”
“Yes,” said Michael, “very straight.”
“But somewhat reticent.”
“Yes,” said Michael.
On this conclusion they were silent, as though terrors had been placed beyond it. And soon Michael rose. “Past ten, I’d better go home.”
Returning the way he came, he could think of nothing but Wilfrid. What wouldn’t he give to hear him say: “It’s all right, old man; I’ve got over it!”–to wring him by the hand again. Why should one catch this fatal disease called love? Why should one be driven half crazy by it? They said love was Nature’s provision against Bart’s terrors, against the valuable fellows. An insistent urge–lest the race die out. Prosaic, if true! Not that he cared whether Fleur had children. Queer how Nature camouflaged her schemes–leery old bird! But overreaching herself a bit, wasn’t she? Children might yet go clean out of fashion if Bart was right. A very little more would do it; who would have children for the mere pleasure of seeing them blown up, poisoned, starved to death? A few fanatics would hold on, the rest of the world go barren. The cocked hat! Instinctively Michael straightened his own, ready for crossing under Big Ben. He had reached the centre of Parliament Square, when a figure coming towards him swerved suddenly to its left and made in the direction of Victoria. Tall, with a swing in its walk. Wilfrid! Michael stood still. Coming from–South Square! And suddenly he gave chase. He did not run, but he walked his hardest. The blood beat in his temples, and he felt confused to a pitch past bearing. Wilfrid must have seen him, or he wouldn’t have swerved, wouldn’t be legging it away like a demon. Black! – black! He was not gaining, Wilfrid had the legs of him–to overtake him, he must run! But there rose in Michael a sort of exaltation. His best friend–his wife! There was a limit. One might be too proud to fight that. Let him go his ways! He stood still, watched the swift figure disappear, and slowly, head down under the now cocked hat, turned towards home. He walked quite quietly, and with a sense of finality. No use making a song about it! No fuss, but no retreat! In the few hundred yards before he reached his Square he was chiefly conscious of the tallness of houses, the shortness of men. Such midgets to have made this monstrous pile, lighted it so that it shone in an enormous glittering heap whose glow blurred the colour of the sky! What a vast business this midget activity! Absurd to think that his love for another midget mattered! He turned his key in the lock, took off his cocked hat and went into the drawing-room. Unlighted–empty? No. She and Ting-a-ling were on the floor before the fire! He sat down on the settee, and was abruptly conscious that he was trembling and sweating as if he had smoked a too strong cigar. Fleur had raised herself, cross-legged, and was staring up at him. He waited to get the better of his trembling. Why didn’t she speak? Why was she sitting there, in the dark? ‘She knows’; he thought: ‘we both know this is the end. O God, let me at least be a sport!’ He took a cushion, put it behind him, crossed his legs, and leaned back. His voice surprised him suddenly:
“May I ask you something, Fleur? And will you please answer me quite truly?”
“Yes.”
“It’s this: I know you didn’t love me when you married me. I don’t think you love me now. Do you want me to clear out?”
A long time seemed to pass.
“No.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t.”
Michael got up.
“Will you answer one thing more?”
“Yes.”
“Was Wilfrid here to-night?”
“Yes–no. That is–”
His hands clutched each other; he saw her eyes fix on them, and kept them still.
“Fleur, don’t!”
“I’m not. He came to the window there. I saw his face–that’s all. His face–it–Oh! Michael, don’t be unkind to-night!”
Unkind! Unkind! Michael’s heart swelled at that strange word.
“It’s all right,” he stammered: “So long as you tell me what it is you want.”
Fleur said, without moving:
“I want to be comforted.”
Ah! She knew exactly what to say, how to say it! And going on his knees, he began to comfort her.
Chapter XII.
GOING EAST
He had not been on his knees many minutes before they suffered from reaction. To kneel there comforting Fleur brought him a growing discomfort. He believed her tonight, as he had not believed her for months past. But what was Wilfrid doing? Where wandering? The face at the window–face without voice, without attempt to reach her! Michael ached in that illegitimate organ the heart. Withdrawing his arms, he stood up.
“Would you like me to have a look for him? If it’s all over–he might–I might–”
Fleur, too, stood up. She was calm enough now.
“Yes, I’ll go to bed.” With Ting-a-ling in her arms, she went to the door; her face, between the dog’s chestnut fur and her own, was very pale, very still.
“By the way,” she said, “this is my second no go, Michael; I suppose it means–”
Michael gasped. Currents of emotion, welling, ebbing, swirling, rendered him incapable of speech.
“The night of the balloon,” she said: “Do you mind?”
“Mind? Good God! Mind!”
“That’s all right, then. I don’t. Good-night!”
She was gone. Without reason, Michael thought: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ And he stood, as if congealed, overcome by an uncontrollable sense of solidity. A child coming! It was as though the barque of his being, tossed and drifted, suddenly rode tethered–anchor down. He turned and tore at the curtains. Night of stars! Wonderful world! Jolly–jolly! And–Wilfrid! He flattened his face against the glass. Outside there Wilfrid’s had been flattened. He could see it if he shut his eyes. Not fair! Dog lost–man lost! S. O. S. He went into the hall, and from the mothless marble coffer rived his thickest coat. He took the first taxi that came by.
“Cork Street! Get along!” Needle in bundle of hay! Quarter past eleven by Big Ben! The intense relief of his whole being in that jolting cab seemed to him brutal. Salvation! It WAS–he had a strange certainty of that as though he saw Fleur suddenly ‘close-up’ in a very strong light, concrete beneath her graceful veerings. Family! Continuation! He had been unable to anchor her, for he was not of her! But her child could and would! And, perhaps, he would yet come in with the milk. Why did he love her so–it was not done! Wilfrid and he were donkeys–out of touch, out of tune with the times!
“Here you are, sir–what number?”
“All right! Cool your heels and wait for me! Have a cigarette!”
With one between his own lips which felt so dry, he went down the backwater.
A light in Wilfrid’s rooms! He rang the bell. The door was opened, the face of Wilfrid’s man looked forth.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Desert in?”
“No, sir. Mr. Desert has just started for the East. His ship sails tomorrow.”
“Oh!” said Michael, blankly: “Where from?”
“Plymouth, sir. His train leaves Paddington at midnight. You might catch him yet.”
“It’s very sudden,” said Michael, “he never–”
“No, sir. Mr. Desert is a sudden gentleman.”
“Well, thanks; I’ll try and catch him.”
Back in the cab with the words: “Paddington–flick her along!” he thought: ‘A sudden gentleman!’ Perfect! He remembered the utter suddenness of that little interview beside the bust of Lionel Charwell. Sudden their friendship, sudden its end–sudden even Wilfrid’s poems–offspring of a sudden soul! Staring from window to window in that jolting, rattling cab, Michael suffered from St. Vitus’s dance. Was he a fool? Could he not let well alone? Pity was posh! And yet! With Wilfrid would go a bit of his heart, and in spite of all he would like him to know that. Upper Brook Street, Park Lane! Emptying streets, cold night, stark plane trees painted-up by the lamps against a bluish dark. And Michael thought: ‘We wander! What’s the end–the goal? To do one’s bit, and not worry! But what is my bit? What’s Wilfrid’s? Where will he end up, now?’
The cab rattled down the station slope and drew up under cover. Ten minutes to twelve, and a long heavy train on platform one!
‘What shall I do?’ thought Michael: ‘It’s so darned crude! Must I go down–carriage by carriage?” Couldn’t let you go, old man, without”–blurb!’
Bluejackets! If not drunk–as near as made no matter. Eight minutes still! He began slowly walking along the train. He had not passed four windows before he saw his quarry. Desert was sitting back to the engine in the near corner of an empty first. An unlighted cigarette was in his mouth, his fur collar turned up to his eyes, and his eves fixed on an unopened paper on his hip. He sat without movement; Michael stood looking at him. His heart beat fast. He struck a match, took two steps, and said:
“Light, old boy?”
Desert stared up at him.
“Thanks,” he said, and took the match. By its flare his face was dark, thin, drawn; his eyes dark, deep, tired. Michael leaned in the window. Neither spoke.
“Take your seat, if you’re going, sir.”
“I’m not,” said Michael. His whole inside seemed turning over.
“Where are you going, old man?” he said suddenly.
“Jericho.”
“God, Wilfrid, I’m sorry!”
Desert smiled.
“Cut it out!”
“Yes, I know! Shake hands?”
Desert held out his hand.
Michael squeezed it hard.
A whistle sounded.
Desert rose suddenly and turned to the rack above him. He took a parcel from a bag. “Here,” he said, “these wretched things! Publish them if you like.”
Something clicked in Michael’s throat.
“Thanks, old man! That’s great! Good-bye!”
A sort of beauty came into Desert’s face.
“So long!” he said.
The train moved. Michael withdrew his elbows; quite still, he stared at the motionless figure slowly borne along, away. Carriage after carriage went by him, full of bluejackets leaning out, clamouring, singing, waving handkerchiefs and bottles. Guard’s van now–the tail light–all spread–a crimson blur–setting East–going–going–gone!
And that was all–was it? He thrust the parcel into his coat pocket. Back to Fleur, now! Way of the world–one man’s meat, another’s poison! He passed his hand over his eyes. The dashed things were full of–blurb!
PART III
Chapter I.
BANK HOLIDAY
Whitsuntide Bank Holiday was producing its seasonal invasion of Hampstead Heath, and among the ascending swarm were two who meant to make money in the morning and spend it in the afternoon.
Tony Bicket, with balloons and wife, embarked early on the Hampstead Tube.
“You’ll see,” he said, “I’ll sell the bloomin’ lot by twelve o’clock, and we’ll go on the bust.”
Squeezing his arm, Victorine fingered, through her dress, a slight swelling just above her right knee. It was caused by fifty-four pounds fastened in the top of her stocking. She had little feeling, now, against balloons. They afforded temporary nourishment, till she had the few more pounds needful for their passage-money. Tony still believed he was going to screw salvation out of his blessed balloons: he was ‘that hopeful–Tony,’ though their heads were only just above water on his takings. And she smiled. With her secret she could afford to be indifferent now to the stigma of gutter hawking. She had her story pat. From the evening paper, and from communion on ‘buses with those interested in the national pastime, she had acquired the necessary information about racing. She even talked of it with Tony, who had street-corner knowledge. Already she had prepared chapter and verse of two imaginary coups;
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
“Yes,” said Michael, “very straight.”
“But somewhat reticent.”
“Yes,” said Michael.
On this conclusion they were silent, as though terrors had been placed beyond it. And soon Michael rose. “Past ten, I’d better go home.”
Returning the way he came, he could think of nothing but Wilfrid. What wouldn’t he give to hear him say: “It’s all right, old man; I’ve got over it!”–to wring him by the hand again. Why should one catch this fatal disease called love? Why should one be driven half crazy by it? They said love was Nature’s provision against Bart’s terrors, against the valuable fellows. An insistent urge–lest the race die out. Prosaic, if true! Not that he cared whether Fleur had children. Queer how Nature camouflaged her schemes–leery old bird! But overreaching herself a bit, wasn’t she? Children might yet go clean out of fashion if Bart was right. A very little more would do it; who would have children for the mere pleasure of seeing them blown up, poisoned, starved to death? A few fanatics would hold on, the rest of the world go barren. The cocked hat! Instinctively Michael straightened his own, ready for crossing under Big Ben. He had reached the centre of Parliament Square, when a figure coming towards him swerved suddenly to its left and made in the direction of Victoria. Tall, with a swing in its walk. Wilfrid! Michael stood still. Coming from–South Square! And suddenly he gave chase. He did not run, but he walked his hardest. The blood beat in his temples, and he felt confused to a pitch past bearing. Wilfrid must have seen him, or he wouldn’t have swerved, wouldn’t be legging it away like a demon. Black! – black! He was not gaining, Wilfrid had the legs of him–to overtake him, he must run! But there rose in Michael a sort of exaltation. His best friend–his wife! There was a limit. One might be too proud to fight that. Let him go his ways! He stood still, watched the swift figure disappear, and slowly, head down under the now cocked hat, turned towards home. He walked quite quietly, and with a sense of finality. No use making a song about it! No fuss, but no retreat! In the few hundred yards before he reached his Square he was chiefly conscious of the tallness of houses, the shortness of men. Such midgets to have made this monstrous pile, lighted it so that it shone in an enormous glittering heap whose glow blurred the colour of the sky! What a vast business this midget activity! Absurd to think that his love for another midget mattered! He turned his key in the lock, took off his cocked hat and went into the drawing-room. Unlighted–empty? No. She and Ting-a-ling were on the floor before the fire! He sat down on the settee, and was abruptly conscious that he was trembling and sweating as if he had smoked a too strong cigar. Fleur had raised herself, cross-legged, and was staring up at him. He waited to get the better of his trembling. Why didn’t she speak? Why was she sitting there, in the dark? ‘She knows’; he thought: ‘we both know this is the end. O God, let me at least be a sport!’ He took a cushion, put it behind him, crossed his legs, and leaned back. His voice surprised him suddenly:
“May I ask you something, Fleur? And will you please answer me quite truly?”
“Yes.”
“It’s this: I know you didn’t love me when you married me. I don’t think you love me now. Do you want me to clear out?”
A long time seemed to pass.
“No.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t.”
Michael got up.
“Will you answer one thing more?”
“Yes.”
“Was Wilfrid here to-night?”
“Yes–no. That is–”
His hands clutched each other; he saw her eyes fix on them, and kept them still.
“Fleur, don’t!”
“I’m not. He came to the window there. I saw his face–that’s all. His face–it–Oh! Michael, don’t be unkind to-night!”
Unkind! Unkind! Michael’s heart swelled at that strange word.
“It’s all right,” he stammered: “So long as you tell me what it is you want.”
Fleur said, without moving:
“I want to be comforted.”
Ah! She knew exactly what to say, how to say it! And going on his knees, he began to comfort her.
Chapter XII.
GOING EAST
He had not been on his knees many minutes before they suffered from reaction. To kneel there comforting Fleur brought him a growing discomfort. He believed her tonight, as he had not believed her for months past. But what was Wilfrid doing? Where wandering? The face at the window–face without voice, without attempt to reach her! Michael ached in that illegitimate organ the heart. Withdrawing his arms, he stood up.
“Would you like me to have a look for him? If it’s all over–he might–I might–”
Fleur, too, stood up. She was calm enough now.
“Yes, I’ll go to bed.” With Ting-a-ling in her arms, she went to the door; her face, between the dog’s chestnut fur and her own, was very pale, very still.
“By the way,” she said, “this is my second no go, Michael; I suppose it means–”
Michael gasped. Currents of emotion, welling, ebbing, swirling, rendered him incapable of speech.
“The night of the balloon,” she said: “Do you mind?”
“Mind? Good God! Mind!”
“That’s all right, then. I don’t. Good-night!”
She was gone. Without reason, Michael thought: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ And he stood, as if congealed, overcome by an uncontrollable sense of solidity. A child coming! It was as though the barque of his being, tossed and drifted, suddenly rode tethered–anchor down. He turned and tore at the curtains. Night of stars! Wonderful world! Jolly–jolly! And–Wilfrid! He flattened his face against the glass. Outside there Wilfrid’s had been flattened. He could see it if he shut his eyes. Not fair! Dog lost–man lost! S. O. S. He went into the hall, and from the mothless marble coffer rived his thickest coat. He took the first taxi that came by.
“Cork Street! Get along!” Needle in bundle of hay! Quarter past eleven by Big Ben! The intense relief of his whole being in that jolting cab seemed to him brutal. Salvation! It WAS–he had a strange certainty of that as though he saw Fleur suddenly ‘close-up’ in a very strong light, concrete beneath her graceful veerings. Family! Continuation! He had been unable to anchor her, for he was not of her! But her child could and would! And, perhaps, he would yet come in with the milk. Why did he love her so–it was not done! Wilfrid and he were donkeys–out of touch, out of tune with the times!
“Here you are, sir–what number?”
“All right! Cool your heels and wait for me! Have a cigarette!”
With one between his own lips which felt so dry, he went down the backwater.
A light in Wilfrid’s rooms! He rang the bell. The door was opened, the face of Wilfrid’s man looked forth.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Desert in?”
“No, sir. Mr. Desert has just started for the East. His ship sails tomorrow.”
“Oh!” said Michael, blankly: “Where from?”
“Plymouth, sir. His train leaves Paddington at midnight. You might catch him yet.”
“It’s very sudden,” said Michael, “he never–”
“No, sir. Mr. Desert is a sudden gentleman.”
“Well, thanks; I’ll try and catch him.”
Back in the cab with the words: “Paddington–flick her along!” he thought: ‘A sudden gentleman!’ Perfect! He remembered the utter suddenness of that little interview beside the bust of Lionel Charwell. Sudden their friendship, sudden its end–sudden even Wilfrid’s poems–offspring of a sudden soul! Staring from window to window in that jolting, rattling cab, Michael suffered from St. Vitus’s dance. Was he a fool? Could he not let well alone? Pity was posh! And yet! With Wilfrid would go a bit of his heart, and in spite of all he would like him to know that. Upper Brook Street, Park Lane! Emptying streets, cold night, stark plane trees painted-up by the lamps against a bluish dark. And Michael thought: ‘We wander! What’s the end–the goal? To do one’s bit, and not worry! But what is my bit? What’s Wilfrid’s? Where will he end up, now?’
The cab rattled down the station slope and drew up under cover. Ten minutes to twelve, and a long heavy train on platform one!
‘What shall I do?’ thought Michael: ‘It’s so darned crude! Must I go down–carriage by carriage?” Couldn’t let you go, old man, without”–blurb!’
Bluejackets! If not drunk–as near as made no matter. Eight minutes still! He began slowly walking along the train. He had not passed four windows before he saw his quarry. Desert was sitting back to the engine in the near corner of an empty first. An unlighted cigarette was in his mouth, his fur collar turned up to his eyes, and his eves fixed on an unopened paper on his hip. He sat without movement; Michael stood looking at him. His heart beat fast. He struck a match, took two steps, and said:
“Light, old boy?”
Desert stared up at him.
“Thanks,” he said, and took the match. By its flare his face was dark, thin, drawn; his eyes dark, deep, tired. Michael leaned in the window. Neither spoke.
“Take your seat, if you’re going, sir.”
“I’m not,” said Michael. His whole inside seemed turning over.
“Where are you going, old man?” he said suddenly.
“Jericho.”
“God, Wilfrid, I’m sorry!”
Desert smiled.
“Cut it out!”
“Yes, I know! Shake hands?”
Desert held out his hand.
Michael squeezed it hard.
A whistle sounded.
Desert rose suddenly and turned to the rack above him. He took a parcel from a bag. “Here,” he said, “these wretched things! Publish them if you like.”
Something clicked in Michael’s throat.
“Thanks, old man! That’s great! Good-bye!”
A sort of beauty came into Desert’s face.
“So long!” he said.
The train moved. Michael withdrew his elbows; quite still, he stared at the motionless figure slowly borne along, away. Carriage after carriage went by him, full of bluejackets leaning out, clamouring, singing, waving handkerchiefs and bottles. Guard’s van now–the tail light–all spread–a crimson blur–setting East–going–going–gone!
And that was all–was it? He thrust the parcel into his coat pocket. Back to Fleur, now! Way of the world–one man’s meat, another’s poison! He passed his hand over his eyes. The dashed things were full of–blurb!
PART III
Chapter I.
BANK HOLIDAY
Whitsuntide Bank Holiday was producing its seasonal invasion of Hampstead Heath, and among the ascending swarm were two who meant to make money in the morning and spend it in the afternoon.
Tony Bicket, with balloons and wife, embarked early on the Hampstead Tube.
“You’ll see,” he said, “I’ll sell the bloomin’ lot by twelve o’clock, and we’ll go on the bust.”
Squeezing his arm, Victorine fingered, through her dress, a slight swelling just above her right knee. It was caused by fifty-four pounds fastened in the top of her stocking. She had little feeling, now, against balloons. They afforded temporary nourishment, till she had the few more pounds needful for their passage-money. Tony still believed he was going to screw salvation out of his blessed balloons: he was ‘that hopeful–Tony,’ though their heads were only just above water on his takings. And she smiled. With her secret she could afford to be indifferent now to the stigma of gutter hawking. She had her story pat. From the evening paper, and from communion on ‘buses with those interested in the national pastime, she had acquired the necessary information about racing. She even talked of it with Tony, who had street-corner knowledge. Already she had prepared chapter and verse of two imaginary coups;
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45