the piece of paper or left it where it -lay. He might have kicked the note away and walked forward to open the -door. He might have placed his foot on the note till the attention of -the room was once again directed to its separate interests. None of -these things, however, did he do. He did what was natural for him in -such an unexpected situation. He did nothing. He stood quite still and -gazed at the note as it lay there startlingly white against the black -tiles of the floor. The eyes of everyone in the room appeared to be -directed towards it. The features of the startled lady assumed an -expression of horrified amazement. Two waitresses leaned over the -counter in undisguised excitement; another stopped dead with a tray in -her hand to survey the incriminating document. The fat gentleman against -whom Roland had collided began to make some unpleasantly loud remarks to -his companion. An old woman leaned forward and asked the room in general -what was happening. From a far corner came the horrible suppression of a -giggle.</p> - -<p>The lady herself, who was, as a matter of fact, perfectly respectable, -though she liked to be thought otherwise, and had dropped her bag -accidentally, was the first to recover her composure. She fixed on -Roland a glance of which as a combination of hatred and contempt he had -never seen the equal, turned quickly and walked out of the restaurant. -The sudden bang of the door behind her broke the tension. The various -spectators of this entertaining interlude returned to their ices and -their chocolate, the waitresses resumed their duties, the patron of the -establishment fussed up the center of the room, and Gerald,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> who had -watched the scene with intense if slightly nervous amusement, left his -table, picked up the note, and taking Roland by the arm, led him out of -the public notice, and listened to his friend’s solemn vow that never -again, under any circumstances, would he be induced to open negotiations -with any woman, be she never so lovely, who did not by her dress, her -manner and the places she frequented proclaim unquestionably her -profession.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>It was hardly surprising that as a result of these adventures a more -developed, more independent Roland returned at the end of his six -months’ tour, a Roland, moreover, with a different attitude to himself, -his future, his surroundings, who was prepared to despise the chrysalis -from which he had emerged. His school-days appeared trivial.</p> - -<p>“What a deal of fuss we made about things that didn’t really matter at -all,” he said to Gerald as they leaned over the taffrail and watched the -dim line that was England grow distinct, its gray slowly whitening as -they drew near. “What a fuss about one’s place in form, one’s position -in the house; whether one ragged or whether one didn’t rag. I can see -all those masters, with their solemn faces, thinking I had perjured my -immortal soul because I had walked out with a girl. They really thought -it mattered.”</p> - -<p>How puny it became in comparison with this magnificent gamble of -finance! What were marks in an exam, to set against a turnover of -several thousands? Duty, privilege, responsibility: what had they been -but the brightly colored bricks with which children play in the nursery; -and as for the fret and fever concerning their arrangement, where could -be found an equivalent for the serious absorption of a child?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span></p> - -<p>In the same way he thought of his home and the environment of his -boyhood. What a gray world it had been! How monotonous, how arid! He -remembered sitting as a child at the bars of his nursery window watching -the stream of business men hurrying to their offices in the morning, -their newspapers tucked under their arms. They had seemed to him like -marionettes. The front door had opened. Husband and wife had exchanged a -brusque embrace; the male marionette had trotted down the steps, had -paused at the gate to wave his hand, and as he had turned into the -street the front door had closed behind him. Always the same thing every -day. And then in the evening the same stream of tired listless men -hurrying home, their bulky morning paper exchanged for the slim evening -newssheet. They would trot up the white stone steps, the front door -would swing open, again in the porch the marionettes would kiss. It had -amused him as a child, this dumb show, but as a boy he had come to hate -it—and to fear it also. For he knew that this was the life that awaited -him if he failed to turn to account his superior opportunities.</p> - -<p>The fear of degenerating into a suburban business man had been always -the strongest goad to his ambition. But now he could look that fear -confidently in the face. He had won through out of that world of routine -and friction and small economies into one of enterprise and daring and -romance.</p> - -<p>And April: he had not thought very much about her during his six months’ -absence; she belonged to the world he had outgrown, a landmark on his -road of adventure. And it was disconcerting to find on his return that -she did not regard their relationship in this light. Roland had grown -accustomed to the fleeting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> relationships of school that at the start of -a new term could be resumed or dropped at will. He had not realized that -it would be different now; that six months in Belgium were not the -equivalent of a seven weeks’ summer holiday; that he would be returning -to an unaltered society in which he would be expected to fulfill the -obligations incurred by him before his departure. It was the reversal of -the Rip Van Winkle legend. Roland had altered and was returning to a -world that was precisely as he had left it.</p> - -<p>Nothing had changed.</p> - -<p>On the first evening he went round to visit April, and there was Mrs. -Curtis as she had always been, sitting before the fire, her hands -crossed over her bony bosom. She welcomed him as though he had been -spending a week-end in Kent.</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad to see you, Roland, and have you had a nice time? It must -be pleasant for you to think of how soon the cricket season will be -starting. I was saying to our little April only yesterday: ‘How Roland -will be looking forward to it.’ What club are you thinking of joining?”</p> - -<p>“The Marstons said something to me about my joining their local club.”</p> - -<p>“But how jolly that would be! You’ll like that, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>Her voice rose and fell as it had risen and fallen as long as Roland’s -memory had knowledge of her. The same clock ticked over the same -mantelpiece; above the table was the same picture of a cow grazing -beside a stream; the curtains, once red, had not faded to a deeper -brown; the carpet was no more threadbare; the same books lined the -shelves that rose on either side of the fire-place; in the bracket -beside the window was the calf-bound set of <i>William Morris</i> that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> had -been presented to April as a prize; on the rosewood table lay -yesterday’s copy of <i>The Times</i>. Mrs. Curtis and her setting were -eternal in the scheme of things.</p> - -<p>April, too, was as he had left her. Indeed, her life in his absence had -been a pause. She had no personal existence outside Roland. She had -waited for his return, thinking happily of the future. She had gone to -school every morning at a quarter to nine and had returned every evening -at half-past five. During the Christmas holidays she had read <i>Nicholas -Nickleby</i> and <i>Vanity Fair</i>. She was now halfway through <i>Little -Dorrit</i>. At the end of the Michaelmas term she had gained a promotion -into a higher form and in her new form she had acquitted herself -creditably, finishing halfway up the class. At home she had performed -cheerfully the various duties that had been allotted to her. But she had -regarded those six months as an interlude in her real life; that was -Roland’s now. Happiness could only come to her through him; and, being -sure of happiness, she was not fretful nor impatient during the delay. -She did not expect nor indeed ask of life violent transports either of -ecstasy or sorrow. Her ideas of romance were domestic enough. To love -and to be loved faithfully, to have children, to keep a home happy, a -home to which her friends would be glad to come—this seemed to her as -much as any woman had the right to need. She felt that she would be able -to make Roland happy. The prospect was full of a quiet but deep -contentment.</p> - -<p>Roland had no opportunity of speaking to her on that first evening; Mrs. -Curtis, as usual, monopolized the conversation. But he sat near to -April. From time to time their eyes met and she smiled at him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> And the -next morning when he came round to see her she ran eagerly to meet him.</p> - -<p>“It’s lovely to have you back again,” she said; “you can’t think how -I’ve been looking forward to it!”</p> - -<p>Roland was embarrassed by her eagerness. He did not know what to say and -stood beside her, smiling stupidly.</p> - -<p>She pouted.</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she said. And a moment later: “I -shouldn’t have thought, after six months, you’d have needed asking!”</p> - -<p>Roland met her reproach with a stammered apology.</p> - -<p>“I felt shy. I thought you might have got tired of me, all that long -time.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but Roland, how horrid of you!” And she moved away from him. But he -took her in his arms and made love prettily to her and consoled her.</p> - -<p>“I daresay,” she said, “I daresay. But you didn’t write to me so very -often.”</p> - -<p>“I wanted to, but I thought your mother wouldn’t like it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but, Roland, that’s no excuse; she expected you to. There’s an -understanding.” Then with a quiet smile: “Do you remember the row we had -about that understanding?”</p> - -<p>“I was a beast.”</p> - -<p>“No, you weren’t; I was a silly.”</p> - -<p>“I was miserable about it.”</p> - -<p>“So was I. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought you’d never -speak to me again, that you’d gone off in a huff, like the heroes in the -story books.”</p> - -<p>“But the heroes always come back in the story books.”</p> - -<p>“I know, and that’s just why I thought that very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> likely you wouldn’t in -real life. I was so unhappy I cried myself to sleep.”</p> - -<p>“We were sillies, weren’t we?”</p> - -<p>“But it was worth it,” said April.</p> - -<p>“Worth it?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you remember how nice you were to me when we made it up?”</p> - -<p>They laughed and kissed, and the minutes passed pleasantly. But yet -their love-making fell short of Roland’s ideal of love. It was jolly; it -was comfortable; but it was little more. He was not thrilled when the -back of his hand brushed accidentally against hers; their kisses were -hardly a lyric ecstasy. Even when he held her in his arms he was -conscious of himself, outside their embrace, watching it, saying to -himself: “Those two are having a good time together,” and being outside -it he was envious, jealous of a happiness he did not share. It was -someone else who was holding April’s hand, someone else’s head that bent -to her slim shoulder. It was an exciting experience. But then had it not -been exciting to walk across Hampstead Heath on a Sunday evening and -observe the feverish ardors of the prostrate lovers?</p> - -<p>He despised himself; he reminded himself that he was extraordinarily -lucky to have a girl such as April in love with him; he was unworthy of -her. Was not Ralph eating out his heart with envy? And yet he was -dissatisfied. The Curtises’ house had become a prison for him; a soft, -warm prison, with cushions and shaded lights and gentle voices, but it -was a prison none the less. He was still able to leave it at will, but -the time was coming when that freedom would be denied him. In a year or -two their understanding would be an engagement; the engagement would -drift to marriage. For the rest of his life he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> would be enclosed in -that warm, clammy atmosphere. There was a conspiracy at work against -him. His father had already begun to speak of his marriage as an -accomplished fact. His mother was chiefly glad he was doing well in -business because success there would make an early marriage possible. On -all sides inducements were being offered him to marry—marriage with its -corollary to settle down. Marry and settle down, when he was still under -twenty!—before he had begun to live!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII<br /><br /> -<small>MARSTON AND MARSTON</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span>URING the weeks that immediately followed his return, Roland found that -he was, on the whole, happiest when he was at the office. He had less -there to worry him. His work was new and interesting. Mr. Marston had -decided that before Roland went on his tour alone he should acquire a -general knowledge of the organization of the business. And so Roland -spent a couple of weeks in each department, acquainting himself with the -routine.</p> - -<p>“And a pretty good slack it will be,” Gerald had said. “It’s the -governor’s pet plan. He made me do it. But you won’t learn anything -that’s going to be of the least use to you. All you’ve got to do in this -show is to be polite and impress opulent foreigners. You don’t need to -know the ingredients of varnish nor how we arrange our advertising -accounts. And you can bet that the fellows themselves won’t be in any -hurry to teach you. The less we know about things the better they’re -pleased. They like to run their own show. If I were you I should have as -lazy a time as possible.”</p> - -<p>Under ordinary circumstances Roland would have followed this advice. He -had learned at Fernhurst to do as much work as was strictly necessary, -but no more. He had prepared his lessons carefully for his house tutor -and the games’ master, the two persons,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> that is to say, who had it in -their power to make his existence there either comfortable or the -reverse. He had also worked hard for the few masters, such as Carus -Evans, who disliked him. That was part of his armor. When Carus Evans -had said to him for the third day running, “Now, I think we’ll have you, -Whately,” and he had translated the passage without a slip, he felt that -he was one up on Carus Evans. But for the others, the majority with whom -he was only brought into casual contact, and who were pleasantly -indifferent to those who caused them no trouble, he did only as much -work as was needful to keep him from the detention room. Roland had -rarely been inconvenienced by uncomfortable scruples about duty.</p> - -<p>At any other time he would have spent the days of apprenticeship in -placid idleness—discussion of cricket matches; visits to the window and -subsequent speculation on the prospects of fine weather over the -week-end; glances at his watch to see how soon he could slip from the -cool of the counting house into the hot sunshine that was beating upon -the streets; pleasant absorption in a novel. But Roland was worried by -the family situation; he was finding life dull; he was prepared to -abandon himself eagerly to any fresh enthusiasm. For want of anything -better to do, without premeditation, with no thought of the power that -this knowledge might one day bring him, he decided to understand the -business of Marston & Marston.</p> - -<p>On the first morning he was handed over to the care of Mr. Stevens, the -head of the trade department. Mr. Stevens was a faithful servant of the -firm, and, as is the way with faithful servants, considered himself to -be more important than his employers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span></p> - -<p>“They may sit up in that board room of theirs,” he would say, “and they -may pass their resolutions, and they may decide on this and they may -decide on that, but where’d they be without their figures, I’d like to -know. And who gives them their figures?”</p> - -<p>He would chuckle and scratch his bald head, and issue a fierce series of -orders to the packers. He bore no malice against his directors; he was -not jealous; he knew that there were two classes, the governing and the -governed, and that it had been his fate to be born among the governed.</p> - -<p>“There always have been two classes and there always will be two -classes. We can’t all be bosses.” It was a law of nature. And he -considered his performances more creditable than those of his masters.</p> - -<p>“These directors,” he would say, “they were born into the business. -They’ve stayed where they was put; they haven’t gone up and they haven’t -gone down. But I—I started as a packer and I’m now head of the trade -department; and look you here, Jones,” he would suddenly bellow out, “if -you hammer nails into a box at that rate you’ll not only not be head of -a trade department, you’ll blooming soon cease to be a packer!”</p> - -<p>It was natural that Mr. Stevens should, from his previous experience of -Gerald and certain other young gentlemen, regard Roland as an agreeable -trifler on the fringe of important matters.</p> - -<p>“Well, well, sir, so you’ve come along to see how we do things down -here. I expect we shall be able to show you a thing or two. Now, if you -was to go and sit over in that corner you’d be out of the way and you’d -be able to see the business going on.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay, Mr. Stevens, but that won’t help me very far, will it?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t say that, sir; nothing like seeing how the machinery works.”</p> - -<p>“But I might as well go and ask an engine driver how a train worked and -then be told to sit in a corner of the platform at a railway station and -watch the trains go by. I should see how they worked but I shouldn’t -know much about them.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Stevens chuckled and scratched the bald patch on his head -appreciatively.</p> - -<p>“You see, Mr. Stevens,” Roland continued, “I don’t know anything about -this show at all and I know that you’re the only person in the place who -can help me.”</p> - -<p>It was a lucky shot. Roland was not then the psychologist that he was to -become in the days of his power. He worked by intuition. What he had -intended for a graceful compliment was a direct appeal to Mr. Stevens’ -vanity, at the point where it was most susceptible to such an assault. -It was a grief at times to Mr. Stevens that the authorities should -regard him as little more than a useful servant, who carried out -efficiently the orders that they gave him. Mr. Stevens was not -ambitious; the firm had treated him fairly, had recognized his talents -early and had promoted him. He had no quarrel with the firm, but he -knew—what no one else in the building, with the possible exception of -Perkins, the general manager, did know—that for a long time he had -ceased to carry out to the letter the instructions that had been given -him, and that Mr. Marston had only a general knowledge of a department -that he himself knew intimately. He had arranged numerous small -improvements of which Mr. Marston was ignorant, and had exploited highly -profitable exchanges of material with other dealers. Mr. Marston may -have perhaps noticed in the general accounts a gradual fall in packing -expenses, but if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> he had he had attributed it, without much thought, to -the increased facilities for obtaining wood and cardboard. He did not -know that as the result of most delicate maneuvering and an intricate -system of exchange conducted by Mr. Stevens his firm was being supplied -with cardboard at the actual cost price.</p> - -<p>Mr. Stevens did not tell him. He enjoyed his little secret. Every year -he would consult the figures, scratch his bald head and chuckle. What a -lot he had saved the firm! He looked forward to the day when he should -tell Mr. Marston. How surprised they would all be! They had never -suspected that funny old Stevens was such a good business man. In the -evening hours of reverie and after lunch on Sunday he would endow the -scene with that dramatic intensity that he had looked for but had not -yet found in life. There were other moments, however, when he longed for -appreciation. He wished that someone would realize his importance -without having to have it explained to him. So that when Roland said to -him, “You’re the only person in the place who can help me,” he was -startled into the indulgence of his one weakness.</p> - -<p>“Well, well, sir,” he said, and his face flushed with pleasure, “I -daresay if you put it like that”; and taking Roland by the arm he led -him away into his study and began to explain his accounts, his invoices, -his receipts and his method of checking them. And because he had found -an appreciative audience he proceeded to reveal one by one his little -secrets. “Mr. Marston doesn’t know I do this, and don’t tell him; I’m -keeping it as a surprise; but you can see that by letting the wood -merchants have that extra percentage there, I can get tin-foil cheap -enough to be able to pack our stuff at two per cent. less than it would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> -cost ordinarily. Think what I must have saved the firm!”</p> - -<p>There could be no question of his value; but what Roland did not then -appreciate—what, for that matter, Mr. Stevens himself did not -appreciate—was the value of this work in relation to the general -business of the firm. Mr. Stevens was a specialist. He understood his -own department but he understood nothing else. He did not realize that -on the delicate balance of that two per cent. it had been possible to -undersell a dangerous rival.</p> - -<p>The same conditions, Roland discovered, existed in several other -departments. Each head worked independently of the other heads. Mr. -Marston, sitting at his desk, coördinated their work. A one-man -business: that was Mr. Marston’s program. One brain must control, -otherwise there would be chaos. One department would find itself working -against another department. He believed in departments because they -stood for the delegation of routine work, but they must be subordinate -departments. There were moments, however, when Roland wondered whether -Mr. Marston’s hold on the business had not relaxed with the years. A -great deal was going on of which he was ignorant. He had started the -machinery and the machinery still ran smoothly, but was the guiding hand -ready to deal with stoppages? Roland wondered. How much did Mr. Marston -really know? Had he kept up with modern ideas, or was he still living -with the ideas that were current in his youth? But more than this even, -Roland wondered how much Perkins knew.</p> - -<p>He did not like Perkins. “A good man,” Mr. Marston had called him, “as -good a general manager as you’re likely to find anywhere. Not a social<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> -beauty; silent, and all that, but a good strong man. You can trust him.”</p> - -<p>Roland did not agree with this estimate. First impressions are very -often right; he was inclined to trust his intuition before his reason, -and his first impression of Perkins was of an embittered, jealous man. -“He hates me,” Roland thought, “because I’m stepping straight into this -business through influence, with every prospect of becoming a director -before I’ve finished; while he’s sweated all his life, and worked from -nothing to a position that for all his ability will never carry him to -the board room.” He was a man to watch. The people who have been -mishandled by fortune show no mercy when they get the chance of revenge.</p> - -<p>Perkins was scrupulously polite, but Roland felt how much he resented -his intrusion, and Gerald was inclined to endorse this opinion.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, a sour-faced ass,” he said; “father thinks a lot of him, -though. It’s as well to keep on the right side of him. He can make -things rather awkward if you don’t. He keeps an eye on most of the -accounts, and he watches the travelers’ expenses pretty closely. If he -gets annoyed with you he might start questioning your extras.”</p> - -<p>They laughed, remembering how they had entered under the heading -“special expenses” the charges for a lurid evening at a certain discreet -establishment in the Rue des Colombes.</p> - -<p>On the whole, Roland was happy at the office, but the evenings were -distressing: the bus ride back; the walk up the hot stuffy street -towards his home; the subsequent walk with his father; the same walk -every day along the hard, flag-stoned roads, during which they met the -same dispirited men hurrying home from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> work. London was horrible in -June, with its metallic heat, its dust, and the dull leaves of the -plane-trees scattering their mournful shadows. How somber, too, were the -long evenings after the wretched two-course dinner, in the small -suburban drawing-room—ill lit, ill ventilated, meanly furnished. It was -not surprising that he should accept eagerly the Marstons’ frequent -invitations to spend the week-end with them in the country; it was -another world, a cleaner, fresher world, where you were met at the -station, where you drove through a long, winding drive to an old -Georgian house, where you dressed for dinner, where you drank crusted -port as you cracked your walnuts. Yet it was not this material -well-being that he so highly valued as the setting it provided for a -gracious interchange of courtesy, for the leisured preliminaries of -friendship, for ornament and decoration.</p> - -<p>Was anything in his life better than that moment on a Friday evening -when from the corner seat of a railway carriage he watched the smoke and -chimneys of London fall behind him, when through the window he saw, -instead of streets and shops and houses, green fields and hedges and -small scattered villages, and knew that for forty-eight hours he could -forget the fretted uneasiness of his home.</p> - -<p>He was invited during August to spend a whole week at Hogstead. Several -others would be there, and there would be cricket every day.</p> - -<p>“We can’t do without you,” Mr. Marston had said, “and what’s more, we -don’t intend to.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, we don’t,” said Muriel; “you’ve got to come!”</p> - -<p>Naturally Roland did not need much pressing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /><br /> -<small>LILITH OF OLD</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>OLAND made during this week the acquaintance of several members of the -family who had hitherto been only names to him. There was Gerald’s uncle -Arnold, a long mean-faced man, and his wife, Beatrice. Afterwards, when -he looked back and considered how large a part she had played, if -indirectly, in his life, and for that matter in the lives of all of -them, he could not help thinking that his first sight of her had been -prophetic, certainly dramatic. He had just arrived, had been met by -Muriel and Mr. Marston and his brother in the hall, and Muriel had -insisted on taking him away at once to see her rabbits. She had come to -regard him as her special friend. Gerald’s other friends were too stiff -and grown up; Roland was nearer to her own age and he did not patronize -her.</p> - -<p>“Come along,” she said, “you’ve got to see my rabbits before dinner -time.”</p> - -<p>“Will they have grown up by to-morrow?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, they won’t be any younger, will they? They are such dears,” and -she had taken his hand, pulling him after her. They ran down the curving -path that sloped from the house to the cricket field. “I keep them in -that little shed behind the pavilion,” she said. They were certainly -delightful, little brown and white balls of fur, with stupid, blinking -eyes. Roland and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> Muriel took them out of the cage and carried them on -to the terrace that ran round the field, and sat there playing with -them, offering them grass and dandelions.</p> - -<p>A grass path ran between great banks of rhododendrons from the terrace -towards the garden, and at the end a pergola stretched a red riot of -roses parallel to the field. Suddenly at the end of the path, at the -point where it met the pergola, Roland saw, framed in an arch of roses, -a tall, graceful woman walking slowly on Gerald’s arm, her head bent -quietly towards him. At that distance Roland could not distinguish her -features, but the small oval face set in the mass of light yellow hair -was delicate and the firm outlines of her body suggested that she had -only recently left her girlhood behind her.</p> - -<p>“Who’s that?” asked Roland.</p> - -<p>“That! Oh, that’s Aunt Beatrice.”</p> - -<p>“But who’s Aunt Beatrice?”</p> - -<p>“Uncle Arnold’s wife.”</p> - -<p>“What!”</p> - -<p>Roland could hardly believe it: so young a woman married to that -shriveled, prosaic solicitor.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Muriel, “they’ve been married nearly three years now; -and they’ve got such a darling little girl: Rosemary; you’ll see her -to-morrow. She’s got the loveliest hair. It crinkles when you run your -fingers through it.”</p> - -<p>“But—oh, well, I suppose it’s rather cheek, but he’s years older.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle Arnold?” replied Muriel cheerfully. “Oh, yes, I think he must be -nearly fifty.” Then after a pause, light-heartedly as though the -possession of a family skeleton was something of an honor, “I don’t -think they like each other much.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<p>“How do you know?” Roland asked.</p> - -<p>“They are always quarreling. I never saw such a couple for it. If -there’s a discussion he’s only got to take one side for her to take the -other.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t see very well how she could be in love with him, he’s -such a....” Roland paused, realizing that it would be hardly good -manners to disparage Muriel’s uncle. But she did not intend him to leave -the sentence unfinished.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “such a.... Go on!”</p> - -<p>“But I didn’t mean that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you did.”</p> - -<p>“No, I didn’t; really I didn’t. I’m sure your uncle’s awfully nice, but -he’s so much older, and you can’t be in love with someone so much older -than yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I see; you’re forgiven”; then after a pause and with a mischievous -smile: “Have you ever been in love, Roland?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how lovely!” and she turned quickly and sat facing him, her knees -drawn up, her hands clasped in front of them. “Now tell me all about it. -I’ve always wanted to have a talk with someone who’s really been in -love, and I never have.”</p> - -<p>“What about Gerald?”</p> - -<p>She pouted. “Gerald! Oh, well, but he laughs at me, and besides—— But -come on and tell me all about it.”</p> - -<p>She made a pretty picture as she sat there, her face alight with the -eagerness of curious girlhood, and Roland felt to the full the -fascination of such a confessional. “It was a long time ago,” he said, -“and it’s all over now.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind that,” Muriel persisted. “What was her name?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span></p> - -<p>“Betty.”</p> - -<p>“And was she pretty?”</p> - -<p>“Of course; I shouldn’t have been in love with her if she hadn’t been.”</p> - -<p>Muriel tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh, but how absurd, Roland! -Some of the ugliest women I’ve ever seen have managed to get husbands.”</p> - -<p>“And some pretty hideous-looking men get pretty wives.”</p> - -<p>“But I suppose the pretty wives think their ugly husbands are all -right.”</p> - -<p>“And equally I suppose the handsome husbands think their plain wives -beautiful.”</p> - -<p>They laughed together, but Muriel raised a warning finger. “We are -getting off the point,” she said. “I want to know more about your Betty. -Was she dark?”</p> - -<p>“Darkish—yes.”</p> - -<p>“And her eyes; were they dark, too?”</p> - -<p>“I think so; they were bright.”</p> - -<p>“What, aren’t you sure? I don’t think much of you as a lover.”</p> - -<p>“But I can never remember the color of people’s eyes,” he pleaded. “I -can’t remember the color of my mother’s or my aunt’s, or——”</p> - -<p>“Quick, shut your eyes; what’s the color of my eyes?”</p> - -<p>“Blue,” Roland hazarded.</p> - -<p>“Wrong. They’re green. Cat’s eyes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. -I shall write and tell your Betty about it.”</p> - -<p>“But that’s all over long ago, I told you.”</p> - -<p>“How did it end?”</p> - -<p>“It never began,” laughed Roland: “she never cared for me a bit.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<p>Muriel pouted. “How unromantic,” she said; then added with the quick, -mischievous smile, “and how silly of her!”</p> - -<p>As he dressed for dinner that evening Roland wondered what perverse -impulse had made him speak to Muriel of Betty rather than of Dolly; of -either of them rather than of April; of an unsuccessful love affair that -was over rather than of a successful one that was in progress. Muriel -would far rather have heard of April than of Betty. How she would have -pestered him with questions! Where had they met? When had he first known -he was in love with her? What had he said to her? How had she answered -him? It would have been great fun to confide in her. He had been foolish -not to tell her. She was such a jolly girl. She had looked charming as -she had sat back holding her knees, with her clear skin and slim boyish -figure, and her brightly tinted lips that were always a little parted -before her teeth, beautifully even teeth they were, except just at the -corner of her mouth where one white tooth slightly overlapped its -neighbor. She was the sort of girl that he would like to have had for a -sister. He had always regretted that he had not had one, and between -Muriel and himself there could have been genuine, open comradeship. She -would have been a delightful companion. They would have had such fun -going about together to parties, dances and the Oval. She would have -received so charmingly his confidence.</p> - -<p>And yet, on the whole, he did not know why, he was rather glad that he -had not told her about April.</p> - -<p>That night Roland sat next Beatrice at dinner, and was thus afforded an -opportunity of confirming or rejecting his first impression of her. She -was only twenty years old, but she looked younger, not so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> on -account of her slim figure and small, delicate, oval face as of her -general pose and the girlish untidiness that made you think that she had -not taken very long over her toilet. Her light yellow hair was drawn -back carelessly from the smooth skin of her neck and forehead. It looked -as though it had been crushed all the afternoon under a tightly fitting -hat, and that when Beatrice had returned from her walk, probably a -little late, she had flung the hat on the bed, and deciding that she -could not be bothered to take down her hair and put it up again had been -content to draw her comb through it once or twice with hurried, -impatient fingers. This negligence, which might have been charming as -the setting for mobile, vivacious features, was out of keeping with the -tranquillity of her face, her quiet gestures and lack of action. She had -not learned how to dress and carry herself, and this was an omission you -would hardly expect in a woman who had been married for three years.</p> - -<p>And yet she was beautiful, or perhaps not so much beautiful as -different. She suggested tragedy, mystery, romance. What, Roland asked -himself, lay behind the wavering luster of her eyes? And, looking at the -meager, uninspired features of her husband, he wondered how she could -have ever brought herself to marry him. He was a very good fellow, no -doubt, of whom one might grow fond—but love—to be held in his arms, to -be kissed by those dry lips! He shuddered, revolted by this dismal -mating of spring and autumn.</p> - -<p>She did not talk very much, though occasionally, when her husband made a -particularly definite statement, she would raise her head and say rather -contemptuously: “Oh, Arnold!” to which he would reply with heavy worded -argument: “My dear girl, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> you don’t understand is....” It was -uncomfortable, and Roland, looking round the table, wondered whether the -family was aware of it. They did not appear to be. At one end of the -table Mr. Marston was discussing, in his jovial, full-blooded manner, -the prospects of the cricket week, and, at the other, Mrs. Marston was -informing a member of the Harrow XI. that their opponents of the morrow -had recruited a couple of blues from a neighboring village. Gerald and -Muriel were both laughing and chatting, and the other members of the -party seemed equally not to notice the close atmosphere of impending -conflict. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to it.</p> - -<p>Roland listened carefully to all that Arnold Marston said, both during -dinner and afterwards when the ladies had gone upstairs and the port had -been passed for the second time round the table. He was hard, dogmatic -and, at the same time, petulant in his talk. He quickly assumed that -everyone who did not agree with him was ignorant and a fool. As he -talked his fingers performed small gestures of annoyance; they plucked -at the table cloth, fingered the water bowl, heaped the salt into small -pyramids upon his plate. They were discussing the pull shot, then -something of an innovation, and Roland maintained that it was absurd for -school coaches not to allow boys to hit across long hops. “Why, do you -know that at Fernhurst you are expected to apologize to the bowler if -you make a pull shot.”</p> - -<p>“And quite right, too,” said Mr. Arnold.</p> - -<p>“But, why?” Roland answered him. “The pull’s perfectly safe; it’s a four -every time and you can’t get more than a single if you play back to it -with a straight bat.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay, I daresay, but cricket’s cricket, and you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> have got to play -it with a straight bat. You’ve got to play according to rules.”</p> - -<p>“But there’s no rule that says you mayn’t hit a long hop with a crooked -bat.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Arnold fidgeted angrily.</p> - -<p>“My dear boy, it’s no good arguing. I’ve been playing cricket and -watching cricket for forty years, and the good batsmen always played a -straight ball with a straight bat.”</p> - -<p>“There are a good many who don’t.”</p> - -<p>“That means nothing. A big man’s a rule to himself. The pull’s a -dangerous stroke; it’s all right in village cricket perhaps, but no one -who doesn’t play with a straight bat would get into a county side.”</p> - -<p>“But isn’t it the object of the game to make runs?”</p> - -<p>“Not altogether—even if you do get four runs from it instead of one, -which I am prepared to doubt. We wear our clothes to keep our bodies -warm, but you wouldn’t be pleased if your tailor made your coat button -up to the throat, and said: ‘It covers more of you, sir; you’ll be -warmer that way, and the object of clothes is to keep you warm.’ ”</p> - -<p>There was a general laugh at Roland’s expense, and before it had -subsided Mr. Marston had introduced another subject. Roland was annoyed; -he had a distaste for anything that savored of cleverness. He regarded -it as an unfair weapon in an argument. An argument should be a weighing -of facts. Each side should produce its facts, and an impartial witness -should give judgment. It was not fair to obscure the issue with an -untrue, if amusing, simile. And once the laugh is against you it is no -good continuing an argument. Arnold Marston had learned this on his -election platform. He had once been asked what his party proposed to do -for the unemployed;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> it was an awkward question, that gave many -opportunities for adverse heckling. But he had obscured the issue with a -laugh: “When my party gets in there will be no unemployment.” And the -meeting had gone home with the opinion that he was a jolly fellow—not -too serious—the sort of man that anyone could understand. It was a good -trick on the platform, but it was very annoying at the dinner table, at -least so the discomfited found. And Roland felt even more aggrieved as -they were leaving the room and the silly ass in the Harrow XI. slapped -him on the back and informed him that, “The old man got in a good one on -you there.” He could understand Beatrice hating him.</p> - -<p>He did not have another opportunity of speaking to her that evening, but -as he sat in the big drawing-room among the members of the house party -his attention drifted continually from the agreeable, superficial -conversation that had been up to now so sympathetic to him. These -trivial discussions of cricket, their friends, their careers, and, in a -desultory manner, of life itself, had been invaded by a stern, critical -silence. His eyes kept turning towards Beatrice as she sat in a deep -arm-chair, her hands folded quietly in her lap; they followed her when -she walked to the window and stood there, her arm raised above her head, -looking into the garden. He would have liked to go across the room and -speak to her; but what would he have been able to say? He could not tell -what thoughts were passing beneath the unruffled surface; was she -fretting impatiently at the tedious cricket shop? Was she criticizing -them all?—she, who had seen deeper and farther and come nearer to -tragedy than any of them—or was she what she appeared—a young woman -moved by the poetry of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> garden stilled by moonshine? When she turned -away he thought that he detected a movement of her shoulders, a gesture -prompted by some wandering thought or gust of feeling, that would have -been significant to one who knew her, but for him was meaningless. And -that night he lay awake for nearly an hour, a long time for one who -thought little and to whom sleep came easily, remembering her words and -actions, the intonation of her voice, and that movement by the window. -As he began to lose control over thoughts she became transfigured, the -counterpart of those princesses, shut away in high-walled castles, of -whom he had dreamed in childhood; her husband became an ogre, leering -and vindictive, who laughed at him from the turrets of impregnable -battlements.</p> - -<p>Breakfast at Hogstead was a haphazard business. It began at eight and -ended at ten. No one presided over it. There were cold things on the -sideboard to which you helped yourself. As soon as you came down you -rang the bell and a maid appeared to ask you whether you would prefer -tea or coffee and whether you would take porridge. You then sat down -where you liked at the long, wide table.</p> - -<p>When Roland came down the next morning at about a quarter to nine he -found the big rush on; from half-past eight to half-past nine there were -usually six or seven people at the table. Before that time there was -only Mrs. Marston and anyone who had been energetic enough to take a dip -in a very cold pond that was protected from sunshine by the northern -terrace of the cricket field. By a quarter to ten there was usually only -a long table, covered with dirty plates, to keep company with Mr. -Marston, who, strangely enough, was a late riser. There were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> eight -people in all having breakfast when Roland arrived, or, to be more -exact, there were seven, for Gerald had finished his some time before, -but as he had had a bathe he preferred to remain at the table and inform -everyone of his courage as they came down.</p> - -<p>“I can’t think why everyone doesn’t bathe in the morning,” he was -saying; “makes one feel splendidly fit. I’m absolutely glowing all -over.”</p> - -<p>“So you’ve told us before,” said Muriel.</p> - -<p>“I’ve told you, but I haven’t told Roland. Roland, why didn’t you come -and have a bathe this morning, you old slacker? Do you no end of good.”</p> - -<p>“Puts one’s eye out,” said Roland, repeating the old Fernhurst theory -that cricket and swimming are incompatible.</p> - -<p>“Rot, my dear chap; nothing like a bathe, nothing like it. I bet you I -shall skittle them out this afternoon, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t -make a few runs either.”</p> - -<p>Roland had by this time satisfied the maid’s curiosity as to his -beverage and had helped himself to a plate of tongue and ham. He turned -round with the plate in his hand and looked to see where he should sit. -There was a vacant place beside Gerald to which he would have been -expected to direct himself; there was also a vacant place beside -Beatrice: he chose the latter, and hardly realized till he had drawn -back the chair that Gerald was at the opposite end of the table.</p> - -<p>Several thoughts passed with incredible swiftness through his brain. Had -anyone noticed what he had done? Would they think it curious? More -important still, would Beatrice resent it? From this last anxiety he was -soon freed, for Beatrice, without apparently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> having observed his -presence, rose from the table and went into the garden. He was left with -an empty chair on either side of him and no one for him to talk to; -Gerald and Muriel were beyond the reach of anything less than a shout.</p> - -<p>He finished his breakfast hurriedly in an enforced silence and walked -out into the garden in the secret hope of finding Beatrice. In this he -soon succeeded. She was playing croquet with her daughter on the lawn. -Roland stood watching them for a moment and then walked slowly across -the lawn. Beatrice glanced up at him and then went on with her game. She -did not even smile at him. It would have been too much perhaps to have -expected her to ask him to join them, but she might surely have made -some sign of comradely recognition. After all, he had the night before -taken her down to dinner; he had endeavored to be as nice as he could to -her, and it annoyed him and, at the same time, attracted him to feel -that he had made absolutely no impression on her.</p> - -<p>Roland was not one of those who analyze their emotions. When he was -attracted by some new interest he did not put himself in the -confessional, and he did not now ask himself why or how Beatrice had -appealed to him.</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, she did not attract him physically. Her beauty -added to the glamor that enriched her loneliness, but did not touch him -otherwise. It was interest he felt for her, a compelling interest for -someone outside the circle of his own experience, who was content to -disparage what he admired and had filled her own life with other -enthusiasms. She was remote, inscrutable. She lived and ate and talked -and moved among them, but she had no part there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> And because he was so -interested in her he was desperately anxious that she should feel some -interest in him. She was a mystery for him, but he was not content she -should remain a mystery; he wanted to understand her, to become friends, -so that in her troubles she should turn to him for sympathy and -guidance. How wonderful that would be, that this aloof and beautiful -woman should share with him an intimacy that she denied her husband. He -would watch her as he had watched her the previous evening moving among -her friends, indifferent and apart from them, and they would sit, as -they had sat, hardly noticing her, talking of their own affairs, perhaps -casting towards her a glance of casual speculation: “What is she -really?” they would say, and then put her from their mind and return to -their bridge and their billiards and their cricket shop. But he would -know, and as she turned from the window he would appreciate the -significance of that little movement, that hesitation almost of the -shoulders, and she would turn her eyes to him, those sad, disdainful, -dove-colored eyes of hers, that invited nothing and offered nothing, but -would become for him flooded with sympathy and gentle friendship; there -would be no need for words—just that meeting of the eyes across a -crowded drawing-room.</p> - -<p>Immersed in reverie, he walked up and down the long grass path that ran -from the cricket field to the rose garden, and when his name was shouted -suddenly, shrilly and from very close, he approximated to that condition -of dismay that the vernacular describes as “jumping out of one’s skin.” -He turned, to see Muriel standing two yards behind him, her hands upon -her hips, shaking with laughter.</p> - -<p>“I have been watching you for ten minutes,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> said as soon as she had -recovered her breath, “and it’s the funniest sight I’ve seen; you’ve -been walking up and down the path with your head in the air, and your -hands clenched together behind your back, and your lips were moving. I’m -certain you were talking to yourself. I couldn’t think what you were -doing. I sat behind that bush there and watched you going up and down -and up and down, your hands clenched and your head flung back, and your -lips moving, and then at last I guessed——”</p> - -<p>“Well, what was it?”</p> - -<p>“You were composing poetry. Now, don’t laugh, I’m serious, and I want to -know who you were composing it for.”</p> - -<p>“Well, who do you think it was?”</p> - -<p>“That girl, of course.”</p> - -<p>“What girl?”</p> - -<p>“Why, the girl you told me about yesterday!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that——”</p> - -<p>“Yes; oh, that! But you were now, weren’t you?”</p> - -<p>“No, I wasn’t. You can’t see me wasting my time on poetry. Besides, I -couldn’t do it.”</p> - -<p>“Then, what were you doing?”</p> - -<p>“Thinking.”</p> - -<p>“Who about?”</p> - -<p>“You, of course.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head, the light hair scattering in the -sunlight. “Oh, no, no, no! If you had been thinking about me, it might -have occurred to you that I had no one in this large party to amuse me -and that I might very likely be lonely. And if you had thought of that, -and had gone on thinking that, with your head flung back——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know all about that head.”</p> - -<p>“Well, if you had been thinking of me all that time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> and hadn’t -considered it worth your while to come and see what I was doing, I -should be very cross with you. But as I know you weren’t I don’t mind. -But come along now; what was it all about?” And, sitting down on the -garden seat, she curled herself into a corner and prepared herself for -catechism. “Now, come on,” she said, “who was it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, if you want to know, it was your Aunt Beatrice.”</p> - -<p>Muriel pouted.</p> - -<p>“Her! What do you want to think about her for?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. She’s rather interesting, don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t,” and Muriel spoke sharply in a tone that Roland had never -before encountered.</p> - -<p>“But——” he began.</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind,” she said, “if you’ve been thinking about Aunt Beatrice -for the last ten minutes you won’t want to talk about her now. Come and -have a game of tennis.”</p> - -<p>And she jumped up from her seat and walked up towards the house. Roland -felt, as he prepared to follow her, that it was an abrupt way to end a -conversation that she had forced on him.</p> - -<p>And that night, as he undressed, Roland had to own to himself that -altogether it had not been a satisfactory day. There had been the -incident at the breakfast table, the rebuff on the croquet lawn, the -coldness that had arisen between himself and Muriel, and then, although -he had done fairly well in the cricket match, he had not achieved the -goal which, he had to confess, had been his great incentive to -prowess—namely, the approval of Beatrice.</p> - -<p>He had made twenty-seven in the first innings—a good twenty-seven, all -things considered. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> had two yorkers in his first over. He had -played a large part in the gradual wearing down of the bowling, that had -paved the way for some heavy hitting by the tail. He had made several -very pretty shots. There had been that late cut off the fast bowler—a -beauty; he had come down on it perfectly, and it had gone past second -slip out of reach of the third man for three; and then there had been -that four off the slow bowler who had tied up Gerald so completely; he -had played him quite confidently. Mr. Marston had, indeed, complimented -him on the way he had placed the short-pitched balls in front of -short-square for singles. It had been a pretty useful innings, but -though he had kept turning his eyes in the direction of the pavilion, -and especially to the shaded side of it, where the ladies reclined in -deck-chairs, he had failed to discover any manifestation of excitement, -pleasure or even interest on the part of Beatrice in his achievements. -True, he had once seen her hands meet in a desultory clap, but that clap -had rewarded what was, after all, a comparatively simple hit, a -half-volley outside the off stump that he had hit past cover to the -boundary, and as that solitary clap came a full thirty seconds after the -rest of the pavilion had begun clapping, and ceased a good thirty -seconds before anyone else clapping in the pavilion ceased, he was -obliged to feel that the applause was more the acquittal of a social -duty than any recognition of his own prowess, and when he was finally -given leg before to a ball, that would certainly have passed a foot -above the stumps, she did not smile at him with congratulations nor did -she attempt to console him, though he gave her every opportunity of -doing so had she wished by walking round three sides of a rectangle, and -reaching the dressing-room by means<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> of the shaded lawn on the left of -the pavilion. No. His cricket had not interested her in the least, and -it was exasperating to see her face kindle with enthusiasm when the -wicket keeper and the slow bowler put on fifty runs for the last wicket -through a series of the most outrageous flukes that have ever disgraced -a cricket field.</p> - -<p>Not a single ball was hit along the ground and only rarely did it follow -the direction in which the bat was swung. Length balls on the off stump -flew over the head of mid-on, of point, and second slip, to fall time -after time providentially out of reach. The fielding side grew -exasperated; slow bowlers tried to bowl fast and fast bowlers had a shot -with lobs; full pitches even were attempted, and these, too, were -smitten violently over the heads of the instanding fieldsmen and out of -reach of the deeps. It was a spectacle that would at ordinary times have -flung Roland into convulsions of delight, but on this occasion it -annoyed him beyond measure. He felt as must a music-hall artist whose -high-class performance has been received with only mild approval when he -watches the same audience lose itself in caterwauls of hilarious -appreciation at the debauched antics of a vulgar comedian with a false -nose and trousers turned the wrong way round who sings a song about his -“ma-in-law and the boarding-house.” For there was Beatrice, who had -hardly taken the trouble to watch his innings, laughing and clapping the -preposterous exhibition of this last wicket pair. It was a real relief -to him when the slow bowler, in a desperate effort to hook an off ball -to the square by boundary, trod on his middle stump and nearly collapsed -amid the débris of the wicket.</p> - -<p>Altogether it had been an unsatisfactory day and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> it was typical of the -whole week. He had looked forward to it eagerly; he had meant to enjoy -himself so much—the quiet mornings in the garden, the inspection of the -wicket, the change into flannels, the varying fortune of cricket, the -long enchantment of a warm, heavy afternoon, and afterwards the good -dinner, the comradeship, the kindly interplay of talk, till finally -sleep came to a mind at harmony with itself and full of agreeable -echoes. How good these things had seemed to him in imagination. But, -actually, there was something missing. The weather was fine, the cricket -good, the company agreeable, but the harmony was broken. He was -disquieted. He did not wake in the morning with that deep untroubled -sense of enjoyment; he had instead, a belief that something was going to -happen; he was always looking to the next thing instead of abiding -contentedly in the moment.</p> - -<p>And this mental turmoil could only be attributed to the presence of -Beatrice. She disturbed him and excited him. His eyes followed her about -the room. Whenever he was away from her he wondered what she was doing -and wished she would come back; but in her presence he was unhappy and -self-conscious. He hardly joined in the general conversation of the -table for shyness of what she would think of him. On the few occasions -when he sat next to her he could think of nothing to say to her, -nothing, that is to say, that was individual, that might not have been, -and as a matter of fact probably had been, said to her by every other -young man in the room.</p> - -<p>He would hazard some remark about the weather—it was rather hot; did -she think there was any danger of a thunderstorm?</p> - -<p>“I hope not,” she would answer; “it would spoil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> everything, wouldn’t -it?” She assumed the voice of a mother that is endeavoring to reassure a -small child. Cricket was like a plaything in the nursery. “That is what -she takes me for,” he said to himself—“an overgrown schoolboy”; and he -prayed for an opportunity of saying something brilliant and evocative -that would startle her into an interest for him. If only he could lead -the conversation away from heavy trivialities to shadowy conjectures, -wistful regrets; if only they could talk of life and its -disenchantments, its exquisite gestures; of sorrow, happiness and -resignation. But how were they to talk of it? If she thought about him -at all, which was doubtful, or in any way differentiated him from the -other young men of the party, she would probably consider that he was -flattered by her gracious inquiries about his batting average. How was -she to know what he was feeling; and how was he to introduce so -portentous a subject? He recognized with a smile what a sensation he -would cause were he to lean across to her and say: “What do you, Mrs. -Arnold, consider to be the ultimate significance of life?” His question -would be sure to coincide with one of those sudden silences that occur -unexpectedly in the middle of a meal, and his words would fall into that -pool of quivering silence, scattering ripples of horror and dismay. Mr. -Marston would stare at him, Muriel would giggle and say she had known -all the time he was a poet, and the other members of the party would -gaze at him in astonished pity. “Poor fellow!” their glances would say; -“quite balmy!” And Beatrice? she would dismiss the situation with an -agreeable pleasantry that would put everyone save Roland at his ease. He -did not in the least see how he was to win her confidence.</p> - -<p>His looks had not impressed her, as, indeed, why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> should they? His -features were neither strikingly handsome nor strikingly ugly; they were -ordinary. He was not clever, at least his cleverness did not transpire -in conversational brilliance and repartee; and she was not interested in -cricket. He envied the ease with which Gerald talked to her, the way -they laughed and ragged each other. They were such good friends. It had -been in Gerald’s company that he had first seen her. Was Gerald in love -with her, he wondered. Gerald had never confided to him any recent love -affair, and perhaps this was the reason. It was not unlikely. She was -young, she was lonely, she was beautiful. He asked Muriel whether she -thought there was any cause for his anxiety.</p> - -<p>“What!” she said. “Gerald and Aunt Beatrice in love with each other!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; why not. She’s not in love with her husband, and I don’t see why -at all——” He stopped, for Muriel was fixing him with a fierce and -penetrative glare.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, “there’s not the least danger of Gerald falling in love -with Aunt Beatrice, but if you aren’t very careful, someone else will be -very soon!”</p> - -<p>He laughed uncomfortably.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be silly!”</p> - -<p>“So you know who I mean, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“You mean me, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Of course.”</p> - -<p>He tried to dismiss the subject with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“And that would never do, would it?”</p> - -<p>It was not successful. Muriel looked more annoyed than he had ever seen -her before. It was absurd of her. She must know that he was only -ragging. They had always been so open with one another, so charmingly -indiscreet.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span></p> - -<p>“No, it wouldn’t,” she said.</p> - -<p>He waited, thinking she was going to add some qualification to this -plain denial. Her lips indeed began to frame a syllable, when in -response to some swift resolution she shook her head. “Oh, well,” she -said, “it doesn’t matter.”</p> - -<p>There was no use denying it: it had not been the week he had expected.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /><br /> -<small>THE TWO CURRENTS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>OLAND returned home dissatisfied with himself and anxious to vent the -dissatisfaction on someone else. He was in a mood when the least thing -would be likely to set him into a flaring temper, and at dinner his -father provided the necessary excitant. They were considering the -advisability of having the dining room repapered and Mr. Whately was -doubting whether such an expensive improvement would be possible for -their restricted means.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether we can manage that just now,” he said. “We have -had one or two little extras this last year or so; there was the new -stair carpet and then the curtains on the second landing. I really think -that we ought to be a little careful just now. Of course later on, when -Roland and April are married——” And he paused to beam graciously upon -his son before completing the sentence. “As I was saying, when Roland -and April——” But he never completed the sentence. It remained forever -an anacoluthon. It was that beam that did it. It exasperated Roland -beyond words. Its graciousness became idiocy.</p> - -<p>“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, father,” he said. “We’ve heard that -joke too often.”</p> - -<p>There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Whately was for a moment too -surprised to speak. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> made that little pleasantry so often that it -had become part of his conversational repertory. He could not understand -Roland’s outburst; at first he was hurt; then he felt that he had been -insulted, and, like all weak men, he was prone to stand upon his -dignity.</p> - -<p>“That’s not the way to talk to your father, Roland.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, father, but oh, I don’t know, I....” Roland hesitated, and -the matter should then have been allowed to drop. Mrs. Whately had -indeed prepared to interfere with an irrelevant comment on a friend’s -theory of house decoration, but Mr. Whately, having once started on an -assault, was loath to abandon it. “No, Roland, that’s not at all the way -to speak to me, and I don’t know what you’ve got to be impatient with me -about. You know quite well that you’re going to marry April in time.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing of the sort.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd; of course you do; it was arranged a long time ago.”</p> - -<p>“No, it wasn’t; nothing’s been arranged. We’re not engaged, and I won’t -have all this talk about ‘when Roland and April are married.’ Do you -hear? I will not have it!”</p> - -<p>It was a surprising outburst. Roland was usually so even tempered, and -the moment afterwards he was bitterly ashamed of himself.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was saying.”</p> - -<p>For a moment his father did not answer him. Then: “It’s all right, -Roland,” he said; “we understand.”</p> - -<p>But Roland saw quite clearly he was not forgiven, that his behavior had -increased the estrangement that had existed between his father and -himself ever since, without asking parental advice, he had abandoned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> -the idea of the bank. They did not talk much after dinner, and Mr. -Whately went to bed early, leaving Roland and his mother alone. It was -easier now that he had gone.</p> - -<p>“I feel such a beast,” Roland said. “I don’t know what made me do it. I -was worried and tired. I didn’t enjoy myself as much as I had hoped to -down at Hogstead.”</p> - -<p>“I know, dear, I know. We all feel like that sometimes, but I don’t see -why that particular thing should have upset you. After all, it’s a very -old joke of father’s; you’ve heard it so often before.”</p> - -<p>“I know, mother, I know. I don’t know what it was.”</p> - -<p>He could not make clear to her, if she was unable to appreciate through -her intuition, his distaste for this harping on his marriage, this -inevitable event to which he had to come, the fate that he could in no -way avoid.</p> - -<p>“Really, dear,” his mother went on, “I couldn’t understand it. You -haven’t had any row with April, have you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; nothing like that, nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Then really, dear——”</p> - -<p>“I know, mother, I know.”</p> - -<p>It was no good trying to explain to her. Could anyone ever communicate -their grief, or their happiness for that matter, to another? Was it not -the fate of every human soul to be shut away from sympathy behind the -wall he himself throws up for his defense?</p> - -<p>“And, dear, while we’re on the question,” his mother was saying, “both -father and I have been thinking that—well, dear, you’ve been spending -rather a lot of money lately, and we thought that, though you have such -a certain post, you really ought to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> take the opportunity of putting by -a little money for setting up your house later on. Don’t you think so, -dear?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so, mother.”</p> - -<p>“You see you’ve got practically no expenses now. I know you pay us -something every week, and it’s very good of you to, but you could quite -easily save fifty pounds a year.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose so.”</p> - -<p>“And don’t you think you ought to?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll try, mother, I’ll try.”</p> - -<p>She rose from her chair, walked across to him, and, bending down, kissed -his forehead.</p> - -<p>“We do feel for you, dear,” she said, “really we do.”</p> - -<p>“I know you do, mother.”</p> - -<p>For a long while after she had left him Roland remained in the -drawing-room; he was burdened by a confused reaction against the -influences that were shaping his future for him. He supposed he was in -love with April, that one day he would marry her; but was there any need -for this insistence upon domesticity? Could he not be free a little -longer? His eyes traveled miserably round the small, insignificant -drawing-room. The window curtains had long since yielded their fresh -color to the sunshine and hung dingily in the gaslight. The wall paper -was shabby and tawdry, with its festooned roses. The carpet near the -door was threadbare; the coverings to the stiff-backed chairs were dull -and crinkly. This was what marriage meant to men and women in his -position. He contrasted the narrow room with the comfort and repose of -Hogstead. What chance did people stand whose lives were circumscribed by -endless financial difficulties, who could not afford to surround -themselves with deep arm-chairs and heavy carpets<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> and warm-colored wall -papers? It was cruel that now, at the very moment when he had begun to -escape from the drab environment of his childhood, these fetters should -be attached to him. It was cruel. And rising from his chair he walked -backwards and forwards, up and down the room. The days of his freedom -were already numbered. They would be soon ended, the days of -irresponsible, unreflecting action. It was maddening, this semblance of -liberty where there was no liberty. He recalled a simile in a novel he -had once read, though the name of the book and of the author had escaped -his memory, in which human beings were described as fishes swimming in -clear water, with the net of the fisherman about them. He was like that. -He was swimming in clear water, but at any moment the fisherman might -lift the net and he would be gasping and quivering on the bank.</p> - -<p>Next day, in pitiful reaction, he presented to Mr. Marston a request to -be allowed to commence his foreign tour immediately instead of, as had -been previously arranged, in the beginning of the autumn.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear fellow,” Mr. Marston expostulated, “you surely don’t want -to go in the very middle of the cricket season, when you’re in such -splendid form? Think what games you’ll be missing. There’s the -Whittington match in August. We simply can’t do without you. And then -there’s that game against Hogstead in September, in which you did so -splendidly last year. It’s no good, my dear fellow, we simply can’t -spare you.”</p> - -<p>But Roland was stubborn.</p> - -<p>“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, “but I do feel that I ought to be going -out there soon, and July and August will be slack months—just the time -to see people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> and form alliances. In the autumn they would be too busy -to worry about me.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Marston shrugged his shoulders. It was annoying, but still the -business came first, he supposed.</p> - -<p>“All right, my dear fellow. I daresay you are right. And I am glad to -see you are so keen on your work. I only wish Gerald was.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I think he is really, sir,” said Roland, who, for one horrible -moment, had a feeling that he was playing a mean trick on Gerald. At -school he had resented the way that little Mark-Grubber Shrimpton had -gone up to Crusoe at the end of the hour to ask his questions. He had -found a nasty name for such behavior then, and was there so much -difference between Shrimpton’s thirst for knowledge and his own desire -to travel when he might have been playing cricket? But Mr. Marston -speedily reassured him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; Gerald—he’s keen enough of course, and, after all, he’s -rather different. He’s known all along there was no necessity for him to -over-exert himself, and I daresay he’s heard so much shop talked that -he’s got pretty sick of the whole thing. You have come fresh to it.”</p> - -<p>“Then I may go, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, if you want to. I’ll ask Mr. Perkins to make an arrangement. -I expect we’ll be able to get rid of you next week.”</p> - -<p>And so it was arranged.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Two days before his departure, as he was bounding downstairs on his way -to lunch, Roland was suddenly confronted at the turn of the staircase -below the second landing by a tall, graceful figure, in a wide-brimmed -hat and light crinkly hair. He gave a surprised gasp. “I am so sorry,” -he began; then saw that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> it was Beatrice. “Oh, how do you do, Mrs. -Arnold?” It was rather dark and for a moment she did not recognize him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but of course—why, it’s Mr. Whately! And how fortunate! I was -wondering how I should ever get to the top of these enormous stairs. I -can’t think why you don’t have a lift. I’ve come to see Gerald. Do you -think you could run and tell him I’m here? I suppose I should have gone -and asked one of your clerks, but they do so embarrass me. Oh, thank you -so much. It is kind.”</p> - -<p>Within a minute Roland had returned with the news that Gerald had -already gone out to lunch, that his secretary did not know where he had -gone, but that he had left a message stating that he was not to be -expected back before three.</p> - -<p>A look of disappointment crossed her face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but how annoying!” she said. “And I had wanted him to take me out -to lunch. We haven’t seen each other for such a long time. I suppose -it’s my own fault. I ought to have let him know. All the same, thank you -so much, Mr. Whately.”</p> - -<p>She had half turned to go, when Roland, with one of those sudden -inspirations, of which a moment’s thought would have rendered him -incapable, suggested that she should come out and lunch with him -instead. “It would be so delightful for me if you would.”</p> - -<p>As she turned towards him, her features expressing an obvious surprise, -he wondered how on earth he had had the courage to ask her. He had never -seen her look more beautiful than she did, standing there in the half -light of the staircase, her pale blue dress silhouetted against the dull -brown of the woodwork, and one arm flung out along the banister. For a -moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> he thought that she was going to refuse, when suddenly the look -of surprise passed into a gracious smile.</p> - -<p>“But how kind of you, Mr. Whately; I should love to.”</p> - -<p>He took her to a smart but quiet restaurant that was mostly used by city -men wishing to lunch unobtrusively with their secretaries, and they were -lucky enough to find a corner table. At first he found conversation a -little difficult; the waiter was so slow bringing the dishes. There were -uncomfortable pauses in their talk. But by the time they had finished -their fish, and drunk a little wine, Roland’s nervousness had passed. It -was a delight to look at her, a delight to listen to the soft -intonations of her voice; and here in the quiet intimacy of the -restaurant he was able to appreciate even more acutely than at Hogstead -the mystery and romance that surrounded her. The pathos of her life was -actual to him; they were discussing a new novel that had been much -praised, but of which she had complained a falsity to life.</p> - -<p>“But then you are so different from the rest of us,” he had said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, don’t say that,” she replied quickly. “I’m so anxious to be the -same as all of you, to live your life and share your interests. It’s so -lonely being different.”</p> - -<p>She made him talk of himself, of his hopes and his ambitions. And he -told her that in two days’ time he would be going abroad.</p> - -<p>“In the middle of August! Before the cricket season’s over! What horrid -luck!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I wanted to go,” said Roland. “I was getting tired of things. I -wanted a change.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span></p> - -<p>She looked at him with curiosity, a new interest for him in her deep -dove-colored eyes.</p> - -<p>“You, too!” she said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what it is,” Roland continued. “I feel restless; I feel I -must break loose. It’s all the same, one day after another, and what -does it lead to?”</p> - -<p>She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her face resting upon the -backs of her hands.</p> - -<p>“Ah, don’t I know that feeling,” she said; “one waits, one says, -‘Something is sure to happen soon.’ But it doesn’t, and one goes on -waiting. And one tries to run away, but one can’t escape from oneself.” -Their eyes met and there seemed to be no further need for words between -them. Roland’s thoughts traveled into spaces of vague and wistful -speculation. A profound melancholy consumed him, a melancholy that was -at the same time pleasant—a sugared sadness.</p> - -<p>“What are you thinking of, Roland?” The use of his Christian name caused -no surprise to him; it was natural that she should address him so. He -answered her, his eyes looking into hers.</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of how we spend our whole lives looking forward to -things and looking back to things and that in itself the thing is -nothing.”</p> - -<p>She smiled at him. “So you’ve found that out too?” she said. Then she -laughed quickly. “But you mustn’t get mournful when you are with me. -You’ve all your life before you and you’re going to be frightfully -successful and frightfully happy. I shall so enjoy watching you. And now -I must really be rushing off. You’ve given me a most delightful time”; -and she began to gather up her gloves and the silk purse that hung by a -gold chain from her wrist.</p> - -<p>Roland could do little work that afternoon; his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> thoughts wandered from -the ledger at his side and from the files of the financial news. And -that evening he was more acutely aware than usual of the uncolored -dreariness of his home. For him Beatrice was the composite vision of -that other world from which the course of his life was endeavoring to -lead him. She represented, for him, romance, adventure, the flower and -ecstasy of life.</p> - -<p>But two days later he felt once again, as he leaned against the taffrail -to watch the English coast fade into a dim haze, that he was letting -drop from his shoulders the accumulated responsibilities of the past six -months. Did it matter then so much what happened to him over there -behind that low-lying bank of cloud if he could at any moment step out -of his captivity, relinquish his anxieties and enter a world that knew -nothing of April or of his parents, that accepted him on his own -valuation as a young man with agreeable manners and a comfortable -independence? Who that held the keys of his dungeon could be called a -prisoner?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III"></a>PART III<br /><br /> -<small>THE FIRST ENCOUNTERS</small></h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV<br /><br /> -<small>SUCCESS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span>E felt less certain of his freedom when he watched, three months later, -the white coast of England take visible shape on the horizon. He should -have been feeling very happy. He was returning to his friends, his home, -his girl. And he was returning with credit. He had not made, it is true, -large profits for the firm, but that had not been expected of him. He -had done what he had been told to do. He had established important -connections, made friends with two large business men, and, -incidentally, brought several thousand pounds’ worth of business to the -firm of Marston & Marston. He had done better than had been expected. -When he had written home and told Mr. Marston that M. Rocheville was -prepared to sign a contract for varnish on behalf of the Belgian -Government, Mr. Marston had dropped the letter on his desk and had sat -back in his chair amazed at this good fortune; and when, a fortnight -later, the news arrived of a possible combination with the German firm -of Haupsehr & Frohmann, Mr. Marston had jumped from his seat and walked -backwards and forwards, up and down the office. And for two days he -disconcerted his secretary by muttering in the middle of his dictation: -“Marvelous boy! marvelous boy!”</p> - -<p>And he had been marvelous both in his fortune<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> and in his audacity. He -had met M. Rocheville under circumstances of ridiculous improbability. -He was dining at a small restaurant in Antwerp; he had just ordered his -meal and had commenced his study of the wine list when he became -conscious of a commotion at the table on his left. There was a mingling -of voices, reproachful, importunate, and one in particular feebly -explanatory. Roland listened, and gathered from the torrent of words -that the owner of the feeble voice had lost his purse and was trying to -explain that he had friends in the town and would return and settle the -account on the next day. But the proprietor, from a long experience of -insolvent artists, actors, courtesans and other dwellers on the fringe -of respectability, demanded a more substantial guarantee than the card -which the subject of the misfortune was offering him.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” he was saying, “it is not enough; you will leave me your watch -and that ring upon your second finger and you may go. Otherwise——” And -he shrugged his shoulders. To this the prosperous little gentleman, whom -an empty bucket beneath the table proved to have dined expensively, -would not agree. It was a personal affront, an insult to his name, and -he brandished his card in the face of the proprietor; it availed little, -and the intervention of the police was imminent when Roland heard the -name “Rocheville” flung suddenly like a spear among the waiters.</p> - -<p>On the waiters it had no effect; they winked, nodded, smiled to one -another. They had heard that tale before. Many indignant customers had -flourished the trade-mark of their reputation. Had not a poet produced -once from his pocket the review of his latest book as a proof of his -nobility? To the waiters the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> word “Rocheville” meant nothing; to Roland -it meant much. The most important man in the Army Ordnance Department -was named Rocheville. He might not be the same man, of course, but it -was worth the experiment; certainly it was worth the loss of fifty -francs that he would charge to the firm as a “special expense.”</p> - -<p>He rose from his seat and walked across to M. Rocheville.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I trust you will forgive me if I am -committing an impertinence, but from what I overheard I gathered that -you had lost your purse. If that is so, please allow me to lend you -whatever you may need to settle your account.”</p> - -<p>“But, sir—no, really I couldn’t; it would be an unthinkable liberty.”</p> - -<p>But Roland insisted. And having appeased the proprietor, who retired in -a profusion of bows, he turned again to meet M. Rocheville’s thanks.</p> - -<p>“But it was nothing, sir, really it was nothing, and I could not endure -the sight of a gentleman being submitted to such an inconvenience.”</p> - -<p>Monsieur Rocheville executed an elaborate bow.</p> - -<p>“It is too kind of you, and if you will give me your address I will see -that a cheque is sent to you to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“But I’m afraid that I go to Brussels first thing to-morrow, and I am -not certain at which hotel I shall be stopping. But it does not matter.”</p> - -<p>“But it does, of course it does,” M. Rocheville expostulated. “How shall -we manage it?”</p> - -<p>For a moment he paused, his hand raised to his forehead, essentially, -Roland thought, the gesture of a bureaucrat.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I have it,” said M. Rocheville: “you will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> come back with me -to some friends of mine that live here and we will arrange it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then,” said Roland, “if that is so, will you not do me the honor -first of sitting at my table while I finish my meal and sharing a bottle -of wine with me?”</p> - -<p>M. Rocheville had already drunk a full bottle of champagne, but he had -lived on perquisites for so long that he could not resist the temptation -of accepting any offer that put him under no pecuniary obligation. And, -besides, this was a confoundedly pleasant young man, who had saved him -from an undignified situation, and in whose company he would no doubt -pass agreeably a couple of hours.</p> - -<p>“I should be delighted,” he said; “and do you know my name?”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid not,” said Roland.</p> - -<p>With a slightly diffident flourish M. Rocheville handed his card to his -young companion. It was for this moment that Roland had arranged his -dramatic sequence. He examined the card carefully, then looked up with a -surprised, half-modest, half-excited expression on his face.</p> - -<p>“You aren’t—you aren’t <i>the</i> Monsieur Rocheville?”</p> - -<p>A slow smile spread itself over the ample features of the bureaucrat. It -was a long time since his vanity had been so delicately tickled, and -after the insults he had received from the waiter this recognition of -his value was very pleasant.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “I suppose I am.”</p> - -<p>“The Monsieur Rocheville who manages the Ordnance administration?” -Roland persisted.</p> - -<p>It was a sweetly sugared pill. To think that this young foreigner should -know all about him. He, himself, was perhaps more important than he had -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> led to think—a prophet in his own country; but abroad, in -England, they estimated truly the value of his services. He was inclined -to agree with them; too much praise was given to the Generals and -Commanders of Army Corps. He always experienced a slight impatience when -he heard eulogies of the exploits of Malplaquet and Marshal Ney and -Turin. They had done the spectacular work. The light of popular approval -had to be focused somewhere, but that in itself proved nothing. Mankind -was an ass. Was not authority delegated? Was not the private soldier -less valuable than the colonel? Was not the colonel less valuable than -the general? In the same way might not the general be less valuable than -the organization which provided him with food, with cannons, with -rifles, with ammunition, and, as far as that went, with his army too? -The farther one was from the firing line the more important one became. -The organization, was it not himself? A sound line of argument. And he -sat back contentedly in the chair that Roland offered him and lifted the -glass that Roland had filled for him.</p> - -<p>He raised it to the light, then gently, very gently advanced his lips to -it. He rolled the rich, heavy Volnay on his tongue. It was good. A -little shudder ran through his body. The wine had warmed him. He sat -back in his chair and smiled. It was good to be appreciated. And Roland -in this respect accommodated him to the full. By the time Roland had -finished his dinner the old man was in a state of maudlin self-pity and -self-complacency. “I am not understood”; that was the burden of his -complaint.</p> - -<p>And then, very carefully, very gently, Roland introduced his own -subject—the sale of varnish. Monsieur Rocheville lamented the -inferiority of the Belgian<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> species. It would not polish and it was so -dear. But what would you! The Belgians were interested only in husbandry -and food and wantonness. Monsieur Rocheville’s eyes glistened as he -brought out the word, and in another minute Roland would have been -forced to attend to a recital of the Rocheville enterprises in the lists -of gallantry; this, however, he evaded. If varnish in Belgium was so -dear, why did he not send for it elsewhere—to Germany, or France, or -Italy? He had heard there was very good varnish to be obtained in Italy. -And when M. Rocheville advanced the theory that one should encourage -national industries, Roland persuaded him that there was nothing that -could better encourage the Belgian varnish industry than a removal of -the Government’s patronage.</p> - -<p>“If they think they are certain of your custom they won’t work. Why -should they? Commerce is competition. You stimulate competition and -you’ll find your industry is a hundred per cent more healthy in five -years’ time than it will be if you let it go on on the old lines: buying -dear and buying bad.” M. Rocheville agreed. How true it all was and how -clearly this young man understood it—a delightful young man, on the -whole the most delightful young man he had ever met. It was a pity that -he insisted on talking about varnish all the time. There were so many -much more interesting things that they could have found to discuss -together. Still, it was all very warm and nice and comfortable.</p> - -<p>Looking back the next day, and trying to reconstruct the sequence of -their conversation, M. Rocheville found it impossible to recall the -exact moment at which Roland had stated his interest in Marston & -Marston’s varnish and made his proposal that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> Belgian Government -would do well in the future to deal with his firm direct. As far as he -could remember, there had been no such exact statement in so many words. -They had discussed varnish from every point of view—from the -international standpoint, from the financier’s standpoint; they had even -touched on the vexed question of retail business, and also the -refractory behavior of trade unions. They had discussed varnish indeed -so thoroughly that it was impossible to recall what had, and what had -not, been said. One thing alone M. Rocheville could recall with painful -distinctness—that there had come a point in the conversation when he -had realized that this engaging young man was offering to sell him a -very large quantity of varnish—good varnish—better than the Belgian -firms could supply and at the same price. There was no question of buyer -or seller, no bargaining, no haggling. It was altogether different from -his usual harsh business interviews, that were so distressing to a man -of taste. In the same way that this young man had rendered him -assistance in that trying altercation with the proprietor, so did he now -in this matter of varnish lay his undoubted talents and experience at -his disposal. It was a charming, friendly action, and the young man was -so business-like. He had produced from his pocket a printed contract in -which he had made certain alterations “between friends,” he had called -it, the cancellation of two or three small clauses; he had spread the -document on the table for him to sign. He had then given M. Rocheville a -similar agreement signed by his firm, and he had then ordered another -glass of Benedictine, and the conversation turned from varnish into more -intimate channels. He could not remember about what he had talked, but -he felt that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> at such an hour, their comments on whatever topic they -had chosen to discuss must have been profound. In describing the -occasion to a friend he waved a hand vaguely: “For two hours, he and I, -we talked of life.”</p> - -<p>Then they had visited a M. Villeneuve to settle the matter of the loan. -Roland had demurred, but M. Rocheville had insisted. And this part of -the evening, owing to the sudden change of air, he could recall more -clearly. Monsieur Villeneuve was in bed when they arrived and did not -extend to him a very cordial welcome. But the loan was at last -successfully negotiated, and Roland then discovered that in five hours’ -time he would have to catch a train and that it would be agreeable to -spend those five hours in sleep. But M. Rocheville was very loath to -part with him. For a long while he stood in the porch and, as far as -Roland could discern any clear intention behind his confused utterances, -appeared to be suggesting that Roland should still further trespass on -the hospitality of M. Villeneuve.</p> - -<p>“Then, perhaps, if you cannot do that,” M. Rocheville persisted, “you -will come and spend a week-end with me before you return. You have my -card. I have a nice house in Brussels, very quiet and comfortable. I am -not married.”</p> - -<p>But Roland had reminded him that he was very busy, and that he did not -know if he would have time, but that he would certainly try to arrange a -lunch at their next visit.</p> - -<p>“And in the meantime I will see that you get that varnish.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that varnish,” said M. Rocheville. And observing that he was now -standing alone in the porch, with no one to whom he might address his -profound reflections upon the mortality of man, he walked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> slowly -towards the gate, a little puzzled by Roland’s conduct and by his own.</p> - -<p>“A delightful young man,” he said, then paused as though he must qualify -this estimate, but his Latin cynicism saved him. “Well, well,” he said, -“an agreeable interlude.”</p> - -<p>That was Roland’s first triumph, and the other, if less adroitly -stage-managed, was more audacious, and owed its success to skill quite -as much as to good fortune.</p> - -<p>Haupsehr & Frohmann directed one of the largest polish factories in the -south of Germany; they supplied, indeed, practically the whole of the -Rhineland with their goods, and Roland had considered that a meeting -between them might prove profitable. He found, however, that it was -impossible to obtain an interview with either Herr Haupsehr or Herr -Frohmann. “They will not look at English goods.” That was what everyone -told him, and a carefully worded request for an interview that he -addressed to the head of the firm was answered by return of post with a -bald statement that Herren Haupsehr and Frohmann did not consider a -personal interview would further the interests of either Mr. Roland -Whately, representative of Marston & Marston, or of themselves. And -Roland was thus driven to the reluctant conclusion that his advisers -were correct. If he were to effect an introduction it would have to be -done by guile.</p> - -<p>He awaited his opportunity, and the opportunity came to him in the -passport office. He had gone to fulfill some trifling by-law concerning -the registration of aliens. For a long time he had sat in a draughty -corridor, and then for a long time he had stood beside a desk while a -busy bureaucrat attended<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> to someone else’s business, and when at last -he had succeeded in making his application a bell rang in the next room, -and without an apology his interlocutor rose from his chair and hurried -to the next room.</p> - -<p>“How terrified they are of their chiefs,” Roland thought. He had by now -become accustomed to the trepidation of officials. How typical was that -desk of the words that were written and the sentences framed at it; -precise, firm, tabulated and impersonal: the plain brass inkstand, with -red and black ink-pots; the two pens, the blotter, the calendar, the -letter files, the box for memoranda; and the mind of that fussy little -official was exactly like his desk, and, leaning over, Roland tried to -see to whom the letter on the blotter was addressed.</p> - -<p>As he did so, his eye fell on a slip of pasteboard that had been put -behind the inkstand. It was a calling card, the calling card of a Herr -Brumenhein, and on the top, in handwriting, was inscribed the words: “To -introduce bearer.” The name Brumenhein was familiar to Roland, though in -what connection he could not recall. At any rate, the fact that he -recollected the name at all proved that it was the appendage of an -important person, and as it was always useful to possess the means of -being introduced under the auspices of a celebrity, Roland picked up the -card and placed it in his pocketbook.</p> - -<p>When he returned to the hotel he made inquiries about the unknown -patron, and learned that Herr Brumenhein was a very distinguished -Prussian minister, and one who was honored by the confidence of the -Crown Prince. “He will be a great man one day,” said the hotel -proprietor.</p> - -<p>“As great as Griegenbach?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span></p> - -<p>“Who knows?—perhaps, and it is said the Crown Prince is not too fond of -Griegenbach.”</p> - -<p>And then Roland’s informant proceeded to enlarge on the exaggerated -opinion Griegenbach had held of his own value since his successful -Balkan diplomacy. “He thinks he is indispensable and he makes a great -mistake. No one is indispensable. The post of minister is more important -than the man who fills it.”</p> - -<p>Roland, of course, agreed; he always agreed with people. It was thus -that he had earned the reputation of being good company, and at this -moment, even if he had held contrary opinions as to the relations of the -moment and the man, he would have been unable to develop them in an -argument. He was too busy wondering how best he could turn this -discovery to his advantage. And it was not long before the thought was -suggested to him that this card might very easily procure him the -desired interview with Herr Haupsehr. It was a risky game of course, but -then what wasn’t risky in high finance? It was quite possible that -Herren Haupsehr and Brumenhein were the oldest of friends, that awkward -questions would be asked and his deceit discovered. But, even if it was, -he could, at the worst, only be kicked downstairs, and that was an -indignity he could survive. It would destroy for ever the possibility of -any negotiations between himself and the German firm, but that, also, -was no serious drawback, for, as things were, there seemed little enough -prospect of opening an account. He could not see how he would be in any -the worse position were he to fail—whereas if he brought it off.... It -was a dazzling thought.</p> - -<p>And so at eleven o’clock next morning Roland presented himself at the -entrance of Herr Haupsehr’s office. He asked no questions; he made no -respectful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> inquiry as to whether at that moment Herr Haupsehr was, or -was not, engaged. He assumed that whatever occupied that gentleman’s -attention would be instantly removed on the announcement that a friend -of Herr Brumenhein’s was in the building. Roland said nothing. He -flourished his card in the face of the young lady who stood behind the -door marked “Inquiries.”</p> - -<p>“You wish to see Herr Haupsehr?”</p> - -<p>Roland bowed, and the young lady disappeared. She returned within a -minute.</p> - -<p>“If you will please to follow me, sir.”</p> - -<p>He was conducted through the counting-house and into the main corridor, -up a flight of stairs, along another corridor, till they reached a door -marked “Private,” before which the young lady stopped. Roland made an -interrogatory gesture of the hand toward it.</p> - -<p>“If you please, sir,” she said.</p> - -<p>Roland did not knock at the door. He turned the handle and entered the -room with the gracious condescension of a general who is forced to visit -a company office. It was a large room, with a warm fire and easy chairs -and an old oak desk. But Herr Haupsehr was not sitting at his desk; he -had advanced into the center of the room, where he stood rubbing his -hands one against the other. Some men reach a high position through -truculence, others through subservience, and Herr Haupsehr belonged to -the second class. He was a little man with a bald head and with heavy -pouches underneath his eyes. He fidgeted nervously, and it was hard to -recognize in this obsequious figure the dictator of that letter of stern -refusal.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “you are a friend of Herr Brumenhein?” In the eyes of -Herr Haupsehr had appeared annoyance and a slight distrust at the sight -of so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> young a visitor, but the sound of the magic name recalled him to -servility.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he repeated, “yes; and what is it that I may have the honor to do -for a friend of Herr Brumenhein?”</p> - -<p>Roland made no immediate reply. He drew off his gloves slowly, finger by -finger, and placed them in the pockets of his great-coat, which garment -he then proceeded to remove and lay across the back of one of the -comfortable, deep arm-chairs. He then took out his pocket-book, -abstracted from it a card and handed it to Herr Haupsehr. So far he had -not spoken a word. Herr Haupsehr examined the card carefully, raising it -towards the light, for he was shortsighted, and found the unusual -English lettering trying to his eyes. He read out the words slowly: “Mr. -Roland Whately, Marston & Marston, Ltd.” He stretched his head -backwards, so that his gaze was directed towards the ceiling. “Mr. -Roland Whately, Marston & Marston, Ltd....” The name was familiar, but -how and in what connection? There were so many names. He shook his head. -He could not remember, but it did not matter. Roland had watched him -anxiously; he had mistrusted that gaze towards the ceiling, and it was a -big relief when Herr Haupsehr stretched out his hand and indicated one -of the large arm-chairs—“And what is it that I can do for you?”</p> - -<p>Roland then began to outline the scheme that had suggested itself to -him. The scheme was to the advantage of the German as well as to -himself. Haupsehr & Frohmann were the biggest dealers in polish in South -Germany. That was granted. But there were rivals, very dangerous rivals, -the more dangerous because they were specialists, each of them, in one -particular line of polish, and a specialist was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> always better, if more -expensive, than a general dealer. Now what Roland suggested was that -Haupsehr should devote his attention solely to metal polish, should -become specialists in a large sense, and that he should rely for the -varnish solely on Marston & Marston.</p> - -<p>“Don’t worry about varnish,” Roland said: “we’ll let you have it a lot -cheaper than these rivals of yours can produce it at. There won’t be -much actual profit in it for you, not directly, but it will allow you to -put all your capital into the metal polish and, by smashing your rivals, -it’ll leave you with a clear market.”</p> - -<p>The German considered the plan. It was a good one, he could see its -advantages. He would be trading, of course, with a nation for which he -had no great affection, but, even so, Herr Brumenhein apparently thought -well of it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, he thought it a capital idea,” said Roland. “He’s most anxious -to see trade alliance between Great Britain and Germany. He’s so afraid -there may be ill-feeling. I told him that that was, of course, absurd, -but still——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Herr Haupsehr, “I see, of course; but there are -difficulties, grave difficulties.”</p> - -<p>Roland could see that he was beginning to waver, that he was anxious to -postpone his decision, and that would, of course, be fatal. Roland had -learned early that when a man says to you: “Look here, I can’t decide -now, but I’ll write and let you know in a day or two,” he has already -decided against you. And so Roland played Herr Brumenhein for all he was -worth. Having discovered that Herr Haupsehr had never met the great man, -Roland felt himself at liberty to tell his story as amply as possible.</p> - -<p>“But you should meet him,” he said; “a most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> charming companion. He -comes over and stays with us nearly every summer.”</p> - -<p>“Really! Every summer?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, nearly always. And he’s the coming man, of course. Not a doubt -of it. Griegenbach’s day is done.”</p> - -<p>Herr Haupsehr affected surprise. He respected every minister till he was -out of office.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, not a doubt of it. He thinks he’s more important than his -job—a big mistake. A minister’s post is more important than the man who -fills it.”</p> - -<p>With that Herr Haupsehr agreed. Himself had revered authority all his -life. This young man showed considerable sagacity. The job was bigger, -always bigger, than the man.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he’s the coming man,” Roland went on; “we can see it more clearly -over in England perhaps than you can over here. If I were a German I -would back Herr Brumenhein with every bit of influence I possessed.”</p> - -<p>And, indeed, so admirably did he present the future greatness of Herr -Brumenhein that Herr Haupsehr got the impression that he had only to -agree to these varnish proposals to be offered an important post in the -ministry. It was not stated in so many words, but that was the -suggestion. And, in the end, preliminary arrangements were drawn up and -a contract signed. Herr Haupsehr showed Roland to the door with intense -civility.</p> - -<p>“And I was wondering,” he said, “do you think it would be altogether -wise if I were to write personally to Herr Brumenhein and tell him that -I have met you and agreed to your plan? Would it be wise?” And he stood -nervously fidgeting from one foot to the other—the eternal sycophant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span></p> - -<p>Roland scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then, after a moment’s -deliberation:</p> - -<p>“No,” he said. “On the whole, no. I don’t think it would be wise. Herr -Brumenhein is very busy. I think it would be better to wait till he -visits us again in England and I shall tell him——”</p> - -<p>“You will tell him all about me and my willingness, yes?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, of course.”</p> - -<p>“You are too kind, sir; too kind.”</p> - -<p>“Aufwiedersehn.”</p> - -<p>“Aufwiedersehn.”</p> - -<p>Hands were shaken, the door closed, and Roland was in the passage, the -contract safe in his breast pocket.</p> - -<p>With two such feats accomplished Roland should certainly have been -returning home with a light heart. He would be praised and made much of. -For at least a fortnight conversation would center round his exploits. -His return was that of a general entering his city after a successful -battle—a Roman triumph. But for all that he was dispirited. On his -journey out he had experienced the exhilaration of freedom, and on his -return he was obsessed by the gloom of impending captivity. To what, -after all, was he coming back?—worries, responsibilities, the continual -clash of temperaments. How fine had been the independent life of -vagabondage that he had just left, where he could do what he liked, go -where he liked, be bound to no one. There had been a time when the -sights and noises of London had been inexpressibly dear to him. His -heart had beaten fast with rapture on his return from Fernhurst, when he -had watched the green fields vanish beneath that sable shroud of roofs -and chimney-stacks. But now there was no magic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> for him in the great -city through which he was being so swiftly driven. Autumn had passed to -winter; the plane-trees were bare; dusk was falling; the lamp-lighter -had begun his rounds. For many it was a moment of hushed wonderment, of -peace and benediction, but Roland stirred irritably in the corner of his -cab, and there was no pleasure for him in the effusive welcome his -mother accorded him. He did his best to respond to it, but it was a -failure, and she noticed it.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter, darling? Wasn’t it a success? Didn’t you do well -over there?”</p> - -<p>And behind her evident anxiety Roland detected, or fancied that he could -detect, the suggestion of a hope that he had not done so well as he had -expected to do.</p> - -<p>“She would like to have comforted me,” he thought. “Her husband has been -a failure; he has had to depend upon her and so she has kept his love. -She would like me to be the same.” And this attitude, although he could -understand it, exasperated him. He was aware that through his new -friends he had become alienated from her, that she must be lonely now. -But what would you? Life went that way.</p> - -<p>They had tea together, and though Roland spoke amusingly and with -animation about his experiences abroad, their talk was not intimate as -it had been. There was nothing said behind and apart from their actual -words, and Mrs. Whately imagined that he was impatient to see April.</p> - -<p>As soon as they had finished tea she suggested that he should go round -to her.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you must be longing to see her.”</p> - -<p>And when he had gone, she sat for a little while in front of the -unwashed tea things, thinking how hard<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> it was that a mother should have -to yield her son to another woman.</p> - -<p>She need not have. Roland, at the moment when she was thinking of him -with melancholy regret, was far from being “dissolved in pleasure and -soft repose.” He was sitting, as he had so often sat before, on the -chair beside the window-seat, in which April was forlornly curled, while -Mrs. Curtis expressed, to complete his depression, her opinion on the -economic situation in Europe. Soon she abandoned these matters of high -finance and reverted to simple matters of to-day—namely, her son and -her daughter. It was “dear April” and “dear Arthur”; and Roland was -reminded vividly of a bawdy house in Brussels and the old woman who had -sat beside the fire, exhibiting her wares. That was what Mrs. Curtis was -at heart. He could see her two thousand years earlier administering in -some previous existence to the lusts of Roman soldiery: “Yes, a dear -girl, Flavia; and Julia, she’s nice; and if you like them plump Portia’s -a dear, sweet girl—so loving. Dacius Cassius said to me only -yesterday....” Yes, that was what she was, and beneath her -sentimentality how cold, how hard, how merciless, like that woman in -Brussels who had taken eighty per cent of the girls’ money. He was -continuing to draw comparisons with a vindictive pleasure when he -observed that she was collecting her knitting preparatory to a move.</p> - -<p>“But I know you two’ll want to be together. I won’t be a troublesome -chaperon,” she was saying; “I’ll get out of your way. I expect you’ve -lots to say to each other.”</p> - -<p>And before Roland quite knew what was happening he was alone with April. -He turned towards her, and as her eyes met his she blushed a little and -smiled, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> shy, wavering smile that said: “I am here; take me if you -want me, I am yours”—a smile that would have been to anyone else -indescribably beautiful, but that to Roland, at that moment, appeared -childish and absurd. He did not know what to say. He was in no mood for -protestations and endearments. He could not act a lie. There was an -embarrassing pause. April turned her face away from him. He said -nothing, he did nothing. And then very distinctly, very slowly, like a -child repeating a lesson:</p> - -<p>“Did you have a good crossing?” The tension was broken; he began to talk -quickly, eagerly, inconsequently—anything to prevent another such -moment. And then Mrs. Curtis came back and the conversation was -monopolized, till Roland reminded her that it was seven o’clock and that -he would have to be getting back.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t seen my father yet.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, of course. We mustn’t keep him, must we, April?”</p> - -<p>Roland took his leave, but April did not, as was usual, follow him to -the door. She remained huddled in the window-seat, and did not even turn -her head in his direction. She was angry with him, and no doubt with -good cause, he reflected; but Mrs. Curtis had gone so suddenly; he had -been taken off his guard. Heavens! but what a home-coming!</p> - -<p>He felt happier though next morning when he walked into the office of -Marston & Marston. Everyone was pleased to see him back; the girls in -the counting-house smiled at him. He was informed by the lift-boy that -his cricket had been sadly missed during the latter half of the season, -and Mr. Stevens literally leaped from his desk to shake him by the hand. -It was ripping to see Gerald again, to come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> into his room and hear that -quietly drawled: “Well, old son,” and resume, as he had left it, their -old friendship.</p> - -<p>“The governor’s awfully pleased with you,” said Gerald, “never seen the -old boy so excited over anything before. He’s been talking about nothing -else. He keeps on saying: ‘The fellow who can make fifty runs in half an -hour can run a business.’ But I’m damned if I know how you did it. I’ve -gone over there with carefully prepared introductions and had a chat -with a few johnnies, but you seem to have gone pirating about, holding -up Government officials and boosting into financiers’ offices. How’s it -done?”</p> - -<p>Roland laughed.</p> - -<p>“That’s my secret.”</p> - -<p>“You are welcome to it,” said Gerald; “and tell me, did you have any -real adventures?”</p> - -<p>“One or two.”</p> - -<p>“Where? Good ones?”</p> - -<p>“Not bad. Brussels, the usual place.”</p> - -<p>Gerald shook his head. “You should give it up, old son, it isn’t worth -it.”</p> - -<p>Roland laughed. “I like your talking! Why, I never knew such a fellow as -you for women.”</p> - -<p>“For women, yes, but not professionals.”</p> - -<p>“That’s much worse.”</p> - -<p>But Gerald shook his head. “No, it isn’t, my son. No man ever got any -good yet out of going with professionals.”</p> - -<p>But before Roland had had time to elucidate this riddle Mr. Marston had -entered the room. He took Roland’s hand in his and shook it heartily.</p> - -<p>“This is splendid, my dear fellow, splendid! They told me you’d come -back and I knew where I should find you. It’s good to have you back, and -you’ve done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> splendidly—far better, I don’t mind telling you, than any -of us expected. We all looked on this as a sort of trial. But, my word, -you’ve brought it off.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been telling him, father, that you’ve been going round London -saying that the man who can make fifty runs in half an hour is sure to -be able to run a business.”</p> - -<p>“And it’s true,” said Mr. Marston, “it’s true. If a man’s got the pluck -to face a ticklish situation at cricket, he can do anything. Business is -only bluff, like cricket, making the bowler think you’re set when you’re -really expecting every ball will be your last. If I’ve said it to Gerald -once I’ve said it fifty times. ‘My boy,’ I’ve said, ‘if you don’t do -another stroke of work in your life you’ll be worth a salary of five -hundred pounds a year for having brought young Whately to us.’ Now come -along and let’s go over those accounts.”</p> - -<p>They spent over an hour together, and at the end of it Mr. Marston rose -from his desk perfectly satisfied.</p> - -<p>“As far as I can see you haven’t made a slip. It’s first class -absolutely. Now, you run along to Perkins and settle up your personal -accounts with him, and then we’ll go out and have lunch somewhere -together, the three of us, and you can spend the afternoon at home. I -daresay your girl’s been missing you.”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t got a girl, sir.”</p> - -<p>“What! a young fellow like you not got a girl! We shall have to see -about that. Why, at your age I seem to remember....” And the old man -winked his eye and chuckled gayly.</p> - -<p>Perkins received Roland with considerable politeness, mingled for the -first time with respect, also, Roland suspected, with a more deep -dislike.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, so you’re back, are you? And they all tell me you’ve been doing -great things—interviewing Government officials.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve had a bit of luck.”</p> - -<p>“Useful luck?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”</p> - -<p>“And now you want me to have a look at the accounts?”</p> - -<p>“That’s it.”</p> - -<p>“Right; bring them along.”</p> - -<p>Roland laid out his personal accounts, his hotel bills, his railway -fares, his entertaining expenses.</p> - -<p>“And, as far as I can see,” he said, “there’s a balance of about -thirteen pounds in your favor.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll have a look and see,” said Mr. Perkins, and he began to -scrutinize the accounts carefully, adding up every bill, and checking -the amount of the German balance-sheet. Roland had taken a great deal of -trouble over these accounts. He would not have minded making a few slips -in the figures he had placed before Mr. Marston, but he was desperately -anxious to present no weak spots to Perkins.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Perkins, “these seem to be all right, and there’s a -balance, as you say, of thirteen pounds, five and threepence.”</p> - -<p>“Right,” said Roland, and began to count out the money.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but as far as I can see, there aren’t any—well, how shall I put -it?—any special expense accounts here. I usually let one or two of them -through all right.”</p> - -<p>“No, I’ve stated what all my charges are for.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, aren’t there one or two little things? Usually you young -gentlemen like to have a few extras put down.” And his face, that was -turned to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> Roland’s, assumed a cunning, knowing smile, an unpleasant -smile, the smile of a man in a subservient position who enjoys the -privilege of being able to confer a favor on his superior, and at the -same time despises his superior for asking it. Roland had known that it -was in exactly this way that Perkins would offer to slip through a -special expense account. He knew that by accepting this offer he would -place himself eternally in Perkins’s debt. That, as in Gerald’s case, -there would be between them an acknowledged confederacy. This he would -never have. He had, as a matter of fact, incurred very few of the -special expenses to which Perkins referred. He had worked hard; he had -been alone. Solitary indulgence is never very exciting; one wants -companionship, as in everything, and so he had confined his excesses to -a couple of visits to a discreet establishment in Brussels, of which he -had decided to defray the cost himself.</p> - -<p>He was able, therefore, to meet Perkins’s leer with a look of puzzled -interrogation.</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Perkins. I think you’ve all my accounts -there, and I owe you thirteen pounds, five shillings and threepence; -perhaps you’ll give me a receipt.”</p> - -<p>In the look that they exchanged as Mr. Perkins respectfully handed -Roland the receipt, each recognized the beginning of a long antagonism.</p> - -<p>“Thanks very much, Mr. Perkins.”</p> - -<p>Roland walked out of the room jauntily. He had had the best of the first -skirmish.</p> - -<p>This victory put him on excellent terms with himself, and, later, a -bottle of excellent Burgundy at lunch wooed him to so kindly a sympathy -for his fellow-beings that any leader of advanced political<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> opinions -would have found him an easy victim to any theory of world-brotherhood. -As, however, no harbinger of the new world accosted him on his way from -the City to Charing Cross Station, Roland was free to focus his entire -sympathy upon the forlorn figure of April. He thought of her suddenly -just outside Terry’s Theater, and the remembrance of his behavior to her -on the night before caused him to collide violently with an elderly -gentleman who was walking in the opposite direction. But he did not stop -to apologize; his sentimentality held a minor to his guilt. What a -selfish beast he had been. How miserable he must have made her. She must -have so looked forward to his return. He had hardly written to her while -he had been away. Poor little April, so sweet, so gentle. A wave of -tenderness for her consumed him. They had shared so much together; he -had confided in her his hopes and his ambitions. He worked himself into -a temper of self-abasement. He must go to her at once and beg -forgiveness.</p> - -<p>He found her sitting in the arm-chair before the fire. She raised her -eyes in mild amazement, surprised that he should visit her at such a -time. She did not know how she should comport herself. Her dignity told -her that she should rise and receive him coldly, but her instinct -counseled her to remain seated and hear what he had to say. She obeyed -her instinct. Roland flung his hat and stick on the cushioned -window-seat and precipitated himself at her feet. She tried to push him -away, but his voice murmuring the word “darling” overmastered her, and -she let him put his arms round her and draw her head upon his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“I feel such a beast, April, such a beast. All the day I have been -cursing myself and wondering what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> on earth possessed me. I don’t know -what it was. But all the time I’ve been away I’ve been so looking -forward to seeing you again. When I was all alone and unhappy I said to -myself: ‘Never mind, April’s waiting,’ and I thought how wonderful to -see you again, and then—— Oh, I don’t know, but when I came here last -night and found your mother here—I don’t know! All the time I was dying -to speak to you, and she would go on talking, and I got more and more -annoyed. And then, I don’t know how it happened, but I found myself -getting angry with you because of your mother.”</p> - -<p>“But you mustn’t, Roland, really you mustn’t. You shouldn’t speak of -mother like that; you know how good she’s been to us.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I know it, of course I do. But can’t you see what it was like -last night for me coming back to you, and wanting you, and then to hear -only your mother; and by the time she left us alone I had got so bad -tempered that——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you weren’t very nice, were you?”</p> - -<p>And he had begun to pour out a further torrent of explanation when he -saw that a sly, mischievous smile was playing round the corners of her -mouth and that she was no longer angry.</p> - -<p>“Then you’ll forgive me?” he said.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t know about that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you have, haven’t you? I know you have.”</p> - -<p>She began to remonstrate, to say that she had not forgiven him, that he -had been most unkind to her, but she made no resistance when his hand -slipped slowly round her neck and turned her face to his. And as he -raised it, she pouted ever so slightly her lips toward those that sank -to meet them. As their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> mouths met she passed one hand behind his head -and pressed it down to her. It was a long embrace, and when she drew -back from it, the luster of her eyes had grown dimmed and misty.</p> - -<p>“You’ve never kissed me like that before,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I’ve never really loved you before.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I should hate to think that.”</p> - -<p>“But why?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know. I’m silly, but if you only love me now, then -before—oh, it doesn’t matter, you love me now, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>And he answered her in the only possible way.</p> - -<p>One hour they had together, an hour of rich enchantment. The blinds were -drawn, the lamp unlighted; she sat on the floor with the firelight -playing over her, leaned back against him while he told her of Bruges -and its waterways, the proud boulevards of Brussels, the great cathedral -at Köln, the noble sweep of the Rhine and the hills on either side of -it. She followed little of what he said to her; it was enough for her, -after three long months, to be soothed by his presence, to hear his -voice, to hold his hand in hers, and to feel from time to time his -breath grow warm upon her neck and cheek as he bent to kiss her. It was -the tenderest hour their love had brought to them.</p> - -<p>But for Roland it was followed by a reaction. He felt, in a confused -manner, that he had been playing a part, that he had said what was but -half true. He had certainly been exasperated by Mrs. Curtis’s -conversation, but it was her talk, the supreme futility of her talk, -that had exasperated him. It had annoyed him in itself and not as being -a barrier between himself and April. He had told a lie.</p> - -<p>And it was not for the first time, he reminded himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> Half lies had -been an essential part of their love-making. At every crisis of their -relationship he had tampered with the truth. He had told her he had only -made love to Dolly because she had rejected him that evening at the -ball. He had told her that it was her belief in him that had inspired -his success at Hogstead. He had mistaken the fraction for the whole. -Were they never to meet on terms of common honesty? What was their love -worth if it had to live on lies?</p> - -<p>He returned home to find the drawing-room fire almost out.</p> - -<p>“Will these servants never do their work?” he grumbled.</p> - -<p>That evening the soup plates happened to be cold and the joint overdone.</p> - -<p>“It gets worse every day,” he said. “I don’t know what that girl thinks -she’s paid for. She never does anything right.”</p> - -<p>And when he went upstairs to turn on a bath he discovered that all the -hot water had been used in washing up the plates. He returned to the -drawing-room in a fury of impatience.</p> - -<p>“I do wish, mother,” he said, “that you’d explain to Lizzie that there’s -no need for her to wash herself as well as the plates in that sink of -hers.”</p> - -<p>“And I wish you wouldn’t grumble the whole time, Roland,” his mother -retorted. “Lizzie’s got a great deal to do. She has to do the cooking as -well as the housework. I think that, on the whole, she manages very -well.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you think so,” said Roland, and walked out of the room.</p> - -<p>Next morning he found on his plate a letter from Mrs. Marston, inviting -him down for the week-end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span></p> - -<p>“It seems such a long time since that cricket week,” she wrote, “and we -all want to congratulate you on your splendid work. So do come.”</p> - -<p>He handed the letter across to his mother.</p> - -<p>She raised her eyebrows interrogatively.</p> - -<p>“Well, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I shall go.”</p> - -<p>She did not answer him, and he read in her silence a disapproval.</p> - -<p>“You don’t want me to,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind, dear. It’s for you to decide.”</p> - -<p>“But you’d rather I didn’t?”</p> - -<p>“Well, dear, I was only thinking that as you’ve been away from us for -three months, and....”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mother, and what?”</p> - -<p>“Well, dear, to go away, the very first week-end.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ll be seeing lots of me all the week.”</p> - -<p>“I wasn’t thinking of us, though of course we like to have you here. It -was April; don’t you think it might rather hurt her feelings?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bother April!”</p> - -<p>“But, dear....”</p> - -<p>“I know, mother, but it’s April this and April that; it’s nothing but -April.”</p> - -<p>His mother raised to him a surprised, grieved face, but she made no -answer, and Roland, standing beside the table, experienced the sensation -of an anxious actor who has finished his speech in the middle of the -stage and does not know how to reach the wings.</p> - -<p>“You see, mother,” he began, but she raised a hand to stop him.</p> - -<p>“No, dear, don’t explain: I understand.”</p> - -<p>He cursed himself, as he walked to the bus, for his ill-temper. What a -beast he was—first to April, then to his mother; the two people for -whom he cared most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> in the world. What was wrong? Why was he behaving -like this? It had not been always so. At school he had had a reputation -for good-naturedness—“a social lubricant,” someone had called him—and -at Hogstead he was still the same, cheerful, good-humored, willing to do -anything for anyone else. He became his old self in the company of -Gerald and his father and the light-hearted, irresponsible Muriel. It -was only at Hammerton that he was irritable and quick to take offense. -His ill-humor fell away from him, however, the moment that he reached -the office.</p> - -<p>“Well, old son,” said Gerald, “and did you get a letter from the mater -this morning?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“And you’re coming?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know yet.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but of course you are. They’ll all be fearfully annoyed if you -don’t, especially Muriel——”</p> - -<p>“Muriel! Why, what did she say?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing particular as far as I remember, but she seemed frightfully -keen. She says you’re the only one of my friends she’s any use for. She -finds them too stuck up—middle-aged at twenty she calls them. So you’ll -have to come.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I shall.”</p> - -<p>“Of course you will. Sit down and write a note this minute, so that -there’s no chance of your thinking better.”</p> - -<p>When Roland returned home that night his mother made no reference to the -scene at the breakfast table. They spoke at dinner of indifferent -things, politics and personalities; but there was a brooding atmosphere -of disquiet. Not until nearly bedtime did Roland announce his intention -of going down to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> Hogstead. His mother’s reply expressed neither -reproach nor disappointment.</p> - -<p>“Yes, dear,” she said; “well, I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.”</p> - -<p>And just because her voice was even and unchallenging, Roland felt that -he had to give some explanation.</p> - -<p>“You see, mother, Mr. Marston is, after all, my boss, and these -visits—well, they’re rather a royal command. They’d be a bit annoyed if -I didn’t go.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, dear, of course. We only want you to do what you think -best.”</p> - -<p>But he knew that she was disappointed. She was right, too. He supposed -he ought really to have stayed at home and gone for a walk with April. -He felt guilty in his attitude towards April, guilty and, in a way, -resentful, resentful against these repeated demands on his time and -energy, against this assumption of an unflagging passion, an eternal -intoxication. And yet he did feel guilty. Was he treating her as a boy -ought to treat his girl? How rarely, for example, had he ever taken her -anywhere. Ah, well, that at least he could remedy.</p> - -<p>Next day, during his lunch hour, he went round to the box office of the -Adelphi and bought three stalls for Thursday night. He returned home -with the happy air of one that carries a delightful surprise in his -pocket.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” he said, “what are you doing on Thursday night?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing, dear, as far as I know.”</p> - -<p>“Well, would you like to come out somewhere with me?”</p> - -<p>“You know I always like to go out anywhere with you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span></p> - -<p>“And April?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, dear.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, what do you say to a dinner in Soho and the Adelphi -afterwards?”</p> - -<p>“But, dear—oh, you don’t mean it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do, mother. I wanted to celebrate my return, so I got the three -seats. I’ve booked the table, and there we are.”</p> - -<p>Her face flushed with pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you shouldn’t have, really you shouldn’t, and you don’t want -me.”</p> - -<p>“Of course we do, mother, and anyhow we could hardly go alone.”</p> - -<p>“And have you told April?”</p> - -<p>“No, I’m just off to tell her.”</p> - -<p>He bent down, kissed her, then straightened himself and ran out of the -room. She heard his footsteps clatter on the stairs, then move about in -the bedroom above her, and then once more clatter on the stairs. She -sighed, her eyes dimming a little, but glad, inexpressibly glad, that he -should still need her in his happiness.</p> - -<p>Roland found April alone.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“What is it?”</p> - -<p>“What do you think?”</p> - -<p>“A box of chocolates.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want a box of chocolates?”</p> - -<p>“I should like one.”</p> - -<p>“Right! Then I’ll go and get you one.” And he turned towards the door, -but she ran after him and caught him by the sleeve of his coat.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be silly,” she said; “come back!”</p> - -<p>“But you said you wanted a box of chocolates.”</p> - -<p>“But I want to know what your surprise is first?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, then, have a look in my pockets and see if you can find it.”</p> - -<p>She put both her hands in his coat pockets, and quickly, before she knew -what he was doing, his arms were round her, and he had drawn her close -to him. Her hands were prisoners in his pockets and she was powerless. -Slowly he put his face to hers and kissed her.</p> - -<p>“That’s not fair,” she said.</p> - -<p>“It’s very nice.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay, but I want to know what your surprise is?”</p> - -<p>For answer he placed the envelope in her hand; she looked puzzled, but -when she had opened it she gave a little cry of delight.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Roland, how dear of you!”</p> - -<p>“Then you’ll come?”</p> - -<p>“Of course. Oh, Roland, dear! It’s years since I went to a theater. I -shall love it.”</p> - -<p>He was delighted with the success of his plan. He felt happy and -confident. How pretty, how charming April was; how much he was in love -with her. He took her on his knee and insisted on rearranging her hair.</p> - -<p>“But you’re only making it worse, Roland,” she complained.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I’m not; I’m getting on splendidly. You just wait and see,” and -he continued to stroke her hair, dividing it so that he could kiss her -neck.</p> - -<p>“It’s in an awful state,” she said, “and someone is sure to come before -I can tidy it.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you worry,” he said, drawing his fingers along the curved roll of -hair. And then suddenly it all came down; the long tresses fell in a -cascade about them, covering them in a fine brown net.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, you beast, you beast!” she said, struggling to get up.</p> - -<p>But he held her close.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; it’s ripping like that. You look lovely.”</p> - -<p>“Do I?”</p> - -<p>“And, look, I can kiss you through your hair,” and he drew a thin curl -across her mouth and laid his upon it, moving his lips slightly up and -down till he had drawn the hair into their mouths and their lips could -meet.</p> - -<p>“But you did it on purpose, I’m sure you did. It couldn’t have happened -like that of its own, all of a sudden.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what if it didn’t! You look simply ripping.”</p> - -<p>She laughed happily, hiding her face upon his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“It’s very wrong of you, though.”</p> - -<p>“What! wrong to make you look pretty!”</p> - -<p>And she could not refrain from kissing him.</p> - -<p>“What would mother say?”</p> - -<p>“She’s out.”</p> - -<p>“But if she came in?”</p> - -<p>“She won’t.”</p> - -<p>“Well, at any rate, I shall have to go and put it up.”</p> - -<p>“No, please don’t.”</p> - -<p>“But suppose someone comes in?”</p> - -<p>“They won’t. And besides, if they did, they ought to think themselves -jolly lucky; you look simply lovely!”</p> - -<p>“Do I?” The words came in a soft whisper from lips almost touching his.</p> - -<p>“As always.” The hand that lay in his pressed tightly. “You’ll stay like -that, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>“If you’re good.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span></p> - -<p>“Darling!”</p> - -<p>He did not tell her about the dinner. He suggested that he should call -for her at six, and she was too excited at the time to take into account -so material a consideration as food. But her eyes sparkled with pleasure -when he took her into the little Soho restaurant where he had booked a -table. She had never been in such a place before and her delight in the -unfamiliar room and food was joy to Roland. For her it was a place of -mystery and enchantment. She asked him hurried, excited questions: What -sort of people came here? Did he think the lady in the corner was an -actress? Who had painted the brightly colored fresco? He persuaded her -to take half a glass of wine; she sipped at it in a fascinating, nervous -manner, with little pecks, as though she thought it were going to burn -her, and between each sip she would smile at Roland over the rim of the -wine glass. As she sat she flung to left and right quick, eager glances -at the waiter, the hangings, the occupants of the other tables. Her -excitement charmed Roland. It was like seeing a child play with a new -toy. In a way, too, it was an excitant to his vanity, a tribute to his -manhood, to his superior knowledge of the world. And in the theater, -when the light was turned out, he sat close to her and held her hand -tightly at the moments of dramatic tension; and when she marveled at the -beauty of the heroine he whispered in her ear: “Nothing like as pretty -as you are!” And Mrs. Whately, sitting on the other side of Roland, -glanced at them from time to time with a kind indulgence, remembering -her youth, and her early love-making. It was a memorably happy evening. -When Roland walked back with April and kissed her good-night in the -doorway she said nothing, but her hand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> clenched tightly on the lapel of -his coat. And when he returned home he saw in his mother’s eye an -expression of love and gratitude that had not been there for a long -while.</p> - -<p>He walked upstairs in a mood of deep contentment. After he had undressed -he stood for a moment at the open window, looking out over the roofs and -chimney stacks of London. Behind a few window panes glowed the faint -light of a candle or a lamp, but the majority of the houses were -obscured in darkness. Hammerton was asleep. But the confused murmur of -traffic and the faint red glow in the sky reminded him that the true -London, the London that he loved, was only now waking to a night of -pleasure. Ah, well, to-morrow he would be at Hogstead. He flung back his -arms with the proud relief of one who has fulfilled his obligations and -is at liberty to take his own enjoyment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /><br /> -<small>LILITH AND MURIEL</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>OLAND was in the true holiday mood as he stepped into the afternoon -train to Hogstead. He had before him the prospect of sixty hours of real -happiness. He would be made much of, he would be congratulated, he would -be able, on occasions, to lead the conversation. It was no small feat -that he had accomplished. He had won the appreciation of a family that -was satisfied with itself and was inclined to regard its own -achievements as the summit of human ability and ambition. It had been -simple in comparison to make an impression on April—a dinner in a Soho -restaurant. Muriel and Beatrice would have accepted such an evening as a -matter of course, an affair of everyday occurrence. His heart beat -quickly as he thought of Beatrice. Would she be there, he wondered. -Would she have heard of his success? What effect would it have made on -her? She might regard it as much or little. One never knew. Muriel, -though, had been impressed; that he knew for certain. It would be great -fun receiving her congratulations. He thought of her as he had left her -four months ago, a tousle-headed Muriel, a little girl who had charmed -him with her chatter and had been so unexpectedly petulant when he had -questioned her about her aunt. He had not realized that at seventeen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> -four months make a big difference with a girl. No one had told him that -she had put her hair up and that her skirts would only reveal the instep -of her ankle. He had left her a girl and she had become a woman.</p> - -<p>She was the first person he saw on his arrival. A footman had just taken -his bag and was helping him off with his coat when the drawing-room door -opened, there was a rustle of skirts, and Muriel came impulsively to -greet him.</p> - -<p>He drew back in surprise at the sight of her tall, graceful figure, with -the long, tightly fitting skirt and hair no longer tossing mischievously -about her shoulders, but gathered behind her neck in a long, wide curve.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter, Roland?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“But, Muriel,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“You are so changed.”</p> - -<p>She broke into a peal, a silvery peal, of laughter.</p> - -<p>“So you have noticed it? We wondered whether you would. Mother thought -you would, but I said you wouldn’t. And Gerald had a bet with father -about it and he’s won, so he’ll have to take us all to a theater. Come -and tell them about it.”</p> - -<p>Roland followed her in amazement. The change in her was so unexpected. -He had always looked on her as a little girl whom he had teased and -played with, and now, suddenly, in a night, she had grown up into a -daughter of that other world of which he had caught fleeting, enticing -glimpses at restaurants and theaters. He watched her as she laughed and -talked, unable to realize that this was the little girl with whom he had -played last summer. And yet to him she was unaltered. She offered him -the same frank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> comradeship. She took him for a walk after tea and spoke -with real enthusiasm of his success.</p> - -<p>“I can’t say how glad I am, Roland. I was so awfully anxious for you to -come off. I was so afraid something might go wrong. I think it’s -wonderful of you.”</p> - -<p>Her words thrilled him. It was something to win the admiration of a girl -like Muriel. April was naturally impressed by his achievements. Of -course it would be wonderful to her that he should visit great cities -and dabble in high finance. It was like a fairy story that had come -true. But Muriel had spent all her life in that world. She had traveled; -her parents were rich. She was accustomed to the jargon of finance. It -would have been a feat for him, a new-comer to that world, to have -proved himself able to move comfortably there, but to have impressed her -with his achievements ... and when she began to ask him how he had -maneuvered those big interviews his flattered vanity could not allow him -to hold his secret.</p> - -<p>“But I’ve told no one,” he said, “not even my people.”</p> - -<p>“That’s all the more reason why you should tell me.”</p> - -<p>“Will you promise to keep it a secret?”</p> - -<p>“On my honor.”</p> - -<p>And so he told her of his fortune and adroitness, how he had met -Monsieur Rocheville in the restaurant and how he had tricked Herr -Haupsehr with the magic name of Brumenhein. She laughed heartily and -asked him questions. What would happen if the two ever met?</p> - -<p>“The Lord knows,” said Roland. “But in the meantime we shall have sold -many gallons of varnish,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> and perhaps we shall have become indispensable -to the old fellow.”</p> - -<p>They made no mention during their walk of Beatrice. For some unexplained -reason Roland had felt shy of asking Muriel whether she was to be one of -the party. He had been content to wait and, on their return, he -experienced, as he pushed open the drawing-room door, a sudden -surprising anxiety. Would Beatrice be there? He assumed composure, but -he could not prevent his eyes traveling quickly round the room in search -of her. When he saw that she was not there he felt a sudden emptiness, a -genuine disappointment. She would not be coming, then. And now that she -was not there half his excitement, his enthusiasm, was gone. He sat -beside Mrs. Marston and discussed, without interest, the costliness of -Brussels lace, and wondered how soon he could conveniently go and change -for dinner. The minutes dragged by.</p> - -<p>And then at last, in that half hour when the room was slowly emptying, -the door opened and he saw Beatrice, her slim figure silhouetted against -the dull red wall paper of the hall. His heart almost stopped beating. -Would she notice him, he wondered. Had she forgotten their lunch -together? Had the growing intimacy between them been dispelled by a four -months’ absence? He watched her walk slowly into the room, her hair, as -ever, disordered about her neck and temples, and on her features that -look of difference, of being apart, of belonging to another world, that -appearance of complete detachment. Then suddenly she saw Roland, and -smiled and walked quickly forward, her hand stretched out to him.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been hearing so much about you,” she said. “They tell me you’ve -been doing wonderful things.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> Come and sit with me over here and tell me -all about it.”</p> - -<p>And once again the love of vanity prompted him to confess his secret.</p> - -<p>“But you won’t tell anyone, will you?” he implored.</p> - -<p>She smiled. “If I can keep my own secrets, surely I can keep yours,” she -said. Then, after a pause, “And they tell me Gerald won his bet.”</p> - -<p>He blushed hotly. “Yes.”</p> - -<p>“I knew he would,” she said, and she leaned forward, as she had at the -restaurant, her hands pillowing her chin, her eyes fixed on his.</p> - -<p>Roland laughed nervously. “But I don’t see why,” he began.</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “That’s the mistake all you men make. You think a -woman sees nothing unless she’s not watching you the whole time. But she -does.”</p> - -<p>It flattered him to be included under the general heading of “you men.” -And at that moment Muriel came into the room. She was wearing a low -evening dress, wonderfully charming in her new-found womanhood. Roland’s -eyes followed her in admiration.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t she pretty?” he said. “That pale blue dress; it’s just right. It -goes well with her complexion. Pale colors always do.”</p> - -<p>Beatrice did not answer for a moment; then she gave a little sigh. “Yes, -Muriel is very pretty. I envy her.”</p> - -<p>Roland turned quickly to her a look of surprised interrogation.</p> - -<p>“But you! Why you look younger than any of us.”</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps; but what’s the use of it to me? -Ah, don’t say anything, please.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> You mustn’t waste your time on me. Go -on and talk to Muriel.”</p> - -<p>Dinner that evening was a jovial meal. Muriel having announced with due -solemnity that Gerald had won his bet, she proceeded to decide at what -theater Mr. Marston should fulfill his obligation.</p> - -<p>“And don’t you think,” said Muriel, “that Roland ought to come with us? -If it weren’t for him we shouldn’t be going at all.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he ought, the young rascal, though I can’t think why he -should have spotted it. Muriel was an untidy little scamp when he went -away, and she’s an untidy little scamp now he’s come back.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, father!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you are. You can’t tell what’s on purpose with you and what isn’t; -you’re all over the place.”</p> - -<p>It was perfectly untrue, of course, but they laughed all the same.</p> - -<p>“That’s a poor excuse, father,” said Gerald. “I knew he’d spot it. It’s -through spotting things like that that he manages to wrangle interviews -with all these pots.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is, perhaps it is; I’m bothered if I know how he does it.” -And Roland and Muriel exchanged a swift glance of confederacy; a feeling -that was increased when the last post arrived and Mr. Marston -interrupted the general conversation with a piece of news his letter had -brought him.</p> - -<p>“My dear, here’s a funny thing. I never saw it in the papers, though I -suppose it must have been in them. But that fellow Brumenhein is dead.”</p> - -<p>“Brumenhein!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you know—the fellow whom the Kaiser thought such a lot of. People -said he might very likely supplant Griegenbach.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span></p> - -<p>“I didn’t dare look at you,” Roland said to Muriel afterwards. “I -couldn’t have kept a straight face if I had.”</p> - -<p>“And what a bit of luck.”</p> - -<p>“It may save me a lot of unpleasantness later on.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a wonderful boy.”</p> - -<p>They were saying good night to each other on the landing, and Muriel, -who slept on the second floor, was standing on the stairs, leaning over -the banisters. Her words made Roland feel very brave and confident.</p> - -<p>“And to think that you didn’t expect me to notice that you had put your -hair up!”</p> - -<p>He meant it as a joking repartee to her compliment, but the moment after -he had said it he felt frightened. They looked at each other and said -nothing. There was a moment of chill, intense embarrassment, then Muriel -gave a nervous laugh and, turning quickly, ran up to her bedroom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PART_IV" id="PART_IV"></a>PART IV<br /><br /> -<small>ONE WAY OR ANOTHER</small></h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /><br /> -<small>THREE YEARS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE next three years of Roland’s life were an amplification of those -three days, and nothing would be gained by a detailed description of -them. The narrative would be cut across frequently by visits to Europe, -dropped threads would have to be gathered up, relationships reopened. -The action was delayed, interrupted and, at times, held up altogether. -The trips abroad were always altering Roland’s perspective, and the -sense of distance made him reconsider his attitude. Four months after -the events described in the last chapter he had reached a state of acute -reaction against his home, his parents and, in a way, against April, -because of her connection with that world from which he was endeavoring -to escape. Very little was needed to drive him into declared revolt, but -at that moment he was sent abroad and, once abroad, everything became -different. He began to accuse himself of selfishness and ingratitude. -His parents had denied themselves comfort and pleasure to send him to an -expensive school; they had given him everything. Like the pelican, they -had gone hungry so that he should be full. Since he could remember, the -life of that family had centered round him. Every question had been -considered on the bearing it would have on his career. Was this the -manner of repayment? And it was the same with April. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> forgot her -mother and her home; he remembered only her beauty and her love for him, -her fixed, unwavering love, and the dreams that they had shared. He -always returned home in a temper of sentimentality, full of good -resolutions, promising himself that he would be gentle and sympathetic -to his parents, that he would never swerve from his love for April. The -first days were invariably soft and sweet; but in a short time the old -conflict reasserted itself; the bright world of Hogstead stood in -dazzling contrast to the unromantic Hammerton. He became irritated, as -before, by the trifling inconveniences of a house that lacked a parlor -maid; unpunctual, unappetizing meals; and, more especially, by the -endless friction imposed on him by the company of men and women who had -been harassed all their lives by the fret and worry of small houses and -small incomes. Trivial, ignoble troubles, that was the misfortune of -everyone fated to live in Hammerton. And April was a part of it. He was -very fond of her; indeed, he still thought he was in love with her, but -love for Roland was dependent on many other things, was bound up with -his other enthusiasms and reactions. He enjoyed her company and her -caresses. In her presence he was capable of genuine tenderness; but it -was so easy. April responded so simply to any kindness shown to her. -There was no uncertainty about her. He missed the swift anger of the -chase.</p> - -<p>More and more frequently he found himself receiving and accepting -invitations to spend the week-end at Hogstead; and always when he -announced his intention of going there he was aware of silent criticism -on the part of his parents. He felt guilty and ashamed of himself for -feeling guilty. It became a genuine struggle for him to pronounce the -words at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> breakfast. It was like confessing a secret, and he hated it. -Had he not a right to choose his friends? Then would come a reaction of -acute self-accusation and he would improvise a treat, a theater or a -picnic. His emotions would fling it like a sop to his conscience: -“There, does that content you? Now may I go and live my own life?” -Afterwards, of course, he was again bitterly ashamed of himself.</p> - -<p>But always on the ebb-flow of his contrition came fear—the instinct of -self-preservation, to save, at all costs, his individuality from the -fate that threatened it. Whenever things seemed likely to reach a head, -a European trip would intervene, and the whole business would have to -begin again. An action that would ordinarily have completed its rhythm -within three or four months was lengthened into three years; in the end -inevitably the curve of the parabola was reached. The time was drawing -near when Roland would have to make his decision one way or another.</p> - -<p>He was by now earning a salary of four hundred pounds a year, and -marriage—marriage as his parents understood it—was well within his -means. Up till now, whenever any suggestion about the date of his -marriage had been advanced, he referred to the uncertain nature of his -work.</p> - -<p>“I never know where I’m going to be from one week to another. Marriage -is out of the question for a chap with a job like that.”</p> - -<p>Their engagement was still unannounced. He had retained that loophole, -though at the time it was not so that he had regarded it.</p> - -<p>Ralph had asked him once whether he was engaged. And the question had -put him on his guard. He didn’t like engagements. Love was a secret -between two people. Why make it public? He must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> strike before the enemy -struck. In other words, he must come to an agreement with April before -her mother opened negotiations. That evening he had brought up the -subject.</p> - -<p>He was sitting in the window-seat, while she was on a stool beside him, -her head resting against his knees and his hand stroking slowly her neck -and hair and cheek.</p> - -<p>“You know, darling,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about our engagement.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, dear.”</p> - -<p>“Well, are you awfully keen on an engagement?”</p> - -<p>“But how do you mean? We shall have to be engaged sometime, shan’t we?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course, yes. But there’s no need for a long engagement, is -there? What I mean is that we could easily get engaged now if we wanted -to. But it would be a long business, and oh, I don’t know! Once we’re -engaged our affairs cease to be our own. People will be asking us -‘When’s the happy day?’ and all that sort of thing. Our love won’t be -our own any longer.”</p> - -<p>“It’s just as you like, dear.”</p> - -<p>It was so nice to sit there against his knee, with his fingers against -her face. Why should they worry about things? It would be nice to be -engaged, of course, and to have a pretty ring, but it didn’t matter. -“It’s just as you like,” she had said, and they had left it at that over -two years ago and there had been no reason to rediscuss it. But he knew -that now the whole matter would have to be brought up. It had been -decided that he was to remain in London for a couple of years in charge -of the Continental branch; he would have to go abroad occasionally, but -there would be no more long trips. He was in a position to marry if he -wanted to. His family would expect<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> him to, those of his friends who had -heard of the “understanding” would expect him to, Mrs. Curtis would -expect him to, and he owed it to April that he should marry her. For -years now he had kept her waiting. There was not the slightest doubt as -to what was his duty.</p> - -<p>Nothing, however, could alter the fact that there was nothing in the -world that he wanted less than this marriage. It would mean an end to -all those pleasant week-ends at Hogstead. It was one thing to invite a -young bachelor who was no trouble to look after and who was amusing -company; it was quite another thing to entertain a married couple. He -would no longer be able to throw into his business that undivided energy -of his. He would not be free; he would have to play for safety. As his -friendship with the Marstons began to wane, he would become increasingly -every year an employee and not an associate. He would belong to the -ruled class. And it would be the end, too, of his pleasant little dinner -parties with Gerald. He would have to be very careful with his money. -They would be fairly comfortable in a small house for the first year or -so, but from the birth of their first child their life would become -complicated with endless financial worries and would begin to resemble -that of his own father and mother, till, finally, he would lose interest -in himself and begin to live in his children. What a world! The failure -of the parent became forgotten in the high promise of the child, and -that child grew up only to meet and be broken by the conspiracy of the -world’s wisdom and, in its turn, to focus its thwarted ambitions on its -children, and then its children’s children. That was the eternal cycle -of disillusion; whatever happened he must break that wheel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span></p> - -<p>But the battle appeared hopeless. The forces were so strong that were -marshaled against him. What chance did he stand against that mingled -appeal of sentiment and habit? All that spring he felt himself standing -upon a rapidly crumbling wall. Whenever he went down to Hogstead he kept -saying to himself: “Yes, I’m safe now, secure within time and space. But -it’s coming. Nothing can stop it. Night follows day, winter summer; one -can’t fight against the future, one can’t anticipate it. One has to -wait; it chooses its own time and its own place.” At the office he was -fretful and absent-minded.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter with you?” Gerald asked him once.</p> - -<p>“Nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but there must be, you’ve been awfully queer the last week or so.”</p> - -<p>Roland did not answer, and there was an awkward silence.</p> - -<p>“I say, old man, I don’t quite like asking you, but you’re not in debt -or anything, are you? Because if you are, I mean”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, really. I’m not even ‘overdrawn.’ ”</p> - -<p>In Gerald’s experience of the world there were two ills to which mankind -was heir—money and woman. The subdivisions of these ills were many, but -he recognized no other main source. If Roland was not in debt, then -there was a woman somewhere, and later in the day he brought the matter -up again.</p> - -<p>“I say, old son, you’ve not been making an ass of yourself with some -woman, have you? No one’s got hold of you, have they?”</p> - -<p>“Lord, no!” laughed Roland. “I only wish they had!”</p> - -<p>But Gerald raised a warning finger.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span></p> - -<p>“Touch wood, my son. Don’t insult Providence. You can take my word for -it that sooner or later some woman will get hold of you and then it’s -the devil, the very devil. Did I ever tell you about the girl at -Broadstairs?” And there ensued the description of a seaside amour, -followed by some shrewd generalities on the ways of a man with—but to -conclude the quotation would be hardly pertinent. At any rate, Gerald -told his story and pointed his moral.</p> - -<p>“You may take my word for it, adultery is a whacking risk. It’s awfully -jolly while it lasts, and you think yourself no end of a dog when you -offer the husband a cigar, but sooner or later the wife clings round the -bed-post and says: ‘Darling, I have deceived you!’ And then you’re in -it, up to the ruddy neck!”</p> - -<p>Roland laughed, as he always did, at Gerald’s stories, but it hurt him -to think that his friend should have noticed a change in him. If he was -altered already by a few weeks of Hammerton, what would he be like in -five years’ time after the responsibilities of marriage had had their -way with him? And marriage was not for five years, but for fifty.</p> - -<p>He never spoke to Gerald of April now. There had been a time in the -early days of their friendship when he had confided in him, under an -oath of secrecy, that he hoped to marry her as soon as his position -permitted. And Gerald had agreed with him that it was a fine thing to -marry young, “and it’s the right thing for you,” he added; “some fellows -are meant for marriage and others aren’t. I think you’re one of the ones -that are.” A cryptic statement that Roland had, at the time, called in -question, but Gerald only laughed. “I may be wrong,” he had said, “one -never knows, but I don’t think I am.” Often afterwards<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> he had asked -Roland about April and whether they were still in love with each other -as much as ever, and Roland, his vanity flattered by the inquiry, had -assured him of their constancy. But of late, when Gerald had made some -light reference to “the fair April,” Roland had changed the -conversation, or, if a question were asked, had answered it obliquely, -or managed to evade it, so that Gerald had realized that the subject was -no longer agreeable to him, and, being blessed with an absence of -curiosity, had dropped it from his repertoire of pleasantries. But he -did not connect April with his friend’s despondency.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /><br /> -<small>THREE DAYS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE summer was nearly over, however, before the crisis came. It was on a -Friday evening in the beginning of September, and Roland was sitting -with his mother, as was usual with them, for a short talk after his -father had gone to bed. He could tell that something was worrying her. -Her conversation had been disjointed and many of her remarks irrelevant. -And suddenly his instinct warned him that she was going to speak to him -about April. He went suddenly still. If someone had thrown a stone at -him at that moment he would have been unable to move out of the way of -it. He could recollect distinctly, to the end of his life, everything -that had passed through his mind during that minute of terrifying -silence that lay between his realization of what was coming and the -first sound of that opening sentence.</p> - -<p>“Roland, dear, I hope you won’t mind my mentioning it, but your father -and I have been talking together about you and April.”</p> - -<p>He could remember everything: the shout of a newsboy in the -street—“Murder in Tufnell Park!” the slight rustle of the curtain -against the window-sill; the click of his mother’s knitting needles. -And, till that moment, he had never noticed that the pattern of the -carpet was irregular, that on the left side there were seven roses and -five poppies and on the right<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> six roses and six poppies. They had had -that carpet for twenty years and he had never noticed it before. His -eyes were riveted on this curious deformity, while through the window -came the shriek of the newsboy—“Murder in Tufnell Park!” Then his -mother’s voice broke the tension. The moment had come; he gathered his -strength to him. As he had walked five years earlier with unflinching -head, up the hill to Carus Evans, so now he answered his mother with an -even voice:</p> - -<p>“Yes, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Well, dear, we’ve been thinking that you really ought to be settling -something definite about yourself and April.”</p> - -<p>“But we didn’t want to be engaged, mother.”</p> - -<p>“I wasn’t thinking of that, dear. I know about that. It’s a modern idea, -I suppose, though I think myself that it would have been better some -time ago, but it’s not an engagement so much we’re thinking of as of -your marriage.”</p> - -<p>It was more sudden than Roland had expected.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but—oh, surely Mrs. Curtis would never agree. She’d say we were -much too young.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s what we thought, but I went round and saw her the other -day, and she quite agreed with us that it was really no good waiting any -longer. You are making a lot of money, and it’s quite likely that Mr. -Marston will raise your salary when he hears you’re going to be married; -and after all, why should you wait? As I said to your father: ‘They’ve -known each other for a long time, and if they don’t know their minds now -they never will.’ ”</p> - -<p>Roland did not know what to say. He was unarmed by a sympathy and -kindness against which he could not fight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span></p> - -<p>“It’s awfully decent of you.” Those were the only words that occurred to -him, and he knew, even as he uttered them, that they were not only -completely inadequate, but pitifully inexpressive of his state of mind.</p> - -<p>“We only want to do what will make you happy, and it is happier to marry -young, really it is!”</p> - -<p>He made a last struggle.</p> - -<p>“But, mother, don’t you think that for April’s sake—she’s so young. -Isn’t it rather hard on her to be loaded with responsibilities so -early?”</p> - -<p>“It’s nice of you to think that, Roland. It shows you really care for -her; but I think that in the end, when she’s an old woman like I am, -she’ll be glad she married young.”</p> - -<p>And then, because Roland looked still doubtful, she offered him the -benefit of what wisdom the narrow experiences of her life had brought -her. She had never unlocked her heart before; it hurt her to do it now -and her eyes welled with tears. But she felt that, at this great crisis -of his life, she must be prepared to lay before her son everything that -might help him in it. It might be of assistance to him to know how these -things touched a woman, and so she told him how she too had once thought -it cruel that responsibilities should have been laid on her so soon.</p> - -<p>“I was only nineteen when I married your father, and things were very -difficult at first. It was a small house, we had no servant, and I had -to get up early in the morning and light the fires and get the breakfast -things ready, and all the morning I had to scrub and brush and wash up. -I had no friends. And then, after tea, I used to lie down for an hour -and rest, I was so tired, and I wanted to look fresh and pretty for your -father when he came home. And there were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> times when I thought it was -unfair; that I should have been allowed to be free and happy and -unworried like other girls of my age. I used to see some of my school -friends very occasionally and they used to tell me of their balls and -parties, and I was so envious. And then very often your father was -irritable and bad-tempered when he came back, and he found fault with my -cooking, and I used to go away and cry all by myself and wonder why I -was doing it, working so hard and for nothing. And then I began to think -he didn’t love me any more; there was another girl: she was fresher; she -didn’t have to do any housework. There was nothing in it; it never came -to anything. Your father was always faithful; he’s always been very good -to me, but I could see from the way his face lighted up when she came -into the room that he was attracted by her, and I can’t tell you how it -hurt me. I used to think that he preferred that other girl, that he -thought her prettier than I was. It wasn’t easy those first three years. -When you’ve been married three years you’re almost certain to regret it -and think you could have done better with someone else, but after ten -years you’ll know very well that you couldn’t, because, Roland, love -doesn’t last; not what you mean by love; but something takes its place, -and that something is more important. When two people have been through -as much together as your father and I have, there’s—I don’t know how to -put it—but, you can’t do without each other. And it makes a big -difference the being married early. That’s why I should like you and -April to marry as soon as ever you can. You’d never regret it.”</p> - -<p>The tears began to trickle slowly down her cheeks; she tried to go on, -but failed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span></p> - -<p>Roland did not know what to do or say. He had never loved his mother so -much as he did then, but he could not express that love for her with -words. He knelt forward and put his arms round her and drew her damp -cheek to his.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” he whispered. “Mother, darling!”</p> - -<p>For a long time they remained thus in a silent embrace. Then she drew -back, straightened herself, and began to dab at her eyes with a -handkerchief.</p> - -<p>“It’ll be all right, mother,” he said.</p> - -<p>She did not answer, but smiled a soft, glad smile, and taking his hand -pressed it gently between hers.</p> - -<p>“As long as you’re happy, Roland,” she said.</p> - -<p>And so the crisis had come and had been settled. In those few minutes -the direction of fifty years had been chosen finally. It was hard, but -what would you? Life went that way. At any rate he would have those -first few scented months; that at least was his. For a year he and April -would be indescribably happy in the new-found intimacy of marriage, and -afterwards—but of what could one be certain? For all he knew life might -choose to readjust itself. One could not have anything both ways; -indeed, one paid for everything. The Athenian parent had been far-seeing -when he knelt before the altar in prayer that the compensating evil for -his son’s success might be light. One should do what lay to hand. As he -curled himself in his bed he thought of April, and his heart beat -quickly at the knowledge that her grace and tenderness would soon be -his.</p> - -<p>He shut away all thought of the dark years that must follow the passing -of that first enchantment and fixed his mind on the sure pleasure that -awaited him. How wonderful, after all, marriage could be. To return home -at the end of the day and find your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> wife waiting for you. You would be -tired and she would take you in her arms and run cool fingers through -your hair, and you would talk together for a while, and she would tell -you what she had done during the day, and you would tell her of whom you -had met and of the business you had transacted, and you would bring your -successes and lay them at her feet and you would say: “I made so much -money to-day.” And your words would lock that money away in her little -hand—“All yours,” they would seem to say. Then you would go upstairs -and change for dinner, and when you came down you would find her -standing before the fire, one long, bare arm lying along the -mantelpiece, and you would come to her and very slowly pass your hand -along it, and, bending your head, you would kiss the smooth skin of her -neck. And could anything be more delightful than the quiet dinner -together? Then would come the slow contentment of that hour or so before -bedtime, while the warmth of the fire subsided slowly and you sat -talking in low tones. And, afterwards, when you were alone in the warm -darkness to love each other. Marriage must be a very fine adventure.</p> - -<p>The next day brought with it its own problems, and on this Saturday -morning in early autumn the white mist that lay over the roofs of -Hammerton was a sufficient object of speculation. Did it veil the blue -sky that adds so much to the charm of cricket, or a gray, sodden expanse -of windy, low-flying clouds? It was the last Saturday of the cricket -season. Roland was, naturally, bound for Hogstead, and there is no day -in the whole year on which the cricketer watches the sky with more -anxiety. In May he is impatient for his first innings, but as he walks -up and down the pavilion in his spiked boots and hears the rain patter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> -on the corrugated iron roof he can comfort himself with the knowledge -that sooner or later the sun will shine, if not this week, then the -next, and that in a long season he is bound to have many opportunities -of employing that late cut he has been practicing so assiduously at the -nets. In the middle of the season he is a hardened warrior; he takes the -bad with the good; he has outgrown his first eagerness; he has become, -in fact, a philosopher. Last week he made seventy-two against the Stoics -and was missed in the slips before he had scored. Such fortune is bound -to be followed by a few disappointments. But at the end of the season a -wet day is a dire misfortune. As he sits in the pavilion and watches the -rain sweep across the pitch he remembers that only that morning he -observed the erection of goal posts on the village green, that the -winter is long and slow to pass, that for eight months he will not hold -a bat in his hands, that this, his last forlorn opportunity of making a -century, is even now fast slipping from him.</p> - -<p>The depression of such a day is an abiding memory through the gray -months of January and December, and, though Roland had had a fairly -successful season, he was naturally anxious to end it well. He was -prepared to distrust that mist. He had seen many mists break into heavy -Sunshine. He had also seen many mists dissolve into heavy rain. He knew -no peace of mind till the sky began to lighten just before the train -reached Hogstead, and he did not feel secure till he had changed into -flannels and was walking down to the field on Gerald’s arm, their -shadows flung hard and black upon the grass in front of them.</p> - -<p>It was a delightful morning; the grass was fresh with the dew which a -slight breeze was drying; there was hardly a worn spot on the green -surface, against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> which the white creases and yellow stumps stood in -vivid contrast. An occasional cloud cut the sunlight, sending its shadow -in long ripples of smoke across the field.</p> - -<p>“And to think,” said Gerald, “that this is our last game this season.”</p> - -<p>But for Roland this certainly marred the enjoyment of the blue sky and -the bright sunshine. “This is the last time,” he repeated to himself. -For eight months the green field, so gay now with the white figures -moving in the sunlight, would be desolate. Leaves would be blown on to -it from the trees; rain would fall on them. The windows of the pavilion -would be barred, the white screens stacked in the shelter of a wall.</p> - -<p>After his innings he sat beside Muriel in the deck-chair on the shaded, -northern terrace. But he felt too sad to talk to her and she complained -of his silence.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think much of you as a companion,” she said. “I’ve timed you. -You haven’t said a word for ten minutes.”</p> - -<p>He laughed, apologized and endeavored to revert to the simple badinage -that had amused them when Muriel was a little girl in short frocks, with -her hair blowing about her neck, but it was not particularly successful, -and it was a relief when Gerald placed his chair on the other side of -Muriel and commenced a running commentary on the game. Roland wanted to -be alone with his thoughts. Occasionally a stray phrase or sentence of -their conversation percolated through his reverie.</p> - -<p>“What a glorious afternoon it’s going to be,” he heard Muriel say. “It -seems quite absurd that this should be your last game. One can’t believe -that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> summer’s over. On a day like this it looks as though it would -last forever!”</p> - -<p>The words beat themselves into his brain. It was over and it was absurd -to dream. The autumn sunshine that had lured her into disbelief of the -approach of winter had made him forget that this day at Hogstead was his -last. By next year he would be married; the delightful interlude would -be finished. He would have passed from the life of Hogstead, at any rate -in his present position. If he returned it would be different. The -continuity would have been broken.</p> - -<p>Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Muriel’s profile; -how pretty she was; quite a woman now; and he turned his chair a little -so that he could observe her without moving his head. Yes, she was -really pretty in her delicate porcelain fashion; she was not beautiful. -But, then, beauty was too austere. Charm was preferable. And she had -that charm that depends almost entirely on its setting, on a dress that -is in keeping with small dainty features. The least little thing wrong -and she would have been quite ordinary.</p> - -<p>What would happen to her? She would marry, of course; she would find no -lack of suitors. Already, perhaps, there was one whom she had begun -slightly to favor. What would he be like? To what sort of a man would -she be attracted? Whoever he was he would be a lucky fellow; and Roland -paused to wonder whether, if things had been different, if he had been -free when he had met her first, she could have come to care for him. She -had always liked him. He remembered many little occasions on which she -had said things that he might have construed into a meaning favorable to -himself. There had been that evening on the stairs when they had felt -suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> frightened of each other, and since then, more than once, he -had fancied that they had stumbled in their anxiety to make impersonal -conversation.</p> - -<p>How happy they would have been together. They would have lived together -at Hogstead all their lives, a part of the Marston family. Hammerton -would have ceased to exist for him. They would have built themselves a -cottage on the edge of the estate; their children would have passed -their infancy among green fields, within sound of cricket balls.</p> - -<p>At the far end of the field, on the southern terrace, Beatrice was -sitting alone, watching Rosemary play a few yards away from her. She -must have been there during the greater part of the morning, but Roland -had not noticed her till she waved a hand to attract his attention. He -rose at once and walked across to her. He felt that a talk with her -would do him good.</p> - -<p>They had seen a good deal of each other intermittently during the past -three years, and each talk with her had been for Roland a step farther -into the heart of a mystery. Gradually they had come to talk in -shorthand, to read each other’s thoughts without need of the accepted -medium of words, so that when in reply to a complimentary remark about -the fascination of her hat she made a quiet shrug of her shoulders, he -knew that it was prompted by the wound of her wasted beauty. And on that -late summer morning, with its solemn warning of decay, Roland felt brave -enough to put to her the question that he had long wished to ask.</p> - -<p>“Why did you marry him?” he said.</p> - -<p>His question necessitated no break in the rhythm of her reverie. She -answered him without pausing.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know my own mind,” she said. “I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> very young. I wasn’t in -love with anyone else. My mother was keen on it. I gave way.”</p> - -<p>Beatrice spoke the truth. Her mother had honestly believed the match to -be to her daughter’s advantage. Her own life had been made difficult -through lack of money. She had always been worried by it, and she had -naturally come to regard money as more important than the brief -fluttering of emotion that had been the prelude to the long, bitter -struggle. It had seemed to her a wonderful thing that her daughter -should marry this rich man. Herself had only been unhappy because she -had been poor; her daughter would be always rich.</p> - -<p>“How did you meet him?” Roland asked.</p> - -<p>“I was his secretary. Romantic, isn’t it? The poor girl marries the rich -employer. Quite like the story books.” And her hands fluttered at her -sides.</p> - -<p>Roland sought for some word of sympathy, but he was too appalled by the -cruel waste of this young woman’s beauty, of her enormous potentialities -flung away on an ageing, withered man, who could not appreciate them. -Her next sentence held for him the force of a prophetic utterance.</p> - -<p>“When you marry, Roland,” she said, “choose your own wife. Don’t let -your parents dictate to you. It’s your affair.”</p> - -<p>As their eyes met it seemed to him that they were victims of the same -conspiracy.</p> - -<p>“One can’t believe that the summer is over on a day like this. It looks -as though it would last forever!” The words ran like a refrain among his -thoughts all the afternoon. He had a long outing. Hogstead had imported -for the final match talent that was considerable but was not local. The -doctor had persuaded a friend to bring his son, a member of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> Rugby -XI. It was discovered that an old blue was spending his honeymoon in a -farmhouse a few miles away and a deputation had been dispatched to him; -while, at the last moment, the greengrocer had arranged a compromise on -a “to account rendered” bill with a professional at the county ground. -Hogstead was far too strong for Mr. Marston’s side and all the afternoon -Roland chased terrific off drives towards the terraces. The more tired -he became the deeper grew his depression. The sun sank slowly towards -the long, low-lying bank of cloud that stretched behind the roofs of the -village; the day was waning, his last day. Came that hour of luminous -calm, that last hour of sunlight when the shadows lengthen and a -chilling air drives old players to the pavilion for their sweaters. -Above the trees Roland could see the roof of the house; the trees swayed -before its windows; the sunlight had caught and had turned the brass -weathercock to gold. Never again, under the same conditions, would he -see Hogstead as he in the past had so often seen it, standing above the -trees, resplendent in the last glitter of sunset. It was only five years -ago that he had come here for the first time, and yet into those five -years had been crowded a greater measure of happiness than he could hope -to find in the fifty years that were left him.</p> - -<p>At the end of the day Mr. Marston’s eleven had half an hour’s batting, -during which Roland made one or two big hits. But it was an anticlimax, -and his innings brought him little satisfaction. It was over now. He -walked back to the pavilion, and with dismal efficiency collected his -boots and bat and pads and packed them into his bag. What would he be -like when he came to do that next? What would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> happened to him -between then and now? He came out of the pavilion to find Muriel -standing on the step, waiting, presumably, for her brother. The need for -sympathy, for feminine sympathy, overwhelmed him, and he asked her -whether she would come for a walk with him—only a short stroll, just -for a minute or two. She looked at him in surprise.</p> - -<p>“But it’s so late, Roland,” she said; “we’ll have to go and change for -dinner in a minute.”</p> - -<p>“I know, I know, but just for a minute—do.”</p> - -<p>He was not ready yet for the general talk and laughter of the -drawing-room; he wanted a few minutes of preparation.</p> - -<p>“Do come,” he said.</p> - -<p>She nodded, and they turned and walked together towards the end of the -cricket ground. She did not know why he should want her to come with him -at such an unusual time, but she could see that he was unhappy, that he -needed sympathy, and so, after a second’s hesitation, she passed, for -the first time in her life, her arm through his. He looked at her -quickly, a look of surprise and gratitude, and pressed her arm with his. -He said nothing, now that she was with him. He did not feel any need of -words; it was her presence he wanted, and all that her presence meant to -him. But she, being ignorant of what was in his mind, was embarrassed by -his silence.</p> - -<p>“That was a jolly knock of yours,” she said at last.</p> - -<p>“Oh! not bad, but in a second innings!”</p> - -<p>“Rather like that one of yours five years ago.”</p> - -<p>“What! Do you remember that?”</p> - -<p>“Of course; it was a great occasion.”</p> - -<p>“For me.”</p> - -<p>“And for us.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span></p> - -<p>The past and the emotions of the past returned to him with a startling -vividness. He could recall every moment of that day.</p> - -<p>“I was so anxious to come off,” he said. “You know I was to have gone -into a bank and Gerald brought me down in the hope that your pater would -take to me. I was frightfully nervous.”</p> - -<p>“So was I.”</p> - -<p>“But you’d never seen me.”</p> - -<p>“No, but Gerald had talked to me about you, and I thought it such rotten -luck that a fellow like you should have to go into a bank. There’d been -a row, hadn’t there?”</p> - -<p>They had reached the hedge that marked the boundary for the Marston -estate; there was a gate in it, and they walked towards it. They stood -for a moment, her arm still in his, looking at the quiet village that -lay before them. Then Roland dropped her arm and leaned against the -gate.</p> - -<p>“Yes, there’d been a row,” he said, “and everything was going wrong, and -I saw myself for the rest of my life a clerk adding up figures in a -bank.”</p> - -<p>He paused, realizing the analogy between that day and this. Then, as -now, destiny had seemed to be closing in on him, robbing him of freedom -and the chance to make of his life anything but a gray subservience. He -had evaded destiny then, but it had caught him now. And he leaned on the -gate, hardly seeing the laborers trudging up the village street, talking -in the porch of the public-house; their women returning home with their -purchases for Sunday’s dinner.</p> - -<p>Again Muriel was oppressed by his silence.</p> - -<p>“I remember Gerald telling us about it,” she said, “and I was excited to -see what you’d be like.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span></p> - -<p>“And what did you think of me when you saw me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I was a little girl then”; she laughed nervously, for his eyes were -fixed on her face and she felt that she was blushing.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but what did you think?” he repeated; “tell me.”</p> - -<p>Her fingers plucked nervously at her skirt; she felt frightened, and it -was absurd to be frightened with Roland, one of her oldest friends.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s silly! I was only a little girl then. What does it matter what -I thought? As a matter of fact,” and she flung out the end of her -confession carelessly, as though it meant nothing, “as a matter of fact, -I thought you were the most wonderful boy I’d ever seen.” And she tried -to laugh a natural, off-hand laugh that would make an end of this absurd -situation, but the laugh caught in her throat, and she went suddenly -still, her eyes fixed on Roland’s. They looked at each other and read -fear in the other’s eyes, but in Roland’s eyes fear was mingled with a -desperate entreaty, a need, an overmastering need of her. His tongue -seemed too big for his mouth, and when at last he spoke, his voice was -dry.</p> - -<p>“And what do you think of me now?”</p> - -<p>She could say nothing. She stood still, held by the gray eyes that never -wavered.</p> - -<p>“What do you think of me now?” he repeated.</p> - -<p>She made a movement to break the tension, a swift gesture with her hand -that was intended for a dismissal, but he was standing so close that her -hand brushed against him; she gave a little gasp as his hand closed over -it and held it.</p> - -<p>“You won’t tell me,” he said. “But shall I tell you what I thought of -you then? Shall I tell you? I thought you were the prettiest girl I had -ever seen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> and I thought how beautiful you would be when you grew up.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be so silly, Roland,” and she laughed a short, nervous laugh, -and tried to draw her hand from his, but he held it firmly, and drew her -a little nearer to him, so that he could take her other hand in his. -They stood close together, then she raised her face slowly to his and -the puzzled, wistful, trusting expression released the flood of -sentiment that had been surging within him all the afternoon. His misery -was no longer master of itself, and her beauty drew to it the mingled -tenderness, hesitation, disappointment of his vexed spirit. She was for -him in that moment the composite vision of all he prized most highly in -life, of romance, mystery, adventure.</p> - -<p>His hands closed upon hers tightly, desperately, as though he would -rivet himself to the one thing of which he could be certain, and his -confused intense emotion poured forth in a stream of eager avowal:</p> - -<p>“But I never thought, Muriel, that you would be anything like what you -are; you are wonderful, Muriel; I’ve been realizing it slowly every day. -I’ve said to myself that we were only friends, just friends, but I’ve -known it was more than friendship. I’ve told myself not to be silly, -that you could never care for me—well, I’ve never realized, not -properly, not till this afternoon, Muriel.”</p> - -<p>She was no longer frightened; his words had soothed her, caressed her, -wooed her; and when he paused, the expression of her eyes was fearless.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Roland,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Muriel, Muriel, I love you; I want you to marry me. Will you?”</p> - -<p>She blushed prettily. “But, Roland, you know; if father and mother say -yes, of course.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<p>In the sudden release of feeling he was uncertain what exactly was -expected of a person whose proposal had been accepted. They were on the -brink of another embarrassed silence, but Muriel saved them.</p> - -<p>“Roland,” she said, “you’re hurting my fingers awfully!”</p> - -<p>With a laugh he dropped her hands, and that laugh restored them to their -former intimacy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Roland,” she said, “what fun we shall have when we are married.”</p> - -<p>He asked whether she thought her parents would be pleased, and she was -certain that they would.</p> - -<p>“They like you so much.” Then she insisted on his telling when and how -he had first discovered that he was in love with her. “Come along; let’s -sit on the gate and you shall tell me all about it. Now, when was the -first time, the very first time, that you thought you were in love with -me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you do; you must, of course you must, or you’d be nothing of a -lover. Come on, or I shall take back my promise.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, that evening on the stairs.”</p> - -<p>Muriel pouted.</p> - -<p>“Oh, then!”</p> - -<p>“Do you remember it?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Of course I do. You frightened me.”</p> - -<p>“I know, and that’s why I thought that one day you might marry me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but how silly!” she protested. “I wasn’t a bit in love with you -then. In fact, I was very annoyed with you.”</p> - -<p>“And, besides, I think I’ve always been in love with you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, you haven’t.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t be too sure. And you?”</p> - -<p>She smiled prettily.</p> - -<p>“I’ve often thought what a nice husband you would make.”</p> - -<p>And then she had taken his hand in her lap and played with it.</p> - -<p>“And where shall we live when we are married?” he had asked her, and she -had said she did not care.</p> - -<p>“Anywhere, as long as there are lots of people to amuse me.”</p> - -<p>She sat there on the gate, her light hair blowing under the wide brim of -her hat, laughing down at him, her face bright with happiness. She was -so small, so graceful. Light as heatherdown, she would run a gay motif -through the solemn movement of his career.</p> - -<p>“You are like a fairy,” he said, “like a mischievous little elf. I think -I shall call you that—Elfkin.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what a pretty name, Roland—Elfkin! How sweet of you!”</p> - -<p>They talked so eagerly together of the brilliant future that awaited -them that they quite forgot the lateness of the hour, till they heard -across the evening the dull boom of the dinner gong. They both gasped -and looked at each other as confederates in guilt.</p> - -<p>“Heavens!” she said, “what a start. We’ve got to run!”</p> - -<p>It was the nearest approach to a dramatic entrance that Roland ever -achieved. Muriel kept level with him during the race across the cricket -ground, but she began to fall behind as they reached the long terrace -between the rhododendrons.</p> - -<p>“Take hold of my hand,” said Roland, and he dragged her over the -remaining thirty yards. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> rushed through the big French windows of -the drawing-room at the very moment that the party had assembled there -before going down to dinner. They had quite forgotten that there would -be an audience. They stopped, and Muriel gave out a horrified gasp of -“Oh!”</p> - -<p>They certainly were a ridiculous couple as they stood there hand in -hand, hot, disheveled, out of breath, beside that well-groomed company -of men and women in evening dress. Mrs. Marston hurried forward with the -slightly deprecating manner of the hostess whose plans have been -disturbed.</p> - -<p>“My dear children——” But Muriel had by this time recovered her breath -and courage. She raised a peremptory hand.</p> - -<p>“One minute. We’ve got something to tell you all.”</p> - -<p>“But surely, dear, after dinner,” Mrs. Marston began.</p> - -<p>“No, mother, dear, now,” and, with a twinkle in her eye and a sly glance -at her embarrassed lover, Muriel made her alarming announcement:</p> - -<p>“Roland and I, mother, we’re going to be married.”</p> - -<p>Roland had seen in a French novel a startling incident of domestic -revelation recorded by two words: <i>consternation générale</i>, and those -two words suited the terrible hush that followed Muriel’s confession. It -was not a hush of anger, or disapproval, but of utter and complete -astonishment. For a few minutes no one said anything. The young men of -the party either adjusted their collar studs and gazed towards the -ceiling, or flicked a speck of dust from their trousers and gazed upon -the floor. The young women gazed upon each other. Mrs. Marston thought -nervously of the condition of the retarded dinner, and Mr. Marston -tried, without success, to prove adequate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> to the situation. Only Muriel -enjoyed it; she loved a rag, and her eyes passed from one figure to -another; not one of them dared look at her.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said at last, “we did think you’d want to congratulate us.” -To Mr. Marston some criticism of himself appeared to be implied in this -remark. He pulled down his waistcoat, coughed, and went through the -preliminaries usual to him when preparing to address the board. And, in -a sense, this was a board meeting, a family board meeting.</p> - -<p>“My dear Muriel,” he began, but he had advanced no further than these -three words when the dinner gong sounded for the second time. It was a -signal for Mrs. Marston to bustle forward.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, but the dinner’ll be getting quite cold if we don’t go in at -once. Don’t trouble to change, Mr. Whately, please don’t; but, Muriel, -you must go up and do your hair, and if you have time change your -frock.”</p> - -<p>“Weren’t they lovely?” said Muriel, as she and Roland ran upstairs to -wash. “I could have died with laughter.”</p> - -<p>“You made me feel a pretty complete fool,” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“Well, you made me feel very silly about three-quarters of an hour ago. -I deserved a revenge.” And she scampered upstairs ahead of him.</p> - -<p>Roland washed quickly and waited for her at the foot of the stairs. He -was much too shy to go in alone.</p> - -<p>“And they say that women are cowards,” said Muriel, when he confessed it -to her. “Come along.”</p> - -<p>The quarter of an hour that had elapsed since the sensational disclosure -had given the company time to recover its balance, and when Muriel and -Roland entered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> the room, they found that two empty seats were waiting -for them side by side.</p> - -<p>“Here they are,” said Mr. Marston, “and I hope that they’re thoroughly -ashamed of themselves.” He felt himself again after a glass of sherry, -and it was an occasion of which a father should make the most. It could -only come once and he was prepared to enjoy it to the full. “To think of -it, my dear, the difference between this generation and ours. Why, -before I got engaged to your mother, Muriel, why, even before I began to -court her, I went and asked her father’s permission. I can remember now -how frightened I felt. We respected our parents in those days. We always -asked their opinions first. But to-day—why, in you burst, late for -dinner, and announce with calm effrontery that you’re going to be -married. Why, at this rate, there won’t be any engagements at all in a -short time; young people will just walk in at the front door and say: -‘We’re married.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Then we are engaged, father, aren’t we?” said Muriel.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t say so.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you did; didn’t he, Roland?”</p> - -<p>Roland was, however, too confused to hold any opinion on the subject.</p> - -<p>“Well, if you didn’t actually say so you implied it. At any rate we -shall take it that you did.”</p> - -<p>“And that, I suppose, settles it?”</p> - -<p>“Of course.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Marston made a theatrical gesture of despair.</p> - -<p>“These children!” he said.</p> - -<p>It was a jolly evening. Roland and Muriel were the center of -congratulations; their healths were drunk; he was called on for a -speech, and he fulfilled his duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> amid loud applause. Everyone was so -pleased, so eager to share their happiness. Beatrice had turned to him a -smile of surprised congratulation. Only Gerald held back from the -general enthusiasm. Once across the table his eyes met Roland’s, and -there was implied in their glance a question. He was the only one of the -party who had heard of April, and never, in all their confidences, had -there passed between them one word that might have hinted at a growing -love between his sister and his friend; it was this that surprised him. -Surely Roland would have told him something about it. Roland was not the -sort of fellow who kept things to himself. He always wanted to share his -pleasures. Gerald would have indeed expected him to come to him for -advice, to say: “Old son, what chance do you think I stand in that -direction?”—to entrust him with the delicate mission of sounding -Muriel’s inclinations. He was surprised and a little hurt.</p> - -<p>As they were going towards the drawing-room after dinner he laid his -hand on Roland’s arm, holding him back for a minute. And as he stood in -the doorway waiting for his friend, Roland felt for the first time a -twinge of apprehension as to the outcome of this undertaking. But he -could see that Gerald was nervous, and this nervousness of his lent -Roland confidence.</p> - -<p>“It’s no business of mine, old son,” Gerald began, “I’m awfully glad -about you and Muriel and all that, but,” he paused irresolute; he -disliked these theatrical situations and did not know how to meet them. -“I mean,” he began slowly, then added quietly, anxiously: “It’s all -right, isn’t it, old son?”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Roland. “It’s the most wonderful—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“I know, I know,” Gerald interrupted, “but wasn’t there, didn’t you tell -me about——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s finished a long time ago. Don’t worry about that.”</p> - -<p>“You see,” Gerald went on, “I should hate to think—— Oh, well, I’m -awfully glad about it, and I think you’re both fearfully lucky.”</p> - -<p>Two hours later Roland and Muriel stood on the landing saying good-night -to one another. She was leaning towards him, across the banisters, as -she had leaned that evening three years earlier, but this time he held -her hand in his.</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you how happy I am,” he was saying; “I shall dream of you -all night long.”</p> - -<p>“And so shall I of you.”</p> - -<p>“We’re going to be wonderfully happy, aren’t we?”</p> - -<p>“Wonderfully.”</p> - -<p>And in each other’s eyes they saw the eager, boundless confidence of -youth. They were going to make a great thing of their life together. -Roland cast a swift glance over the banisters to see if anyone was in -the hall, then stood on tiptoe, raising himself till his face was on the -level with Muriel’s.</p> - -<p>“Muriel,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“I want to whisper something in your ear.”</p> - -<p>“What is it?”</p> - -<p>“Lean over, closer to me, and I will tell you.”</p> - -<p>She bent her head, her cheek brushing against his hair. “Well?” she -said.</p> - -<p>He placed his mouth close to her ear.</p> - -<p>“Muriel, you haven’t kissed me yet.”</p> - -<p>She drew back and smiled.</p> - -<p>“Was that all?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it enough?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span></p> - -<p>She made no answer.</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you going to?” he said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Please, please, do.”</p> - -<p>“Some day I will.”</p> - -<p>“But why not now?”</p> - -<p>“Someone would see us.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, they wouldn’t. And even if they did what would it matter? -Muriel! please, please, Muriel!”</p> - -<p>He raised himself again on tiptoe; and leaning forward, she rested her -hands upon his shoulders. Then she slowly bent her head to his, and -their lips met in such a kiss as children exchange for forfeits in the -nursery. As she drew back Roland slipped back again on to his heels, but -he still held her hand and her fingers closed round his, pressing them, -if not with passion, at least with fondness.</p> - -<p>“You’re rather an old dear, Roland,” she said. And there was a note in -her voice that made him say quickly and half audibly:</p> - -<p>“And you’re a darling.”</p> - -<p>She drew her hand from his gently. “And what was that pretty name you -called me?”</p> - -<p>“Elfkin.”</p> - -<p>“Let me be always Elfkin.”</p> - -<p>Both of them that night were wooed to sleep by the delight of their -new-found happiness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /><br /> -<small>THE LONELY UNICORN</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE lovers went for a walk together on Sunday morning through the woods -that lay beyond the village, and they sat on a pile of broken sticks -that a charcoal burner had collected for a fire, and they held hands and -talked of the future. Her pleasure in this new relationship was a -continual fascination to Roland. She regarded love, courtship, and -marriage as a delightful game.</p> - -<p>“What fun it’s going to be,” she said; “we shall announce our engagement -and then everyone will write and congratulate us, and we shall have to -answer them, and I shall have to pretend to be so serious and say: ‘I am -much looking forward to introducing you to my fiancé. I hope you will -like each other.”</p> - -<p>“And what sort of a ring am I to get you?”</p> - -<p>“The ring! Oh, I had forgotten that. One has to have one, doesn’t one? -Let’s see now. What should I like?” And she paused, her finger raised to -her lower lip. She remained for a moment in perplexed consideration, -then suddenly shook her head.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t care, just what you like. Let it be a surprise. But there’s -one thing, Roland, dear—promise me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“You will promise, won’t you?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span></p> - -<p>“Of course.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, promise me you won’t put any writing inside it, because I -shall want to show it to my friends and I should feel so silly if they -saw it.”</p> - -<p>After lunch Mr. Marston asked him to come into the study for a talk.</p> - -<p>“I’m not going to play the heavy father,” he said; “in fact, you know -yourself how thoroughly pleased we are, both of us, about it all. We -couldn’t have wished a better husband for Muriel. But there is such a -thing as finance, and you’ve got, I gather, no money apart from what you -earn from us.”</p> - -<p>“No, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And your salary now is——?”</p> - -<p>“Four hundred a year, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And how far do you think that will go? You could start a home with it, -of course, but do you think you could make Muriel happy with it? She’s a -dainty little lady, and when she’s free from home authority she will -want to be going out to dances and theaters. How far do you think four -hundred will take her?”</p> - -<p>“Not very far, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Then what do you propose to do? Long engagements are a bad thing.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, what do you think of doing?”</p> - -<p>Roland, who had expected Mr. Marston to make his daughter a generous -dress allowance, was uncertain how to answer this question. Indeed, he -made no attempt.</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Mr. Marston, “that what you were really thinking was -that I should make you some allowance.”</p> - -<p>Roland blushed, and began to stammer that, as a matter of fact, that was -exactly what—but he never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> finished the sentence, for Mr. Marston -interrupted him.</p> - -<p>“Because, if that’s what you were thinking, young man, I can disillusion -you at once. I don’t believe in allowances; they put a young couple -under an obligation to their parents. And that’s bad. A young couple -should be independent. No!” he said, “I’m not going to make Muriel any -allowance, but,” and here he paused theatrically, so as to make the most -of his point, “I am going to give you a good opportunity of making -yourself independent. I am going to offer to both you and Gerald junior -partnerships in the business.”</p> - -<p>Roland gave a start; he could scarcely believe what he had heard.</p> - -<p>“But, sir——” he began.</p> - -<p>“Yes, a partnership in our business, and I can’t say how pleased I shall -be to have you there, and how proud I am to have a son-in-law who will -want to work and not be content to attend an occasional board meeting -and draw large fees for doing so. I know a business man when I meet one. -We are jolly lucky to have got you, and as for you and Muriel, well, -honestly, I don’t know which of you is luckier!”</p> - -<p>They were the same words that Gerald had used, and he was convinced of -their truth five minutes later when he sat in the drawing-room pouring -out this exciting news to Muriel, when he saw her eyes light with -enthusiasm, and heard her say on a note of genuine comradeship and -admiration: “Roland, I always knew it. You’re a wonderful boy!”</p> - -<p>This state of rapture lasted till he said good-night to Gerald on Monday -evening in the doorway of the office. Then, and then only, did he -realize to what a series of complications he had delivered himself. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> -had fallen into the habit of regarding his life at Hogstead and his life -at Hammerton as two separate entities; what happened to him in one life -did not affect him in the other. Hogstead had been his dream country. -During the week-end he had retreated within his dream, flung up -bulwarks, garrisoned himself securely. He had not realized that, when he -returned to Hammerton, he would have to deliver an account of himself. -So far, what had happened in that dream country had only mattered to -himself. His engagement to Muriel, however, involved the fortunes of -persons other than himself, and this fact was presented to him acutely -as he sat on top of a bus and drew nearer, minute by minute, to No. 105 -Hammerton Villas.</p> - -<p>In the course of seventy-two hours he had completely altered the -direction of his life. He had left home on Saturday morning with every -intention of proposing definitely to April at the first opportunity and -of marrying her as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made. Yet -here he was on Monday evening returning home the fiancé of Muriel -Marston and a junior partner in her father’s firm. He could not imagine -in what spirit the news would be received. His parents knew little -enough of Gerald and his father; they were hardly aware of Muriel’s -existence. Years earlier he may have said, perhaps, in reply to some -casual query: “Oh, yes, he’s got a sister, much younger than himself, a -jolly kid!” But of late, nothing. He did not see either how he was to -introduce the subject. He would be asked hardly any questions about his -holiday; he had always been uncommunicative.</p> - -<p>“Have you had a nice time, my dear?”</p> - -<p>That’s what his mother would say, in the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> indifferent tone that she -would say “Good morning, how do you do?” to a casual acquaintance. She -would then proceed to tell him about the visitors they had received on -Sunday.</p> - -<p>His father would arrive, lay down his evening paper on the table and -begin to change his boots.</p> - -<p>“So you’re back all right, Roland?” That would be his only reference to -his son’s holidays before he plunged into a commentary on the state of -the bus service, the country and the restaurant where he had lunched.</p> - -<p>“Coming for a walk, Roland?” That would be his next indication that he -was conscious of his son’s presence, and on the receipt of an -affirmation he would trudge upstairs, to reappear ten minutes later in a -light gray suit.</p> - -<p>“Ready, my son?” And they would walk along the High Street till they -reached the corner of Upper College Road. There Mr. Whately would pause. -“Well, Roland, shall we go in and see April?” And in reality the -question would be an assertion. They would have to go into the -Curtises’; it would be terrible. He would feel like Judas Iscariot at -the Last Supper. He would be received by Mrs. Curtis as a future -son-in-law. April would smile on him as her betrothed. Whatever he did -or said he could not, in her eyes, be anything but perfidious, disloyal, -treacherous. He would be unable to make clear to her the inevitable -nature of what had happened.</p> - -<p>The red roofs and stucco fronts of Donnington had by now receded into -the distance; the bus was already clattering down the main street of -Lower Hammerton. The lights in the shop windows had just been kindled -and lent a touch of wistful poetry to the spectacle of the crowded -pavements, black with the dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> coats of men returning from their -offices, with here and there a splash of gayety from the dress of some -harassed woman hurrying to complete her shopping before her husband’s -return.</p> - -<p>“In three more minutes we shall be at the Town Hall,” Roland told -himself. “In two minutes from then I shall have reached the corner of -Hammerton Villas; 105 is the third house down on the left-hand side. In -six minutes, at the outside, I shall be there!”</p> - -<p>And it turned out exactly as he had predicted. He found his mother in -the drawing-room, turning the handle of the sewing-machine. She smiled -as he opened the door and, as he bent his head to kiss her, expressed -the hope that he had enjoyed himself. Three minutes later his father -arrived.</p> - -<p>“A most interesting murder case to-day, my dear; there’s a full account -of it in <i>The Globe</i>. It appears that the fellow was engaged to one -girl, but was really in love with the mother of the girl he murdered, -and he murdered the girl because she seemed to suspect—no, that’s not -it. It was the girl he was engaged to who suspected; but at any rate -you’ll find it all in <i>The Globe</i>—a most interesting case.” And he -opened the paper at the center page and handed it to his wife. As he did -so his arm brushed against Roland, and the forcible reminder of his -son’s existence inspired him to express the hope that the cricket at -Hogstead had reached the high expectations that had been entertained -regarding it. This duty accomplished, he proceeded to describe in detail -the lunch he had selected at the Spanish café.</p> - -<p>“There was a choice of three things: you could either have <i>hors -d’œuvre</i> or a soup, and then there was either omelette or fish or -spaghetti, with veal or chicken or mutton to follow, and, of course, -cheese<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> to finish up with. Well, I didn’t think the spaghetti at that -place was very good, so I was left with a choice of either an omelette -or fish.”</p> - -<p>While he was stating and explaining his choice Mr. Whately had found -time to divest his feet of his boots. “Well, and what about a walk, -Roland?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so, father.”</p> - -<p>“Right you are. I’ll just run up and change.”</p> - -<p>Ten minutes later, before Roland had had time to unravel the complicated -psychology of the Norfolk murder case, Mr. Whately was standing in the -doorway in his gray tweed suit and straw hat. “A bit late for a straw, -perhaps, but it’s lovely weather, almost like spring. One can’t believe -that summer’s over.” The repetition of the phrase jarred Roland’s -conscience. Would it not be better to get it off his chest now, once and -for all, before he was taken to see April, before that final act of -hypocrisy was forced on him?</p> - -<p>“Father,” he said, “there’s something——”</p> - -<p>But Mr. Whately did not like to be kept waiting.</p> - -<p>“Come along, Roland, time enough for that when we are out of doors. -It’ll be dark soon.”</p> - -<p>And by the time they had reached the foot of the long flight of steps -the moment of desperate courage had been followed by a desperate fear. -Time enough when he got back to tell them. He made no effort even to -discourage his father when, at the corner of Upper College Road, they -paused and the old assertive question was asked. Roland nodded his head -in meek submission. What was to be gained at this point by discussion? -There would be enough turmoil later on.</p> - -<p>But he regretted his weakness five minutes later when he sat in the -wicker chair by the window-seat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> He looked round the room at the -unaltered furniture, the unaltered pictures, the unaltered bookshelves, -and Mrs. Curtis eternal in that setting, her voice droning on as it had -droned for him through so many years. There was no change anywhere. Mrs. -Curtis was sitting beside the fireplace, her knitting on her lap, the -bones of her body projecting as awkwardly as ever. His father sat -opposite her, his hat held forward before his knees, his head nodding in -satisfied agreement, his voice interrupting occasionally the movement of -his head with a “Yes, Mrs. Curtis,” “Certainly, Mrs. Curtis.” And he and -April sat as of old, near and silent, in the window-seat.</p> - -<p>As he looked at April, the profile of her face silhouetted against the -window, an acute wave of sentiment passed over him, reminding him of the -many things they had shared together. The first twenty years of his life -belonged to her. It was to her that he had turned in his moment of -success; her faith in him had inspired his achievements. She had been -proud of him. He remembered how she had flushed with pleasure when he -had told her what the school captain had said to him at the end of the -season, and when he had been invited to the cricket match at Hogstead it -was of her that he had asked soft encouragement, and it was at her feet -that he had laid, a few days later, his triumph. How strange that was, -that she should have been the first to hear of Hogstead. The wave of -tenderness swept away every little difference of environment and -personality that had accumulated round their love during the past three -years. What a fine thing, after all, they had meant to make of their -life together. What a confession of failure was this parting. And when -Mr. Whately rose to go, and Mrs. Curtis followed him to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> the door, no -doubt with the intention of leaving the lovers alone together, Roland -put out his arms to April and folded her into them, and for the last -time laid his lips on hers in a kiss that expressed for him an infinite -kindness for her, and pity, pity for her, for himself, and for the -tangle life had made of their ambitions. As he drew back his head from -hers she whispered the word “Darling!” on a note of authentic passion, -but he could not say anything. His hands closed on her shoulders for a -moment, then slackened. He could not bear to look at her. He turned -quickly and ran to his father. Was it, he asked himself, the kiss of -Iscariot? He did not know. He had buried a part of himself; he had said -good-by to the first twenty years of his life.</p> - -<p>He walked home in silence beside his father. He was in no mood for the -strain of the exacting situation, the astonishment, the implied reproach -that lay in front of him. But he was resigned to it. It had to come; -there was no loophole.</p> - -<p>He made his announcement quite quietly during a pause in the talk just -after dinner. And it was received, as he had anticipated, in a stupefied -silence.</p> - -<p>“What!” said Mr. Whately at last. “Engaged to Muriel Marston!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Muriel Marston, the daughter of my employer, and I’m to become a -junior partner in the firm.”</p> - -<p>“But——” Mr. Whately paused. He was not equal to the pressure of the -situation. He was not perplexed by the ethics of Roland’s action; his -critical faculties had only appreciated the first fact, that a plan had -been altered, and he was always thrown off his balance by the alteration -of any plan. He was accustomed to thinking along grooves; he distrusted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> -sidings. He got no further than the initial “But.” His wife, however, -had recovered from the shock and was by now able to face the matter -squarely. When she spoke her voice was even.</p> - -<p>“Now, please, Roland, we want to know all about this. When did you -propose to Miss Marston?”</p> - -<p>“During the week-end—on Saturday evening.”</p> - -<p>“And her parents agree to it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Roland, a little impatiently. “Didn’t I tell you that -I’ve been offered a junior partnership in his business?”</p> - -<p>“Of course; I forgot. I’m sorry. This is rather difficult for us. Now, -you say——”</p> - -<p>But at this point her husband, whose thoughts had by now traveled a -certain distance along the new groove, interrupted her.</p> - -<p>“But how can you talk about being engaged to this Muriel Marston when -you’ve been engaged for nearly three years to April?”</p> - -<p>Roland’s retort came quickly.</p> - -<p>“I’ve never been engaged to April.”</p> - -<p>“You know you have! Why!...”</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Whately had held up her hand.</p> - -<p>“Hush, dear,” she said. “Roland’s quite right. He’s never been -officially engaged to April.”</p> - -<p>Roland shivered at the venom that was revealed by the stressing of the -word “officially.”</p> - -<p>“And how long,” she went on, “have you been in love with Miss Marston?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know, mother; I can’t tell. Please let me alone.” And there -was genuine misery behind the words. “One doesn’t know about a thing -like this.”</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Whately would not spare him. She shook her head impatiently.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd, Roland; you’re behaving like a child. Of course one -knows these things. You’ve known Miss Marston for four or five years -now. You couldn’t suddenly find yourself in love with her.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not, mother, but——”</p> - -<p>“There’s no ‘but.’ You must have been thinking of her for a long time. -On Friday night—Saturday morning, I mean—you must have gone down there -with the full intention of proposing to her; didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>Roland did not answer her. He rose from his seat and walked across to -the window.</p> - -<p>“It’s no good,” he said, and his back was turned to them. “It’s no good. -I can’t make you understand. You won’t believe what I say. I seem an -awful beast to you, I know, but—oh, well, things went that way.”</p> - -<p>And he stood there, looking out of the window through the chink of the -blind towards the long, gray stretch of roofs, the bend of the road, the -pools of lamplight, till suddenly, like a caress, he felt his mother’s -hand upon his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Roland,” she said, and for the first time there was sympathy in her -voice, “Roland, please tell me this. You’re not, are you, marrying this -girl for her money?”</p> - -<p>He turned and looked her full in the eyes.</p> - -<p>“No, mother,” he said. “I love Muriel Marston. I love her and I want to -marry her.” As he spoke he saw the kind light vanish from her eyes, her -hand fell from his shoulder and the voice that answered him was -metallic.</p> - -<p>“Very well, then, if that’s so, there’s no more to be said. As you’ve -arranged all this yourself, you’ll let us know when the marriage will -take place.”</p> - -<p>She turned away. He took a step towards her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span></p> - -<p>“Mother, please——”</p> - -<p>But she only shrugged her shoulders, and when her husband asked what was -going to be done about April, she said that she supposed that it was no -affair of theirs, and that no doubt Roland would make his own -arrangements. She picked up the paper and began to read it. Roland -wondered what was going to happen next; the silence oppressed him. He -listened to the slow ticking of the clock till he could bear it no -longer.</p> - -<p>“Oh, please, one of you, won’t you say something?”</p> - -<p>They both turned their heads in surprise as though they would survey a -curiosity, a tortoise that had been granted miraculously the gift of -speech.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear Roland, what is there to be said?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, I——”</p> - -<p>“Your mother’s quite right,” said Mr. Whately. “You’re your own master; -you’ve arranged to marry the girl you want. What is there to be said?”</p> - -<p>And their heads were again turned from him. He stood looking at them, -pondering the wisdom of an appeal to their emotions. He half opened his -mouth, took a step forward, but paused; what purpose would it serve? One -could not appeal to stone; they were hard, unreceptive, hostile; they -would turn cold eyes upon his outburst. He would look ridiculous. It -would do no good.</p> - -<p>“Oh, very well,” he said, and walked out of the room.</p> - -<p>As he sat on his bed that night he remembered how, five years ago, he -had returned to his study after that tempestuous interview with the -Chief and had reflected on the impossibility of one mortal making clear -his meaning to another. Life went in a circle; here was the same -situation in a different setting. Everything was repetition. Had not the -Eastern<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> critic laid it down that in the whole range of literature there -could be discovered only seven different stories? He remembered the -Chief telling him that; it had stuck in his mind: music had evolved from -seven notes, painting from three colors, literature from twenty-four -letters, the chronicle of mankind from seven stories. Variety, new -clothes, new accents, but at heart the same story, the same song.</p> - -<p>One problem, however, that he had not previously considered, had become -clear for him during that discussion. How was April to be told? He had -imagined that he had only to tell his parents for the matter to be -settled. They would do the rest. He had never thought that the -responsibility of breaking the news to April would rest with him. And he -could not do it; it was no good pretending that he could. He could no -more tell April himself than he could murder a man in cold blood. He -knew also that if he once saw her he would be unable to carry through -the part. She would open the door for him and as soon as they were alone -in the hall she would throw her arms about his neck and kiss him, and -how should he then find words to tell her? His old love for her would -return to him; there would be further complications. Perhaps he might -write a letter to her, but he had only to take up pen and paper to -realize that this was impossible. He could not express himself in -writing; the sentences that stared at him from the paper were cold and -stilted; they would wound her cruelly. He was accustomed in times of -perplexity to turn for advice to Gerald. But this was hardly an occasion -when that was possible. Gerald was, after all, Muriel’s brother. There -were limits.</p> - -<p>The next day brought Roland no nearer to a solution of his immediate -problem. Indeed he had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> thought of one till, on his way home, he -boarded the wrong bus, and on handing threepence and saying “Hammerton -Town Hall” was informed that the bus he was on would take him only as -far as Donnington before turning off to Richmond. The word “Richmond” -gave him his idea. Richmond, that was it, of course that was it! Why had -he not thought of it before? He would go round to Ralph at once and send -him on an embassy to April. So pleased was he with this inspiration that -he was actually shaking hands with Ralph before he realized that the -battle was not won yet, and that he had before him a very awkward -interview.</p> - -<p>“Ralph,” he said, “I want a word with you alone. I don’t want to be -disturbed.”</p> - -<p>“Shall we go out for a walk then?”</p> - -<p>“Right.”</p> - -<p>Ralph went into the hall, fidgeting his fingers in the umbrella stand in -search of his walking stick, did not find it, and paused there -indeterminate.</p> - -<p>“Now, where did I put that stick?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t bother, please don’t bother; we’re only going for a stroll.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know, but if I don’t find it now—let me see, perhaps it’s in -the kitchen.” And for the next three minutes everyone seemed to be -shouting all over the house: “Mother, have you seen my walking stick?” -“Emma, have you seen Mr. Ralph’s walking stick?” And by the time that -the stick was eventually discovered, in the cupboard in Ralph’s bedroom, -Roland’s patience and composure had been shattered.</p> - -<p>“Such a fuss about a thing like that,” he protested.</p> - -<p>“All right, all right; I didn’t keep you long. Now, what’s it all -about?” And there was firmness in his voice which caused Roland a twinge -of uneasiness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> Ralph had developed since he had gone to Oxford. He was -no longer the humble servant of Roland’s caprice.</p> - -<p>“It’s not very easy,” said Roland; “I want you to do something for me. -I’m going to ask you to do me a great favor. It’s about April.”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course,” said Ralph, “I know what it is; you’re going to be -married at once, and you want me to be your best man—but I shall be -delighted.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no, no,” said Roland, “it’s not that at all.”</p> - -<p>Ralph was surprised. “No?”</p> - -<p>“No, it’s—oh, well, look here. You know how things are; there’s been a -sort of understanding between us for a long time—three or four -years—hasn’t there? Well, one alters; one doesn’t feel at twenty-three -as one does when one’s seventeen; we’re altering all the time, and -perhaps I have altered quicker than most people. I’ve been abroad a -lot.” He paused. “You understand, don’t you?” he asked.</p> - -<p>Ralph nodded, understanding perfectly. Though he did not quite see where -he himself came in, he understood that Roland was tired of April. But he -was not going to spare him. There should be no short-cuts, no shorthand -conversation. Roland would have to tell him the whole story.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he said.</p> - -<p>Their eyes met, and for the first time in their relationship Roland knew -that he was in the weaker position and that Ralph was determined to -enjoy his triumph.</p> - -<p>“All right,” said Roland, “I’ll go on, though you know what I’ve got to -tell you. I don’t know whose fault it is. I suppose it’s mine really, -but things have happened this way. I’m not in love with April any -more.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span></p> - -<p>Again he paused and again Ralph repeated that one word, “Well?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t love her any more, and I’ve fallen in love with someone else -and we want to get married.”</p> - -<p>“Who is it?”</p> - -<p>“Muriel Marston.”</p> - -<p>“The sister of that fellow you play cricket with?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s it.” He paused, hoping that now Ralph would help him out, -but Ralph gave him no assistance, and Roland was forced to plunge again -into his confession. “Well, you see, April knows nothing about it. I’ve -been a bit of a beast, I suppose. As far as she is concerned the -understanding still holds good. She’s still in love with me, at least -she thinks she is. It’s—well, you see how it is.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I quite see that. You’ve been playing that old game of yours, of -running two girls in two different places, only this time it’s gone less -fortunately and you find you’ve got to marry one of them, and April’s -the one that’s got to go?”</p> - -<p>“If you put it that way——”</p> - -<p>“Well, how else can I put it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, have it as you like.”</p> - -<p>“And what part exactly do you expect me to play in this comedy?”</p> - -<p>“I want you to break the news to April.”</p> - -<p>There was a long silence. They walked on, Ralph gazing straight in front -of him, and Roland glancing sideways at him from time to time to see how -the idea had struck him. But he could learn nothing from the set -expression of his companion’s face. It was his turn now to employ an -interrogatory “Well?” But Ralph did not appear to have heard him. They -walked on in silence, till Roland felt some further explanation was -demanded of him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span></p> - -<p>“It’s like this, you see——”</p> - -<p>But Ralph cut him short. “I understand quite well; you’re afraid to tell -her. You’re ashamed of yourself and you expect me to do your dirty -work!”</p> - -<p>“It’s not that——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, it is. I know you’ll find excuses for yourself, but that’s -what it amounts to. And I don’t see why I should do it.”</p> - -<p>“I am asking it of you as a favor.”</p> - -<p>“That’s like you. Since you’ve met these new friends of yours you’ve -dropped your old-time friends one by one. I’ve watched you, and now -April, she’s the last to go. You haven’t been to see me for three or -four months and now you’ve only come because you want me to do something -for you.”</p> - -<p>The justice of the remark made Roland wince. He had seen hardly anything -of Ralph during the last three years.</p> - -<p>“But, Ralph,” he pleaded, “how can I go and tell her myself?”</p> - -<p>“If one’s done a rotten thing one owns up to it. It’s the least one can -do.”</p> - -<p>“But, it isn’t——”</p> - -<p>“What isn’t it? Not a rotten thing to make a girl believe for four years -that you’re going to marry her and then chuck her! If that isn’t a -rotten thing I don’t know what is!”</p> - -<p>Roland was wise enough not to attempt to justify himself. He would only -enrage Ralph still further and that was not his game.</p> - -<p>“All right,” he said. “Granted all that, granted I’ve done a rotten -thing, it’s happened; it can’t be altered now; something’s got to be -done. Put yourself in my place. What would you do if you were me?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span></p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t have got myself in such a place”; his voice was stern and -official and condemnatory. In spite of the stress of the situation -Roland was hard put to it not to kick him for a prig.</p> - -<p>“But I have, you see, and——”</p> - -<p>“Even so,” Ralph interrupted, “I can’t see why you shouldn’t go and tell -April yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Because April herself would rather be told by anyone than me.”</p> - -<p>It was his last appeal and he saw that it had succeeded. Ralph repeated -the words over to himself.</p> - -<p>“April would rather be told—— Oh, but rot! She’d much rather have it -out straight.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, she wouldn’t; you don’t know April as well as I do. She hates -scenes; she could discuss it impersonally with you. With me—can’t you -see how it would hurt her; she wouldn’t know how to take it, whether to -plead, or just accept it—can’t you see?”</p> - -<p>He had won, and he knew it, through the appeal to April’s feelings. -Ralph would do what he wanted, because he would think that he was -performing a service for April.</p> - -<p>“I expect you’re right,” he said; “you know her better than I do, but -I’m doing it for her, not for you, mind.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I understand.”</p> - -<p>“If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t do it. A man should do his own dirty -work. And you know what I think of it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I know.” He would make no defense. Ralph might be allowed in -payment the poor privilege of revenge.</p> - -<p>“And you’ll tell me what she says?”</p> - -<p>“You shall have a full account of the execution.”</p> - -<p>They walked a little farther in silence. They had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> nothing more to say -to each other, and at the corner of a road they parted. It was finished.</p> - -<p>Roland walked home, well satisfied at the successful outcome of a -delicate situation—the same Roland who had congratulated himself five -years earlier on the diplomacy of the Brewster episode.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX<br /><br /> -<small>THERE’S ROSEMARY....</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>ALPH went round to see April on the next morning, shortly after eleven -o’clock. She had just been out for a long walk by herself and, on her -return, had taken up a novel with which to while away the two hours -remaining to lunch time. She had left school eighteen months earlier, -and time often hung heavily on her. She did little things about the -house: she tidied her own room, mended her own clothes, did some -occasional cooking, but she had many hours of idleness. She wished -sometimes that she had trained for some definite work. Women were no -longer regarded as household ornaments. Many careers were open to her. -But it had not seemed worth while during the last year at school to -specialize in any one subject. What was the good of taking up a career -that she would have to abandon so soon? The first year in any profession -was uninteresting, and by the time she had reached a position where she -would be entrusted with responsibilities her marriage day would be -approaching. And so, instead of looking for any settled work, she had -decided to stay at home and help her mother as much as possible. It was -lonely at times, especially when Roland was away; she was, in -consequence, much given to daydreams. Her book, on this September -morning, had slipped on to her lap, and her thoughts had refused to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> -concentrate on the printed page, and fixed themselves on the time when -she and Roland would be married. He had not been to see her at all the -day before. But the memory of his last kiss was very actual to her. He -had loved her then. She had had her bad moments, when she had wondered -whether, after all, he really cared for her, but she was reassured by -such a memory. And soon they would be married. She would make him happy. -She would be a good wife.</p> - -<p>A knock on the front door roused her from her reverie, and, turning her -head, she saw Ralph Richmond standing in the doorway. She rose quickly, -her hand stretched out in friendly welcome.</p> - -<p>“How nice of you to come, Ralph; you’re quite a stranger. Come and sit -down.” And as soon as he was seated she began to talk with fresh -enthusiasm about their friends and acquaintances. “I saw Mrs. Evans -yesterday and she told me that Edward had failed again for his exam. She -was awfully disappointed, though she oughtn’t really to have expected -anything else. Arthur’s form master told him once that he couldn’t -imagine any examination being invented that Edward would be able to -pass.”</p> - -<p>Ralph sat in silence, watching her, wondering what expression those -bright features would assume when she had heard what he had to tell her. -He dreaded the moment, not for his sake, but for hers. He hardly thought -of himself. He loved her and he would have to give her pain. In the end -he stumbled awkwardly across her conversation.</p> - -<p>“April, I have got some bad news for you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Ralph, what is it? Nothing about your people, is it?”</p> - -<p>“No, it’s nothing to do with me. It’s about Roland.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span></p> - -<p>Although she made no movement, and though the expression of her face did -not appear to alter, it seemed to him that, at the mention of Roland’s -name, her vitality was stilled suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Yes?” she said, and waited for his reply.</p> - -<p>“He’s not hurt, or anything. You needn’t be frightened. But he wanted -you to know that he has become engaged to Muriel Marston.”</p> - -<p>She said nothing for a moment, then in a dazed voice:</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, you must be mistaken, it can’t be true, it can’t possibly!”</p> - -<p>“But it is, April, really. I’m awfully sorry, but it is.”</p> - -<p>She rose from her chair, swayed, steadied herself with her left hand, -took a half pace to the window and stood still.</p> - -<p>“But what am I to do?” she said. She could not bear to contemplate her -life without Roland in it. What would her life become? What else had it -been, indeed, for the last four years but Roland the whole time? -Whenever she had bought a new frock or a new hat she had wondered how -Roland would like her in it. When she had heard an amusing story her -first thought had been, “Roland will be amused by that.” When she had -opened the paper in the morning she had turned always to the sports’ -page first. “Roland will be reading these very words at this very -moment.” Roland was the measure of her happiness. It was a good day or a -bad day in accordance with Roland’s humor. She would mark in the -calendar the days in red and green and yellow—yellow for the unhappy -days, when Roland had not seen her, or when he had been unsympathetic; -the green days were ordinary days, when she had seen him, but had not -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> alone with him; her red days were the happy days, when there had -been a letter from him in the morning, or when they had been alone -together and he had been nice and kissed her and made love prettily to -her. Her whole life was Roland. Whenever she was depressed she would -comfort herself with the knowledge that in a year or so she would be -married and with Roland for always. She could not picture to herself -what her life would become now without him. She raised her hand to her -head, in dazed perplexity.</p> - -<p>“What am I to do?” she repeated. “What am I to do?” Then she pulled -herself together. There were several questions that she would wish to -have answered. She returned to her seat. “Now tell me, when did this -happen, Ralph?”</p> - -<p>“He told me last night.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean that; when did he propose to Miss Marston?”</p> - -<p>“During the week-end—on Saturday evening, I think.”</p> - -<p>“Saturday evening!” she repeated it—“Saturday evening!” Then he had -been engaged to this other girl on Monday night when he had kissed her. -He had loved her then, he had meant that kiss; she was certain of it. -And to April, as earlier to Mrs. Whately, this treachery seemed capable -of explanation only by a marriage for money. It was unworthy of Roland. -She could hardly imagine him doing it. But he might be in debt. People -did funny things when they were in debt.</p> - -<p>“Is she pretty, this Miss Marston?”</p> - -<p>That was her next question, and Ralph replied that he thought she was.</p> - -<p>“But you’ve never seen her?”</p> - -<p>“No.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span></p> - -<p>“Roland told you she was pretty. Did he say anything else about her?”</p> - -<p>“No, hardly anything.”</p> - -<p>There was another pause. Then:</p> - -<p>“I can’t think,” she said, “why he didn’t come and tell me this -himself.”</p> - -<p>She said nothing more. Ralph saw no reason why he should remain any -longer. He rose awkwardly to his feet. As he looked down at her, beaten -and dejected, his love for her flamed up in him fiercely, and, with a -sudden tenderness, he began to speak to her.</p> - -<p>“April,” he said, “it’s been awful for me having to tell you this. I’ve -hated hurting you—really I have. I know you don’t care for me, but if -you would look on me as a friend, a real friend; if there’s anything I -can do for you just now.... I can’t explain myself, but if you want -anything I’ll do it. You’ll come to me, won’t you?”</p> - -<p>She smiled at him, a tired, pathetic smile.</p> - -<p>“All right, Ralph, I’ll remember.”</p> - -<p>But the moment he had left the room all thought of him passed from her, -and she was confronted with the gray, interminable prospect of a future -without Roland. She could not believe that he was lost to her -irretrievably. He would return to her. He must love her still. It was -only two days since he had kissed her. He was marrying this girl for her -money; that was why he had been ashamed to tell her of it himself. He -would not have been ashamed if he had really loved this Muriel. Well, if -it was money she would win him back. She was not afraid of poverty if -Roland was with her; she would fight against it. She would earn money in -little ways; she would do without a servant. His debts would be soon -paid off. She would tell him this and he would return to her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span></p> - -<p>That evening she walked towards the Town Hall at the hour when he would -be returning from the office. She had often gone to meet him without her -mother’s knowledge, and they had walked together down the High Street in -the winter darkness, his arm through hers. Bus after bus came up, -emptied, and he was not there. She watched the people climbing down the -stairs. She had decided that as soon as she saw Roland she would walk -quietly down the street, as though she had not come purposely to meet -him. She would thus take him off his guard. But, somehow, she missed the -bus that he was on; perhaps a passing van had obscured her sight of it. -And she did not realize that he was there till she saw him suddenly on -the other side of the pavement. Their eyes met, Roland smiled, raised -his hat and seemed about to come across to her; then he seemed to -remember something, for he hurried quickly on and was lost almost at -once in the dense, black-coated crowd of men returning from their -office. The smile, the raising of the hat, had been an involuntary -action. He had not remembered till he had taken that step forward that -he had now no part in her life. He felt she would not want to speak to -him now. And this action naturally confirmed April in her belief that -Roland was marrying Muriel for her money.</p> - -<p>“It is me that he loves really,” she told herself, and she felt that if -she were a clever woman she would be able to win him back to her.</p> - -<p>“But I am not a clever woman,” she said. “I was not made for intrigues -and diplomacy.” She remembered how, four years earlier, she had learned -from a similar experience that she was not destined for a life of -action. “All my life,” she had told herself, “I shall have to wait, and -Romance may come to me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> or it may pass me by. But I shall be unable to -go in search of it.” And it seemed to her that this fate had already -been accomplished. Roland still loved her; that she could not doubt. But -she had no means by which she might recall him to her. “If I had,” she -said, “I should be a different woman, and, as likely as not, he would -not love me.”</p> - -<p>On her return home she went straight upstairs to her bedroom and, -without waiting to take off her hat, opened the little drawer in her -desk in which were stored the letters and the gifts that she had at -various times received from Roland. There was the copper ring there that -he had slipped on to her finger at the party, the tawdry copper ring -that she had kept so bright; there was the score card of a cricket -match, the blue and yellow rosette he had worn at the school sports when -he had been a steward, a photograph of him in Eton collars. She held -them in her hand and her first instinct was to throw them into the -fireplace. But she thought better of it. After all he loved her still. -Why should she not keep them? Instead, she sat down in the chair and -laid the little collection in her lap and, opening the letters, she -began to read them through, one by one; by the time she had finished the -room had darkened. She would have to put on another dress for the -evening and do her hair. Already she could hear her father’s voice in -the hall, but she felt lazy, incapable of action; her hands dropped into -her lap, and her fingers closed round the letters and cards and -snapshots. Her thoughts traveled into the past and were lost in vague, -wistful recollection. Her mother’s voice sounding in the passage woke -her from a reverie. It was quite dark; she must light the gas, and she -would have to hurry with her dressing. It was getting late.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> She rose to -her feet, walked over to the bureau and put the letters back into the -little drawer. Her fingers remained on the handle after she had closed -it. And again she asked herself the question to which she could find no -answer: “What is going to happen to me now?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /><br /> -<small>THE SHEDDING OF THE CHRYSALIS</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE official position of fiancé was a new and fascinating experience, in -the excitement of which Roland speedily forgot the unpleasantness that -its announcement had caused in Hammerton. It was really great fun. -Important relatives were asked to meet him, and he was introduced to -them by Mr. Marston as “my future son-in-law.” Muriel insisted on taking -him for walks through the village for the pleasure of being able to say -to her friends: “This is my fiancé.” And when he complained that he was -being treated like a prize dog, she asked him what else he thought he -was. Muriel had always been a delightful companion and the engagement -added to their relationship a charming intimacy. It was jolly to sit -with her and hold her hand; and she was not exacting. She did not expect -him to be making love to her the whole time. Indeed, he did not make -love to her very often. They kissed each other when they were alone, but -then kisses were part of the game that they were playing. April had at -first been too shy to pronounce the actual word “kiss.” She had evaded -it, and later, when she had come to use it, it had been for a long while -accompanied by a blush. There was no such reserve between Muriel and -Roland. Kisses were favors that she would accord to him if he were good. -“No,” she would say to him sometimes, “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> don’t think I’m going to let -you kiss me this afternoon. You haven’t been at all the faithful and -dutiful lover. You didn’t pay me any attention at lunch; you were -talking to father about some silly cricket match and I had to ask you -twice to pass me the salt. I oughtn’t to have to ask you once. You ought -to know what I want. No! I shan’t let you kiss me.”</p> - -<p>And then he would entreat her clemency; he would hold her hand and kneel -on the wet grass, an act of devotion to which he would call her notice, -and beseech her to be generous, and after a while she would weaken and -say—yes, if he was very good he might be allowed one kiss. No more! But -when his arms were round her he was not satisfied with one, he would -take two, three, four, and she would wriggle in his arms and kick his -shins and tell him that he had taken a mean advantage of her; and when -he had released her she would vow that as a punishment she would not -kiss him again—no, never, not once again, and then would add: “No, not -for a whole week!” And he would catch her again in his arms and say: -“Make it a minute and I’ll agree,” and with a laugh she had accepted his -amendment.</p> - -<p>There were no solemn protestations, no passion, no moments of languid -tenderness. They were branches in neighboring boughs that played merrily -in the wind, caring more, perhaps, for the wind than for each other.</p> - -<p>They talked exhaustively of the future—of the house they were going to -build, the garden they would lay out. “We’ll have fowls,” he said, -“because you’ll look so pretty feeding them.”</p> - -<p>“And we’ll have a lawn,” she repeated, “because you’ll look so hot when -you’ve finished mowing it.”</p> - -<p>They would discuss endlessly the problem of house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> decoration. She was -very anxious to have bright designs, “with lots of red and blue in it.” -And he had told her that she could do what she liked with the -drawing-room as long as she allowed him a free hand with his own study.</p> - -<p>“Which means that you’ll have a nasty, plain brown paper, and you’ll -cover it with ugly photographs of cricket elevens, and it’ll be full of -horrid arm-chairs and stale tobacco.”</p> - -<p>One day he took her up to Hammerton to see his parents and his friends. -They intrigued her by the difference from the type to which she was -accustomed.</p> - -<p>“It’s awfully interesting,” she said. “They are so different from the -sort of people that we see—all jammed together in these funny little -houses—all furnished just the same.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and all doing the same things,” said Roland—“going to the office -at the same time, coming back at the same time, and if it hadn’t been -for Gerald that would have been my life. That’s what I should have been. -I should have done exactly the same things every day of my life except -for one fortnight in the year. And it would have been worse for me than -for most of them, because I’ve been at a decent school, because I’d seen -that life needn’t be like that. These people don’t believe it can be -different.” He spoke with a savage sincerity that surprised Muriel. She -had never known him so violent.</p> - -<p>“Roland! Roland!” she expostulated. “I’ve never heard you so fierce -about anything before. Your proposal to me was the tamest thing in the -world compared with that.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry.”</p> - -<p>“I should hope so. I believe you hate Hammerton more than you love me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span></p> - -<p>So the autumn passed, quickly and happily. And by Christmas time they -had begun to speak of an April wedding. There was no reason for delay. -Roland was now making over seven hundred pounds a year, and the Marstons -were too certain of their son-in-law to demand a long engagement. Yet it -was on the very evening when the date was fixed that Roland and Muriel -had their first brief quarrel. Roland had been tired by the long -discussion, and Muriel’s keen vitality had exasperated him. She was -talking so eagerly of her trousseau, her bridesmaids, the locality of -her honeymoon. She seemed to him to be sharing their love, his and hers, -with all those other people who had no part in it. He was envious, -feeling that their love was no longer theirs. He was still angry when -they stood together on the landing to say good-night to each other.</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe you care for me at all,” he said, “that you regard our -marriage as anything more than a pantomime, a glorified garden party!”</p> - -<p>A look of hurt amazement crossed her face.</p> - -<p>“But, Roland!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know what I mean, Muriel, you—well, all these others!” He -paused, unable to express himself, then caught her quickly, roughly into -his arms, and kissed her hungrily. “I don’t care,” he said, “you’ll be -mine soon, mine!”</p> - -<p>She pushed away from him, her face flushed and frightened.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t, Roland, don’t!”</p> - -<p>He was instantly apologetic.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, Elfkin. I’m a beast. Forgive me, but oh, Elfkin, you really -are anxious about the marriage for my sake?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, silly!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span></p> - -<p>“I mean you’re glad that we’re going to be married soon?”</p> - -<p>She was surprised and at the same time amused by the look of entreaty in -his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look so tragic about it, of course I’m glad.”</p> - -<p>“But ...” He got no further, for she had taken his hands and was playing -with them, slapping them against his sides.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be such a silly, Roland, darling; you ought to know how pleased I -am. I’m looking forward to it frightfully; and I know that you’ll be an -awful dear to me.”</p> - -<p>She brought his hands together in one last triumphant smack, and leaning -forward imprinted a light kiss upon his forehead. He tried to draw her -again into his arms, but she broke from him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, and ran lightly up the stairs. She turned at -the corner of the landing to blow a kiss to him. “Good-night, darling,” -and she was gone.</p> - -<p>It was not repeated. Doubt, remorse, hesitation were alike forgotten in -the excitement of preparation. He had arranged to take over the lease of -a small house on the edge of the Marston estate, and the furnishing of -it was a new and delightful game. The present tenants did not relinquish -possession till the end of February, and during the intervening weeks -Muriel and Roland would prowl round the house like animals waiting for -their prey. They were finely contemptuous of the existing arrangements. -Fancy using the big room as a drawing-room; it faced southeast, and -though it would be warm enough during the morning, it would be freezily -cold in the afternoon. Of course they would make that the dining room; -it would be glorious for breakfast. And that big room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> above it should -be their bedroom; they would awake with the sunlight streaming through -the window.</p> - -<p>“You’ll see the apple tree while you brush your hair,” he told her. And -they both agreed that they would cut down the large walnut tree in the -garden. It was pretty, but it shut out the view of Hogstead. “It’ll be -much better to be able to look out from the drawing-room window and see -the funny old people going up and down the village street.” And Roland -reminded her how they had looked down on them that day when they had -leaned against the gate: “Do you remember?” And she had laughed and told -him that he was a stupid old sentimentalist, but she had kissed him all -the same. And then the great day had come when the tenants began to -move; they stood all the afternoon watching the workmen stagger into the -garden, bowed with the weight of heavy furniture.</p> - -<p>“I can’t think how all that stuff ever got in there,” Muriel said, and -began to wonder whether they themselves would ever have enough. “We’ve -nothing like as much as that.”</p> - -<p>And Roland had to assure her that they could always buy more, and that -anyway the house had been over-furnished.</p> - -<p>“You couldn’t move for chairs and chesterfields and bureaus.”</p> - -<p>It was two days before the last van rolled away and Muriel and Roland -were able to walk up the garden path “into our own house.” But it was a -bitter disappointment. The rooms looked mean and small and shabby now -that they were unfurnished. The bare boards of the floors and staircases -were dirty and covered with the straw of packing cases, the plaster of -the wall showing white where the book shelves had been unfixed. And the -paper that had been shielded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> by pictures from the sunshine struck a -vivid contrast to its faded environment. Muriel was on the verge of -tears.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Roland, what’s happened to our pretty house?” she cried. And it -took all his skill to persuade her that rooms always did look small till -they were furnished, and that carpets and pictures covered many things.</p> - -<p>“But our pictures won’t fit exactly in those places,” Muriel wailed, -“and all our small pictures will have haloes.”</p> - -<p>“Then we’ll get new papers,” Roland said.</p> - -<p>There were moments when it seemed that things could not be possibly -finished in time. On the last week of March there was not a carpet on -the floor, not a curtain over a window, not a picture on the walls.</p> - -<p>“I know what it’ll be,” said Muriel in despair, “we shall have to go and -leave it half finished, and while we’re away mother’ll arrange it -according to her own ideas, and her ideas are not mine. It’ll take us -all the rest of our lives getting things out of the places where she has -put them. It’s going to be awful, Roland, I know it is. We oughtn’t to -have arranged our marriage till we’d arranged our house.”</p> - -<p>Muriel was a little difficult during those days, but Roland was very -patient and very affectionate.</p> - -<p>“You only wait,” he said; “it looks pretty awful now, but one good day’s -shopping’ll make a jolly big difference.”</p> - -<p>And it did. In one week they bought all the carpets, the curtains, the -chairs and tables, and Gerald was dispatched with a list that Mrs. -Marston had drawn up of the uninteresting things—saucepans, -frying-pans, crockery—and with a blank check. “We can’t be bothered -with those things,” said Roland.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span></p> - -<p>It was a hectic week. They had decided to spend three hundred pounds on -furnishing, and every evening, for Roland was staying with the Marstons, -the two of them sat down to adjust their accounts, and to Muriel, who -had never experienced a moment’s anxiety about money, this checking of a -balance-sheet was a delightful game. It was such fun pretending to be -poor, adding up figures, comparing price-lists, as though each penny -mattered. She would sit, her pencil on her lips, her account book on one -side, her price-list on the other, and would look up at Roland with an -imploring, helpless glance, and: “Roland, dear, there’s such a beautiful -wardrobe here; it’s fifty pounds, but it’ll hold all my things; do you -think we can afford it?”</p> - -<p>And Roland would assume dire deliberation: “Well,” he would say, after -an impressive pause, “I think we can, only we’ll have to be very careful -over the servant’s bedroom if we get it.” And Muriel would throw her -arms round his neck and assure him that he was a darling, and then turn -again to the price-list.</p> - -<p>And all the while the wedding presents were arriving by every post. -That, too, was great fun, or rather it had been at the start.</p> - -<p>The first parcels were opened with unbounded enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Roland, Mrs. Boffin has sent us a silver inkstand; isn’t it sweet -of her?”</p> - -<p>“Muriel, come and look at these candlesticks; they are beauties.”</p> - -<p>And letters of eager thanks were written. After a week or so the game -began to lose its fascination. The gifts resembled each other; they -began to forget who had given what, and as they wrote the letters of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> -acknowledgment they would shout to each other in despair:</p> - -<p>“Oh, Roland, do tell me what Mr. Fitzherbert sent us!”</p> - -<p>“I can’t remember. I’m trying to think who I’ve got to thank for that -butter-dish.”</p> - -<p>“The butter-dish!—that was Mr. Robinson—but Mr. Fitzherbert?”</p> - -<p>“But the butter-dish wasn’t Mr. Robinson; he was the clock!”</p> - -<p>“Then it was Mrs. Evans; and, Roland, do, do think what Mr. Fitzherbert -gave us.”</p> - -<p>And so it went on, till at last they began to show a decided preference -for checks.</p> - -<p>And there was the honeymoon: that had to be arranged. Muriel would -rather like to have gone abroad.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been only twice. We’ll see all the foreigners, and sit in cafés, -and go to theaters and see if we can understand them.”</p> - -<p>But Roland was not very anxious to go abroad. He went there too often in -the way of business. He might meet people who at other times were -charming, but were not on a honeymoon the most comfortable company. -There would be the fatigue of long journeys, and besides, he wanted -Muriel to himself.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to go and see foreigners, I want to see you.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you’ll have seen a good deal of me before you’ve finished.”</p> - -<p>“But, Muriel,” and the firm note in his voice forced her to capitulate.</p> - -<p>“All right, all right, have it as you like.”</p> - -<p>And so, after much discussion, it was decided that they should get a -cyclist map of England, find a Sussex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> village that was at least three -miles from any railway station, and then write to the postmaster and ask -whether anyone there would be ready to let them rooms for a month.</p> - -<p>“Three miles from anywhere! Heavens! but I shall be bored; still it’s as -you wish. Go and get your map, Gerald.”</p> - -<p>And with the map spread on the table they selected, after an hour’s -argument, to see if anything was doing at Bamfield.</p> - -<p>“It should be a good place,” said Roland. “It’s just under the Downs.”</p> - -<p>In all this fret and fluster Mr. Marston took the most intense interest. -It reminded him of his own marriage and, finding his youth again in -theirs, he spoke often of his honeymoon.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember, dear, when we went out for a picnic in the woods and -it came on to rain and we went to that little cottage under the hill?” -And again: “Do you remember that view we got of the sea from the top of -Eversleigh?” Little incidents of his courtship that he had forgotten a -long time were recalled to him, so that he came to feel a genuine -tenderness for the wife whom he had neglected for business, for cricket, -and his children; from a distance of thirty years the perfume of those -scented months had returned to him.</p> - -<p>Gerald was alone unmoved. He was annoyed one morning when he found the -floor of the billiard room covered with packing cases, but he retained -his hardly won composure. He accepted the duties of best man without -enthusiasm. “At any rate it will soon be over,” he had said, and had -proceeded to give Roland two new white wood bats.</p> - -<p>“They won’t last long, but you can’t help making<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> a few runs with them.” -And his friend was left to draw from that present what inference he -might think fit.</p> - -<p>They were hectic days, but at last everything was finished. The house -was papered and furnished, rooms had been booked at Bamfield, and in the -last week in April Roland returned to Hammerton. He had had scarcely a -moment’s rest during the last two months. Life had moved at an -incredible pace, and only with an enormous struggle had he managed to -keep pace with it. He had had no time to think what he was doing. Each -morning had presented him with some fresh difficulty, each night had -left some piece of work unfinished. And, now that it was over, he felt -exhausted. The store of energy that had sustained his vitality at so -high a pressure was spent.</p> - -<p>The sudden marriage was naturally a disappointment to his parents. Their -opinion had not been asked; the arrangements had been made at Hogstead. -Roland had just told them that such and such a thing had been decided, -and they were hurt. They had known, of course, all along that as soon as -their son was married they would lose him, but they had expected to -retain his confidence up till then; and, being sentimental, they had -often spoken together of the wife that he would choose. They had looked -forward to his days of courtship, hoping to have a share in that fresh -happiness. But the pleasure had been given to others; they had had no -part in it.</p> - -<p>In consequence Roland did not find them very responsive. They listened -attentively to all he told them, but they asked no questions, and the -conversation was not made easy. Roland was piqued by their behavior; he -had intended to arrange a picnic for the three of them on the last day, -but now decided<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> that he would not. After all, why should he: it would -be no pleasure for any of them, not if they were going to sit glum and -silent. Two days before his marriage he went for a walk in the evening -with his father, and as Gerald would be coming on the next day to stay -the night with them this was the last walk they would have together. But -in nothing that they said to each other was implied any appreciation of -the fact. When Mr. Whately returned from the office he handed the -evening paper to his wife, commented on the political situation in -Russia and on the economical situation of France, and was, on the whole, -of the opinion that Spanish cooking was superior to Italian. “Not quite -so much variety,” he said, “but there’s a flavor about it that one gets -nowhere else.” He then proceeded to remove his boots: “And what about a -walk, Roland?”</p> - -<p>Roland nodded, and Mr. Whately went upstairs to change his suit. They -walked as usual down the High Street, they turned up the corner of -College Road, they crossed by the Public Library into Green Crescent, -and completed their circuit by walking down into the High Street through -Woolston Avenue. They talked of Fernhurst, of the coming cricket season, -of the marriage ceremony, of the arrangements that had been made for -meeting the guests at the church, of the train that Roland and Muriel -would catch afterwards. But there passed between them not one sentence, -question, intonation of the voice that could be called intimate, that -could be said to express not remorse, but any attitude at all towards -the severing of a long relationship. As they walked up the steps of 105 -Hammerton Villas they were discussing the effectiveness of the new pull -stroke that in face of prejudice so many great batsmen were practicing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span></p> - -<p>“I think I shall go down to the nets at the Oval to-morrow morning, -father, and see what I can make of it.”</p> - -<p>It was a bleak morning and the Oval presented a dismal appearance; a few -men were pottering about with ladders and paint brushes; a cutting -machine was clanking on the grass; the long stone terraces were cold and -forbidding; the clock in the pavilion had stopped; far over at the -Vauxhall end a couple of bored professionals were bowling to an -enthusiastic amateur who had no idea of the game, but demanded -instruction after every stroke. Roland stood behind the net and watched -for a while an exhibition of cross-bat play that was calculated to make -him forever an advocate of the left shoulder, the left elbow and the -left foot. He had a few minutes’ chat with one of the groundsmen.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, it do look pretty dismal, but you wait. April’s a funny -month; why, to-morrow we shall probably have brilliant sunshine, and -there’ll be twenty or thirty people down here, and when you go away -you’ll be thinking about getting out that bat of yours and putting a -drop of oil on it.” Roland expressed a hope that this prophecy would -prove correct.</p> - -<p>April was a funny month: it was cold to-day, but within a week the sun -would be shining on green grass and new white flannels. Only another -week! The fixing of this date, however, reminded Roland that in a week’s -time he would be in a small village under the Downs, three miles from -the nearest station, and this reminder was somewhat of a shock to him. -He would miss the first four weeks of the season. By the time he came -back everyone else would have found their form; it was rather a -nuisance. Still, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> honeymoon! Ah, well, one could not have it both -ways.</p> - -<p>Gerald was not arriving till the afternoon, and the morning passed -slowly for Roland. He walked from Kennington over Westminster Bridge and -along the Embankment to Charing Cross; he strolled down the Strand, -looking into the shop windows and wondering whether he was hungry enough -to have his lunch. He decided he was not and continued his walk, but -boredom made him reconsider the decision, and he found himself unable to -pass a small Italian restaurant at the beginning of Fleet Street; and as -he had a long time, with nothing to do in it, he ordered a heavy lunch. -When the waiter presented him with his bill he had become fretfully -irritable—the usual penalty of overeating.</p> - -<p>What on earth should he do with himself for two hours? How slowly the -time was passing. It was impossible to realize that in twenty-four -hours’ time he would be standing beside Muriel before the altar, that in -two days’ time they would be man and wife. What would it be like? -Pondering the question, he walked along to Trafalgar Square, and still -pondering it he mounted a bus and traveled on it as far as a sevenpenny -ticket would take him. Then he got on to a bus that was going in the -opposite direction, and by the time he was back again at Trafalgar -Square, Gerald’s train from Hogstead was nearly due.</p> - -<p>It was not a particularly exciting evening and the atmosphere was -distinctly edgy. Mr. Whately was bothered about his clothes, and whether -he should wear a white or a dark tie; and Mrs. Whately was fussing over -little things. “Did old Mrs. Whately know that she had to change at -Waterloo? Had anyone written to tell her? And who was going to meet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> her -at the other end?” It was a relief to Roland when they had gone to bed -and he and Gerald were left alone.</p> - -<p>“It’s a funny thing,” Gerald said; “five years ago we didn’t know each -other; you were nothing to me, nor I to you, and then we meet in -Brewster’s study, and again at the Oval and, before we know where we are -you’re a junior partner in the business and engaged to my sister. To -think what a difference you’ve made to all of us!”</p> - -<p>“And the funniest thing of all,” said Roland, “is to think that if I -hadn’t caught the three-thirty from Waterloo instead of the -four-eighteen, none of this would have happened. I shouldn’t have met -that blighter Howard, nor gone out with those girls; and, even so, none -of it would have happened if I had taken my footer boots down to be -mended, as I ought to have done, on a Sunday afternoon instead of -loafing in my study. One can’t tell what’s going to be a blessing till -one’s done with it. If I hadn’t had that row I should never have met you -and I should never have met Muriel.” And he paused, wondering what would -have happened to him if he had caught the four-eighteen and taken his -boots down to be mended. He would have stayed on another year at school; -he would have been captain of the house; he would have gone up to the -’Varsity. He would have had a good time, no doubt, but where would he be -now? Probably an assistant master at a second-rate public school, an -ill-paid post that had been given to him because he was good at games. -Probably also he would be engaged to April, and he would be making -desperate calculations with account books to discover whether it was -possible to marry on one hundred and fifty pounds a year.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span></p> - -<p>“That row,” he said, “was the luckiest thing for me that ever happened.”</p> - -<p>And they sat for a while in silence pondering the strange contradictions -of life, pondering also the instability of human schemes. One might plan -out the future, pigeon-hole it, have everything arranged as by a -machine, and then what happened? Someone caught a train at three-thirty -instead of at four-eighteen, or was too lazy to take his football boots -down to be mended on a wet afternoon, and the plans that had been built -up so elaborately through so many years were capsized, and one had to -begin again.</p> - -<p>“And it’s so funny,” Roland said, “to think of the fuss they made at -Fernhurst about a thing like that—just taking a girl out for a walk, -and you’d think I’d broken the whole ten commandments, and all the talk -there was about my corrupting the pure soul of Brewster.”</p> - -<p>Gerald broke into a great laugh.</p> - -<p>“The pure soul of Brewster!” he said. “My lord! if you’d known what he -was like after he’d been in the house a term. He’d have taken a blooming -lot of corrupting then. Gawd, but he was a lad!” And Gerald supplied -some intriguing anecdotes of Brewster’s early life. “He was a lad!” And -Brewster’s name started a train of associations, and Roland asked Gerald -whether he had heard of Baker.</p> - -<p>“Baker? Baker?” Gerald repeated. “No. I can’t say I ever remember -hearing anything about him. He must have been after my time.”</p> - -<p>Roland got up, walked across to his bureau, and taking a bunch of keys -from his hip pocket unlocked a small top drawer. He took the drawer out -and, bringing it across, laid it on the table. It was full of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> -photographs, letters, ribbons, dance programs, and he began to fumble -among them: “I think we shall find something about Master Baker here,” -he said. “Ah, yes, here we are!” And he handed across to Gerald a large -house photograph. “There he is, bottom row, fourth from the right.”</p> - -<p>Gerald scrutinized the photograph, holding it to the light.</p> - -<p>“Lord, yes,” he said, “that tells its own story; what’s happened to him -now?”</p> - -<p>“He was head of the house two years ago; he’s gone up to Selwyn. I -believe he’s going into the Church.”</p> - -<p>Gerald smiled. “When we all meet at an old boys’ dinner in twenty years’ -time we shall get one or two shocks. Think of Brewster bald, and -Maconochie stout, and Evans the father of a family!”</p> - -<p>“My lord!”</p> - -<p>And they began to rummage in the drawer, till the table was littered -with letters and photographs.</p> - -<p>The photographs led them from one reminiscence to another; and in that -little series of isolated recollections they lived again through all -that had remained vivid to them of their school days.</p> - -<p>“Heavens!” said Gerald, “who’s that? You don’t mean to say that’s -Harrison! Why, I remember him when he first came, a ridiculous kid; we -used to call him ‘Little Belly.’ About the first week he was there he -showed his gym. belt to someone and said: ‘Isn’t it small? Haven’t I a -little belly?’ ”</p> - -<p>“And here’s Hardy,” said Roland. “Do you remember that innings of his in -the final house match, and how we lined up on each side of the pavilion -and cheered him when he came out?”</p> - -<p>“And do you remember that try of his in the three cock?—two men and the -back to beat and only a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> couple of yards to spare between them and the -touchline. I don’t know how he kept his foot inside.”</p> - -<p>And as the store of Fernhurst photographs became exhausted they found -among the notes and hotel bills delightful memories of much that they -had in common.</p> - -<p>“The Café du Nord, Ghent! My son,” said Gerald, “do you remember that -top-hole Burgundy? Yes, here it is—two bottles of Volnay, fifty-three -francs.”</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t that the night when that ripping little German girl smiled at us -across the room?”</p> - -<p>“And when I said that another bottle of Volnay was better than any woman -in the world.”</p> - -<p>A torn hotel bill at Cologne recalled a disappointing evening in the -company of two German girls whom they had met at a dance and taken out -to supper—an evening that had ended, to the surprise of both of them, -in a platonic pressure of the hands.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember how we stood under the cathedral and watched them pass -out of sight behind the turning of the Hohe Strasse, and then you turned -to me and said: ‘There’s no understanding women’?”</p> - -<p>And then there was the evening when they had gone to the opera in Bonn -and had had supper afterwards in a little restaurant, from the window of -which they could see the Rhine flowing beneath them in the moonlight, -and its beauty and the tender sentimental melodies of Verdi had produced -in both of them a mood of rare appreciation; they had sat in silence and -made no attempt to express in talk the sense of wonderment. Much was -recalled to them by these pieces of crumpled paper, and when Roland put -away the drawer it seemed to Gerald that he was locking away a whole -period of his life. And when they said good-night to each other on the -stairs Gerald could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> help wondering whether, in the evening that had -just passed, their friendship had not reached the limit of its tether. -Roland was beginning a new life in which he would have no part. As he -heard his friend’s door shut behind him he could not help feeling that -never again would they reach that same point of intimacy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /><br /> -<small>AN END AND A BEGINNING</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span>O doubt the groundsman at the Oval rubbed his hands together with -satisfaction when he looked out of his bedroom window on the following -morning. It was not particularly warm; indeed he must have shivered as -he stood with his shaving brush in his hand, looking at the sky instead -of at his mirror. But the sky was blue and the sun was shining, and he -would, no doubt, be warm enough after he had sent down a couple of overs -at the nets. The thoughts of Roland as he surveyed the bright spring -morning were not dissimilar. He saw in it a happy augury. Summer was -beginning.</p> - -<p>They were a silent party at breakfast; each was preoccupied with his own -affairs. They had decided to leave Charing Cross at twelve-thirty-five -by a train that reached Hogstead at half-past one; the service was fixed -for two o’clock. They would not need to leave the house till a quarter -to twelve. They had therefore three hours to put in.</p> - -<p>“Now, I suggest,” said Gerald, “that you should come down with me to the -barber’s and have a shave.”</p> - -<p>“But I’ve shaved already.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay you have, but on a day like this one can’t shave too often.”</p> - -<p>And Roland, in spite of his protests, was led down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span> to the shop. Once -there, Gerald refused to be satisfied with a mere shave.</p> - -<p>“This is a big occasion,” he said. And he insisted that Roland should be -shampooed, that he should have his hair singed, that his face should be -oiled and massaged and his finger nails polished.</p> - -<p>“Now you look something like a bridegroom.” And in defiance of Roland’s -blushes he explained to the girl at the counter that his friend had -intended to be married unshaven.</p> - -<p>“What would you think,” he said, “if your fiancé turned up at the altar -with his hair unbrushed and chin all over bristles?”</p> - -<p>The girl was incapable of any repartee other than a giggle and the -suggestion that he should get along with himself. Gerald then announced -his intention of buying a pair of gloves, and when he reached the shop -he pretended that he was the bridegroom and Roland the best man. He took -the shopmen into his confidence and told them that the bride was very -particular—“a very finicking young person indeed”—and he must have -exactly the shade of yellow that would match her orange blossom. He -produced from his waistcoat pocket a piece of flame-colored silk. “It’s -got to go with this,” he said.</p> - -<p>In the same manner he proceeded to acquire a tie, a pair of spats, a -silk handkerchief. As he told his father afterwards, he did splendidly, -and kept Roland from worrying till it was time for them to dress.</p> - -<p>But the journey to the station was, even Gerald confessed, pretty -terrible. It was only five minutes’ walk and it had never occurred to -them to hire a cab. They wished they had, however, as they stepped down -the long white steps into the street that divided the even from the odd -numbered houses of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> Hammerton Villas. Everyone they passed turned to -stare at them. They were so obviously a wedding party. “Which is it?” -they overheard a navvy ask his mate. “Should be the one with the biggest -flower in his button-hole.”</p> - -<p>“Garn, he’s much too young!”</p> - -<p>Roland hated it, and the half hour in the train was even worse. As soon -as they reached Charing Cross he made a dash for the platform, leaving -Gerald to collect the tickets. But his embarrassment was yet to be made -complete, for as he stood on the footboard of the carriage he heard a -deep booming voice behind him.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, bridegroom!” And he turned to face the bulky figure of a maiden -aunt and the snigger of a porter. He did not feel safe till he had heard -the scream of the driver’s whistle, felt the carriage vibrate beneath -him and after two jolts pull slowly out of the station.</p> - -<p>He talked little on the journey, but sat in a corner of the carriage -watching through the window the houses slip past him, till the train -reached meadowland and open country. He knew every acre of that hour’s -journey. He had made it so often with such eager haste. How much, he -wondered, would not have happened to him before the time came for him to -make it again? He tried to marshal the reflections that should be -appropriate to such an occasion, but he could not. Life moved too fast -for thought. A fierce rhythm was completing its circle. He sat watching -the landmarks fall one by one behind him, appreciating confusedly the -nature of the experience to which he was being hurried.</p> - -<p>It was the same at the church. He did not feel in the least nervous. He -told a couple of good stories<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> to Gerald in the chancel; he settled the -account with the verger; he walked down the aisle and began to speak to -his friends as they took their places.</p> - -<p>“So good of you to come; hope you had a pleasant journey. See you -afterwards.”</p> - -<p>Gerald was amazed. “You’re wonderful! Why, you’re as calm as if you were -at a tea party!”</p> - -<p>Roland smiled, but said nothing. He attributed no credit to himself. How -else should he behave? A swiftly spinning top would, at a first glance, -appear to be poised unconsciously upon its point. It did not begin to -wobble till its pace was lost. And was not he himself a swiftly spinning -top?</p> - -<p>He did not even feel nervous when a commotion in the porch warned him of -the arrival of his bride; he stood firmly, did not fidget, fixed his -eyes upon the door till he saw, framed there picture-wise, Muriel, in -white and orange, upon her father’s arm. He then turned and faced the -altar. The organ boomed out its heavy, ponderous notes, but he hardly -heard them. His ears were strained for the silken sound that drew nearer -to him every moment. He kept his eyes fixed upon the altar, and it was -the faint perfume of her hair that told him first that she was beside -him.</p> - -<p>During the early part of the service he comported himself with a -mechanical efficiency. His performance was dignified and correct. When -he found a difficulty in putting the ring on to her finger he did not -become flustered, but left her to put it on herself. The ceremony had -for him a certain emotional significance. Once, as they stood close -together, the back of his hand brushed against hers and the cool contact -of her fingers reminded him of the serious oath that he was taking and -of how he was bringing to it a definite, if vaguely formulated, ideal of -tenderness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span> and loyalty. He meant to make of their marriage a reality -other than the miserable, dissatisfied compromise that, for the vast -majority of men and women, succeeded the first brief enchantment. His -lips framed no prayer; it had been for a long while his belief that the -molding of a man’s fortunes lay within his own powers. But that desire -for happiness was none the less a prayer. It went as quickly as it had -come, and he was once again the lay figure whose contortions all these -good people had been called together to observe. He remained a lay -figure during the rest of the afternoon.</p> - -<p>He walked down the aisle proudly with Muriel on his arm; in the carriage -he took her hand in his, and when they were out of sight of the church -he lifted her veil and imprinted a gentle kiss upon her cheek. He stood -beside her in the drawing-room and received each guest with a swift, -fluttering smile and a shake of the hand. The majority of them he did -not know, or had seen only occasionally. They were the friends and -relatives of Muriel. There were only a few in whom Roland was able to -take any personal interest. Ralph was there, and April. He had not -spoken to April since the evening when he had kissed her, and he -momentarily lost his composure when he saw, over the shoulder of an old -lady whose hand he was politely shaking, the brown hair and delicate -features to which he had been unfaithful. In what manner should he -receive her? But he need not have worried. She settled that for him. She -walked forward and took his hand in simple comradeship and smiled at -him. She looked very pretty in a gray coat and skirt and wide-brimmed -claret-colored hat. He recalled the day when she had worn that hat for -the first time and her anxiety that she should be pretty with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> it. “You -do like it, don’t you, darling?” But someone else was already waiting -with outstretched hand. “You looked so sweet, Muriel, darling,” an aged -female was saying. “Your husband’s a lucky man!” And by the time that -was over, the cake was waiting to be cut and champagne bottles had to be -opened, and Roland was passing from one group of persons to another, -saying the same things, making the same gestures: “Yes, we’re spending -our honeymoon in England ... Bamfield, a little village under the Downs -... Sussex’s so quiet ... such a mistake to try and do too much on a -honeymoon.”</p> - -<p>He had barely time to exchange a couple of remarks with Beatrice. She -came towards him, her hand stretched out in simple comradeship.</p> - -<p>“Good luck, Roland,” she said. “You are going to be awfully happy. I -know you are.”</p> - -<p>“And when we come back you must come and see us; won’t you, Beatrice?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I shall.”</p> - -<p>“Often,” he urged.</p> - -<p>“As often as you ask me.”</p> - -<p>Before he had time to reply an obscure relative had begun to assure him -of his wonderful fortune and of his eternal felicity.</p> - -<p>He caught glimpses of Muriel’s white dress passing through the ranks of -admiration, and then he found himself being led by the arm to the table -where the champagne was being opened and a cricket friend of his, a -married man, was adjuring him to take as much as possible. “You don’t -know what you’re in for, old man.” And then Gerald was telling him that -it was time he went upstairs to change, that Muriel had gone already.</p> - -<p>“You’re really wonderful, old man,” Gerald said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> when they were alone. -“I can’t think how you did it. It’s cured me of ever wanting to get -married.”</p> - -<p>There were several telegrams lying on his dressing-table; he opened them -and tossed them half read upon the floor. “Thank God I haven’t got to -answer those,” he said. And while he changed into a gray tweed suit -Gerald continued to perform what he considered to be the functions of a -best man. He chattered about the service, the champagne, the wedding -cake, the behavior of the guests. “And, I say, old son, who was that -mighty topping girl in gray, with the large wine-colored hat?”</p> - -<p>“That? Oh, that was April—April Curtis.”</p> - -<p>“What! the girl that——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s the one.”</p> - -<p>Gerald was momentarily overwhelmed. “Well, I must say I’m surprised,” he -began. Then paused, realizing that as Roland had just married his sister -it was hardly possible for him to draw any comparison between her and -April. He contented himself with a highly colored compliment:</p> - -<p>“A jolly pretty girl,” he said, “and she’ll be a beautiful woman.”</p> - -<p>At that moment there was a tap at the door and Mrs. Marston’s voice was -heard inquiring whether Roland had nearly finished.</p> - -<p>“Hurry up, old man,” said Gerald, “Muriel’s ready.” And two minutes -later he was running, with Muriel on his arm, through a shower of rose -leaves and confetti. They both sank back into the cushions, panting, -laughing, exhausted. And as the gates of the drive swung behind them -they said, almost simultaneously: “Thank heaven, that’s over!”</p> - -<p>But a moment later Muriel was qualifying her relief with the assertion -that it had been “great fun.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span></p> - -<p>“All those serious-faced people came up and wished me good luck. If I’d -encouraged them they’d have started taking me into corners and preaching -sermons at me.”</p> - -<p>But Roland did not find it easy to respond to her gayety. Now that it -was all over he felt tired, physically and emotionally. When they -reached the station he bought a large collection of papers and -magazines, so that their two hours’ journey might be passed quietly. But -this was not at all in accordance with Muriel’s ideas.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so dull, Roland!” she complained. “I want to be amused.”</p> - -<p>He did his best; they talked of all their guests and of how each one of -them had behaved.</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t old Miss Peter ridiculous, dressing up so young?” said Muriel; -and Roland asked whether she didn’t think that Guy Armstrong had been -paying rather marked attention to Miss Latimer.</p> - -<p>“Why, he’s been doing that for months,” said Muriel. “We’ve all been -wondering when he’s going to propose. I don’t mind betting that at this -very moment she’s doing her best to make him. She’s probably suggested -that he should take her home, and she’s insisted on going the longest -way.”</p> - -<p>But Roland’s conversational energy was soon exhausted, and after a long -and slightly embarrassed silence Muriel tossed back her head impatiently -and picked up a magazine.</p> - -<p>“You are not very interesting, are you?” she said.</p> - -<p>Roland considered it wiser to make no response. He settled himself back -into his seat, rested his head against his hand, and allowed his -thoughts to travel back over the incidents of the afternoon.</p> - -<p>It had been a great success; there could be no doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> of that. -Everything had gone off splendidly. But he was unaccountably oppressed -by a vague sense of apprehension, of impending trouble. He endeavored to -fix his thoughts on reassuring subjects. He recalled his momentary talk -with Beatrice, and remembered that that afternoon he had addressed her -for the first time by her Christian name. She had shown no displeasure -at his use of it, and as she smiled at him he fancied he had read in the -soft wavering luster of her eyes the promise of a surer friendship, of -deeper intimacy. He had seen so little of her during the last few -months. It would be exciting to meet her on his return, at full liberty, -on an assured status, in his own house.</p> - -<p>His reverie traveled thence to Gerald’s easy good humor, his unflagging -energy, his bubbling commentary on the idiosyncrasies of his father’s -friends, his surprised admiration of April; and the thought of April -brought back in a sudden wave the former mood of doubt and apprehension. -How little, after all, he and Muriel knew of one another; they were -strangers beneath the mask of their light-hearted friendship. He looked -at her out of the corner of his eye. Her magazine had fallen forward on -to her lap. Her eyes were fixed dreamily on the opposite wall of the -carriage. Her thoughts were, no doubt, loitering pleasantly in a colored -dream among the agreeable episodes of the afternoon—her dress, her -bridesmaids, her bouquets, the nice things everyone had said to her. As -he looked at her, so calm, so self-possessed, Roland was momentarily -appalled by the difficulty of establishing on a new basis their old -relationship.</p> - -<p>They had been comrades before they had been lovers. In their courtship -passion had been so occasional a visitant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span></p> - -<p>They were both in a subdued state of mind when they stepped up into the -dogcart that had been sent to meet them at the station.</p> - -<p>“Tired, Elfkin?” he whispered.</p> - -<p>“A little,” she said.</p> - -<p>The air was cold and she snuggled close to him for warmth; he took her -hand in his and held it, pressing it tenderly.</p> - -<p>They had a three-mile drive through the quiet English countryside.</p> - -<p>And it was quite dark when the dogcart eventually drew up before a small -cottage and a kindly, plump woman came out to meet them.</p> - -<p>“Ah, there you be!” she said. “I was just expecting you. The supper’s -all laid out, and I’ve only got to put the eggs on to boil, and there’s -some hot water in the bedroom.”</p> - -<p>Roland thanked her, took down the two suitcases, and followed Muriel and -her up the narrow creaking stairs.</p> - -<p>“There,” she said, opening a door. “There you are. And if you want -anything you ring that bell on the table. I’ll just run down and get on -with the supper.”</p> - -<p>Roland and Muriel were left alone in a small room, the greater part of -which was occupied by a large double bed, over which had been hung, with -a singular lack of humor, a Scriptural admonition: “Love one another.” -The ceiling was low, the window was overhung with ivy. In midsummer it -would be a stuffy room. They looked at each other; they were alone for -the first time, and they did not know what to do. There was an awkward -silence.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you’ll want to tidy up,” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“Well, of course,” she answered a little petulantly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span></p> - -<p>“All right, then; I’ll go downstairs. Come and tell me when you’re -ready.”</p> - -<p>She was standing between him and the door, and as he passed her he made -an ill-judged attempt to take her in his arms. She was tired and she was -dusty, and she did not want to be kissed just then. She shook herself -away from him. And this mistake increased Roland’s despondency, -accentuated his nervousness, his vague distaste for this summoning of -emotion to order, at a fixed date and at a fixed hour.</p> - -<p>Supper was not a cheerful meal; at first they attempted to be jovial, -but their enthusiasm was forced, and long silences began to drift into -their conversation. They grew increasingly embarrassed and tried to -prolong the meal as long as possible. Muriel was not fond of coffee and -rarely took it, but when Roland asked her if she would like some she -welcomed the suggestion: “Oh, yes, do.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Humphries, however, had no coffee, but when she read the -disappointment of the young bride’s face she said she would see if she -could not borrow some from her neighbor. And while she ran over the -village street Muriel and Roland sat opposite each other in silence; her -hands were folded in her lap, and she stared straight in front of her; -he played with the spoon of the salt cellar, making little pyramids of -salt round the edge.</p> - -<p>At last the coffee arrived; its warmth momentarily cheered them and they -tried to talk, to make fun of their friends, to scheme things for their -future. But the brooding sense of embarrassment returned. Roland, in the -intervals of occasional remarks, continued to erect his pyramids of -salt.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t,” said Muriel impatiently; “you get on my -nerves with your fidgeting.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span></p> - -<p>Roland apologized, dropped the spoon, and without occupation for his -hands felt more uncomfortable than before. They continued a spasmodic -conversation till Mrs. Humphries came in to tell them that she would be -going to bed directly.</p> - -<p>“We get up early here,” she said. And would they please to remember to -blow out the lamp and not to turn down the wick, as her last lodger had -done. She wished them a good-night, and said she would bring them a cup -of tea when she called them in the morning. They heard her bolt the -front door and fasten the shutter across the kitchen window, then tread -heavily up the creaking stairs. For a little while they listened to her -movements in the room. Then came the heavy creak of a bedstead.</p> - -<p>They were alone in the silent house.</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose we must be going up,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”</p> - -<p>“Will you go up first and I’ll come when you’re ready?”</p> - -<p>“All right.”</p> - -<p>He made no attempt to touch her as she passed him. She paused in the -doorway. A mocking smile, a last desperate rally fluttered over her -lips.</p> - -<p>“Don’t forget to turn the lamp out, Roland. My last lodger....”</p> - -<p>But she never completed the sentence; and their eyes met in such a look -as two shipwrecked mariners must exchange when they realize that they -can hold out no longer, and that the next wave will dash their numb -fingers from the friendly spar.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Roland Whately, by Alec Waugh - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROLAND WHATLEY *** - -***** This file should be named 52020-h.htm or 52020-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/0/2/52020/ - -Produced by MWS, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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