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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/79073-0.txt b/79073-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..05e4ab2 --- /dev/null +++ b/79073-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9518 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79073 *** + + + + + THE + LAST SEPTEMBER + + by + ELIZABETH BOWEN + + CONSTABLE & CO LTD + LONDON + + + PUBLISHED BY + _Constable & Company Limited_ + _London W.C. 2_ + + BOMBAY + CALCUTTA MADRAS + LEIPZIG + _Oxford University Press_ + + TORONTO + _The Macmillan Company_ + + _First published 1929_ + + Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London + + + TO + JOAN GRACE REED + + + “Ils ont les chagrins qu’ont les + vierges et les paresseux....” + + _Le Temps Retrouvé._ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + THE ARRIVAL OF MR. AND MRS. MONTMORENCY 1 + + THE VISIT OF MISS NORTON 103 + + THE DEPARTURE OF GERALD 211 + + + + + THE ARRIVAL OF MR. AND MRS. MONTMORENCY + + + I + +ABOUT six o’clock the sound of a motor, collected out of the wide +country and narrowed under the trees of the avenue, brought the +household out in excitement on to the steps. Up among the beeches, a +thin iron gate twanged; the car slid out from a net of shadow, down +the slope to the house. Behind the flashing windscreen Mr. and Mrs. +Montmorency produced--arms waving and a wild escape to the wind of her +mauve motor-veil--an agitation of greeting. They were long-promised +visitors. They exclaimed, Sir Richard and Lady Naylor exclaimed +and signalled: no one spoke yet. It was a moment of happiness, of +perfection. + +In those days, girls wore crisp white skirts and transparent blouses +clotted with white flowers; ribbons, threaded through with a view +to appearance, appeared over their shoulders. So that Lois stood at +the top of the steps looking cool and fresh; she knew how fresh she +must look, like other young girls, and clasping her elbows tightly +behind her back, tried hard to conceal her embarrassment. The dogs +came pattering out from the hall and stood beside her; above, the +vast façade of the house stared coldly over its mounting lawns. She +wished she could freeze the moment and keep it always. But as the car +approached, as it stopped, she stooped down and patted one of the dogs. + +As the car drew up the Montmorencys unwound from their rugs. They stood +shaking hands and laughing in the yellow theatrical sunshine. They had +motored over from Carlow. Two toppling waves of excitement crashed and +mingled; for moments everybody was inaudible. Mrs. Montmorency looked +up the steps. “And this is the niece!” she exclaimed with delight. +“Aren’t we dusty!” she added, as Lois said nothing. “Aren’t we too +terribly dusty!” And a tired look came down at the back of her eyes at +the thought of how dusty she was. + +“She’s left school now,” said Sir Richard proudly. + +“I don’t think I should have known you,” said Mr. Montmorency, who had +not seen Lois since she was ten and evidently preferred children. + +“Oh, _I_ think she’s the image of Laura--” + +“--But we have tea waiting. Are you really sure, now, you’ve had tea?” + +“Danielstown’s looking lovely, lovely. One sees more from the upper +avenue--didn’t you clear some trees?” + +“The wind had three of the ashes--you came quite safe? No trouble? +Nobody at the cross-roads? Nobody stopped you?” + +“And are you sure now about tea?” continued Lady Naylor. “After all +that--look, it’s coming up now. No, Francie, don’t be ridiculous; come +in now, both of you.” + +They swept in; their exclamations, constricted suddenly, filling the +hall. There was so much to say after twelve years: they all seemed +powerless. Lois hesitated, went in after them and, as nobody noticed, +came out again. The car with the luggage turned and went round to the +back, deeply scoring the gravel. She yawned and looked out over the +sweep to the lawn beyond, where little tufts of shadow pricked like +reeds from water out of the flat gold light. Beyond the sunk fence, six +Kerry cows followed each other across with wading steps and stood under +a lime tree. All the way up the house the windows were open; light came +diagonally from window to window through corner rooms. Two stories up, +she could have heard a curtain rustle, but the mansion piled itself up +in silence over the Montmorencys’ voices. + +She yawned with reaction. It was simply the Montmorencys who had come; +whom all day one had been expecting. Yet she had been unable to read, +had scattered unfinished letters over her table, done the flowers +atrociously. Sweet-peas had spun and quivered between her fingers from +their very importance.... “I apologize for the mauve sweet-peas,” +she would have liked to be able to say to Mr. Montmorency. “I don’t +care for mauve myself. I can’t think why I ever picked them; there +were plenty of others. But, as a matter of fact, I was nervous.” +And--“Nervous?” she would wish Mr. Montmorency to ask her searchingly, +“why?” But she had her reserves, even in imagination; she would never +tell him. + +But she had seen at once that Mr. Montmorency, who must be really so +subtle, would not take the trouble to understand her. + +Her cousin Laurence had gone upstairs with a book when he heard the +motor. Now she could hear him knocking out his pipe on a window sill. +He leaned out further and asked, pointing down, in a cautious whisper: +“Are they all in?” + +She signalled a warning, nodding. + +“What are you doing?” he said. + +“I don’t know. What are you doing?” + +“Nothing particular.” + +“I thought I’d take the dogs down the beech walk.” + +“Why?” + +“Oh, I just thought ...” + +“Come up and tell me about the Montmorencys.” + +She signalled another warning: the Montmorencys were in the hall. To +avoid the hall she had to go right round to a side door and up the back +stairs. These smelt of scrubbed wood, limewash, and the ducks already +roasting for the Montmorencys’ dinner. Pushing open a door at the top +she let a gust of this through with her. + +“Duck,” said Laurence, sniffing gratefully. It still surprised her that +Laurence, who looked ethereal, should spend so much time when he was +not being intellectual in talking and apparently thinking about food. +She supposed that this was because he had, as he had once said, no +emotional life. “I live,” he used to say, “from meal to meal.” When she +said, “Why?” he put up his hands and his eyebrows and made a gesture. +When he did this in front of Gerald she felt uncomfortable. Soldiers +did not talk about food, they ate it. They ate, in fact, rather more +than Laurence, but always with a deprecating, absent look. + +Laurence had been reading in the ante-room, in one of the circle of not +very comfortable shell-shaped chairs that no one took seriously. His +room was a floor higher; it had not seemed worth while to go up. He had +brought the wrong book and dared not go down for another; otherwise +he would not have felt in need of her conversation. Personally, she +liked the ante-room, though it wasn’t the ideal place to read or talk. +Four rooms opened off it; at any moment a door might be opened, or +blow open, sending a draught down one’s neck. People passed through it +continually, so that one kept having to look up and smile. Yet Lois +always seemed to be talking there, standing with a knee on a chair +because it was not worth while to sit down, and her life was very +much complicated by not knowing how much of what she said had been +overheard, or by whom, or how far it would go. + +The high windows were curtainless; tasselled fringes frayed the light +at the top. The white sills, the shutters folded back in their frames +were blistered, as though the house had spent a day in the tropics. +Exhausted by sunshine, the backs of the crimson chairs were a thin +light orange; a smell of camphor and animals drawn from skins on the +floor by the glare of morning still hung like dust on the evening +chill. Going through to her room at nights Lois often tripped with her +toe in the jaws of a tiger; a false step at any time sent some great +claw skidding over the polish. Pale regimental groups, reunions a +generation ago of the family or the neighbourhood gave out from the +walls a vague depression. There were two locked bookcases of which the +keys had been lost, and a troop of ebony elephants brought back from +India by some one she did not remember paraded along the tops of the +bookcases. + +“Whow--whow--whow!” said Laurence, imitating her panting. “Why do you +hurry like that?” + +“I suppose it’s a habit,” said Lois, confused. + +“What did you want?” + +“Well, I came to tell you about the Montmorencys.” + +“Oh, all right; go on. Where are they?” + +“Having more tea; Aunt Myra made them.... Well, they arrived, as you +probably heard, and it was all rather devastating. There was a good +deal of emotion. And she would do nothing but say she was dusty, and of +course she _was_ dusty, so there was nothing for me to say.” + +“So what did you say?” + +“And he said he would never have known me.” + +“Honest, bluff sort of chap?” + +“Oh _no_,” said Lois and flushed, for really Laurence was too +insulting. She laughed and glanced at her finger-nails--the only part +of one’s person, she had observed, of which it was possible to be +conscious socially. “Haven’t you met him?” + +“I think I did once. I think I thought he was rather fatuous. But I was +very young at the time--I mayn’t have met him at all.” + +“Isn’t it extraordinary,” said Lois confidentially, “the way one’s +nails grow--I mean, when one comes to think: yards and yards of +inexhaustible nail coming out of one. As a matter of fact,” she added, +“I once rather had illusions about Mr. Montmorency--since I was ten. +He came to stay with my mother and me when we were at Leamington. +After dinner--I was allowed to sit up--Mother walked out of the house +and left us. We were trying chickens at that time and I dare say she +went out to shut them up and then simply stayed in the garden. Mr. +Montmorency and I talked for some time, then he got solemn and went to +sleep all in a moment. I sat and watched him in absolute fascination. +You know the way men go to sleep after dinner? Well, that wasn’t at all +the way he did.... Then my mother came, very much refreshed at having +been away from us, and said I was a rather bad hostess, and woke Mr. +Montmorency up. I have thought since, anyone might have said she was a +rather bad hostess. But everything she did seemed so natural.” + +“Oh, she was lovely,” said Laurence, indifferent. + +“So you see he is really not bluff, or he wouldn’t have gone to sleep +in that perfectly simple, exposed way. He was melancholy and exhausted +and wise, which I did appreciate as a child, when most visitors were so +noisy at one.” + +“Extraordinary,” said Laurence, looking out of the window. + +Laurence was comfortable to talk to because of his indifference to +every shade of her personality. With him, she felt committed by speech +itself to a display of such unfathomable silliness that she might +just as well come out--and did--with assertions surprising even to +herself. When he yawned, took a book up, said he was hungry or simply +went away, she was not discountenanced. It was those tender, those +receptive listeners to whom one felt afterwards sold and committed. It +is true that when first she had met Laurence again she had wished to +impress him as an intellectual girl. But an evening of signal failure +when he had told her she should read less and more thoroughly and, on +the whole he thought, talk less, had involved a certain re-arrangement +of attitude. She had reattained confidence, expanding under his +disapproval. + +“It doesn’t occur to you,” he said with an air of sinister triumph, +“that the Montmorencys may have come up the front stairs while you came +up the back stairs and be both in their room, listening?” + +Unthinkable, but the very sound of the thing was a shock. Crimson, she +ran to the door of the spare room: struggling with unreason, knocked +defiantly, rattled the handle. She went in, finally, with a sense of +impertinence, for the new arrivals were spiritually in possession. + +The Blue Room was of course empty; with no one to listen. The trunks +had been carried up and set down, unstrapped, at the foot of the wide +bed. The room smelt of bleaching cretonnes and ten days’ emptiness; +curtains in a draught from the door made a pale movement. Lois had +put a vase of geraniums on the dressing-table; now she admired their +cubes in delicate balance, spraying against the light. And there was +the festival air of those candles, virgin, with long white wicks. Two +arm-chairs faced round intently into the empty grate with its paper +fan--in them Mr. and Mrs. Montmorency would sit, perhaps, to discuss +the experiences of the day. More probably, they would talk in bed. One +of the things Lois chiefly wanted to know about marriage was--how long +it took one, sleeping with the same person every night, to outlive +the temptation to talk well into the morning? There would be nothing +illicit about nocturnal talking, as there had been at school; no +one would be entitled to open a door sharply with: “Now go to sleep +now, you two; that’s enough for to-night,” as had so often happened +during her visits to friends. Would conversation, in the absence of +these prohibitions, cease to interest? Lois had heard of couples who +disturbed each other by breathing and preferred to occupy different +rooms: no allowance was made for such couples at Danielstown. The Blue +Room dressing-room furniture was marble-topped to allow for spills or +breakages of a gentleman’s bottles, and there was a virile boot-rack +for every possible kind of boot. Lois, doubtfully, had put moss roses +on Mr. Montmorency’s table. + +“Didn’t it occur to you,” said Laurence, “that they couldn’t possibly +have gone through without my seeing them?” + +Lois came out and shut the door of the spare room. “But panic,” she +said, “is beyond one. Things like that are so awful. I shall never +forget discussing a Miss Elliot--a very musical woman--with Livvy or +some one, out here, and, my dear, _she_ was in there the whole time and +being English and honourable began to rattle her chest of drawers. I +could hardly look at her straight for the rest of the visit. However, +she also covered herself with confusion, because she put all her +vases of flowers outside her door at night, and Brigid fell over them +bringing the morning tea. Aunt Myra was terribly irritated and talked +about nursing-homes.” + +“I shouldn’t expect there will be anything so very hygienic about Mrs. +Montmorency.” + +“Damn,” said Lois, looking disproportionately worried and moving off +towards her own room suddenly. “I have got letters to finish.” Speaking +of Brigid had reminded her that there were letters on regimental +note-paper lying about all over her room and that Brigid, who took +an interest, would be likely to see them when she came up with the +hot water. Not that they mattered really, but at the thought of some +letters people wrote her she did feel rather a fool. + +Laurence had pale blue, rather prominent eyes that moved slowly, though +the rest of his movements were jerky. Looking up at her now with a not +unaware kind of blandness, he said: “Do tell me, what do you write +about?” + +“Life in general.” + +“You amaze me--now if I did write letters no one would read them if +they were not intelligent. You must have the golden touch.” + +“Naturally one is expected to be amusing.” + +“And how many subalterns do you write to?” + +This was disconcerting, also, she felt strongly, irrelevant. If these +young men wrote to her, they were unimportant; besides, she only +answered every third letter. These young men, concrete, blocking her +mental view by their extreme closeness, moved shadowless in a kind +of social glare numbing to the imagination. Whereas Mr. Montmorency +came out distinct from the rather rare gloom with which she invested +her childhood; her feeling for him provided agreeable matter for +introspection. However much he might loom and darken up to the +close-up view, he would never be out of focus. + +“How many?” said Laurence again, picking up his book but still looking +at her inexorably. The unkindest thing he had called her friend Livvy +Thompson was--a rather probable channel for the life-force; and really +when he asked questions of this kind she did not know what he must +think. + +But it was reticence as to a lack rather than as to a superabundance +that produced her embarrassment. + +“Three--no, two,” she said coldly, “because one of them is a captain.” + +Going into her room she shut the door. Laurence got up and walked round +the ante-room. For the hundredth time he looked disparagingly along the +backs of the books in the locked bookcases. Then he heard his aunt and +Mrs. Montmorency beginning to come upstairs. + + + + + II + + +THE Naylors and the Montmorencys had always known each other; it was +an affair of generations. Hugo had stayed at Danielstown as a boy +for months together, and knew the place as well as his own house, he +told Francie, and certainly liked it better. He had expressed this +preference, which had come as a shock to her, when they were first +engaged. She was pained as by an expression of irreligion. She consoled +herself, and rehabilitated him secretly, by remembering he had had a +stepfather and could never have known the meaning of family life--she +had a delicate woman’s strong feeling for “naturalness.” She intended +to make up to him for the deficiencies of his childhood, but, almost +immediately after their marriage, Hugo sold Rockriver. Now she would +always blame herself for not having dissuaded him, but he had been so +set at the time on an idea of going to Canada and she so foolishly +anxious to compensate him for what she was not by going there with him +and thriving. So when the idea of Canada failed, they had no house, and +she, after all, no vocation. As for Hugo, he had expected little of +life. + +Francie had heard all her life of the Naylors of Danielstown, her +cousins and theirs had married; but Ireland is large and she had not +met them till she came to Danielstown on a bridal visit. Then, of +course, they had known each other always; there had been no beginning. +She knew she had never in all her life been so happy as on that first +visit; time, loose-textured, had had a shining undertone, happiness +glittered between the moments. She had had, too, very strongly a sense +of return, of having been awaited. Rooms, doorways had framed a kind of +expectancy of her; some trees in the distance, the stairs, a part of +the garden seemed always to have been lying secretly at the back of her +mind. + +It was, also, on that first and only other visit, that she had +made friends with Myra--that in itself was memorable. Myra was +“interesting,” cultivated, sketched beautifully, knew about books and +music. She had been to Germany, Italy, everywhere that one visits +acquisitively. It had been a bond to discover that Francie and Myra +must have been in Germany at the same time, the summer of ’92, though +without meeting. Myra was the same age as Francie--they had been +presented the same year, though not at the same Drawing-room--and +thought of Hugo as quite a boy: she could not help showing it. +Sometimes, guessing what she had shown, she would laugh and say +something clever and quite irrelevant to cover the awkwardness. For +Hugo was ten years younger than both of them, Francie’s husband. + +Francie and Myra had had long remarkable talks about almost everything, +confidential if not alarmingly intimate--walking, driving, on the +seat by the caroline allspice tree, and at the head of the stairs at +night--while their candle-flames stooped from their vehemence. + +When at the end of that visit the Montmorencys left Danielstown this +had seemed to Francie more of a pause than a break in the continuity. +“Next spring,” they all four promised each other, shaking hands and +kissing at the foot of the steps--it was then autumn, the bronze trees +were sifted through by the wind and shivered along the outlines--“Next +summer, Hugo,” Myra exclaimed, “_at latest!_” and the last view they +had of her was as standing bright and imperative. Only as they drove +away did the trees run, watery, into the sky and Francie’s lids prick: +she slipped her hand into Hugo’s under the rug. And, pressing it, he +had alone to continue the business of turning, yearning and waving back +till a bend in the avenue. + +She had felt, perhaps, a chilly breath from the future. Between their +smart turning out, with a roll of carriage wheels, through the gates +with their clipped laurels, and their swerving in with a grind of +motor brakes twelve years afterwards, nothing large was to intervene. +Their life, through which they went forward uncertainly, without the +compulsion of tragedy, was a net of small complications. There was +the drag of his indecisions, the fine snapping now and then of her +minor relinquishments. Her health, his temperament, their varying +poverty--they were delayed, deflected. She was ordered abroad for +successive winters, to places he could not expect to endure. He came +and went without her; going for consolation, of course, to Danielstown. +The Naylors sent her out wails, injunctions and declarations. They +would never, _never_ be happy till she was with them also. + +So at last Hugo and Francie returned together. And to-day +something--that break in the trees on the avenue, something +unremembered about the face of the house, some intensification of the +silence surrounding it, or perhaps simply Lois’ figure standing there +on the steps--made the place different. + +Lady Naylor and Mrs. Montmorency now went upstairs together. +Francie looked down at the top step to see if the marks were still +there--becoming much excited in the course of an argument about Robert +Hugh Benson she had waved her candle and scattered a rain of hot +grease. But there was a new stair-carpet. Myra looked down also, but in +surprise; she did not remember. She had argued with so many people in +twelve years--nowadays she argued about Galsworthy. + +“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, lowering her voice as they +approached the ante-room, “if we found Laurence up here--my nephew. He +is with us a good deal, between Oxford. Though I expect it is dull for +him. He is not out of doors very much; he is very intellectual. Though, +of course, he plays tennis.” + +Francie was much relieved, on entering the ante-room, to find that +Laurence had gone. “It’s so nice,” she said, “the way you have the +house full of young people.” She turned to the right instinctively, to +her old door. + +“No, this way, Francie, the Blue Room. The rooks on that side of the +house disturbed so many people; we’ve changed the rooms round and put +Lois in there; she prefers them.” + +As they came into the Blue Room, Francie saw their two faces reflected +in the tall dressing-table glass, the door swinging behind. “Myra’s +aged!” she thought with a shock. Her own face never seemed to have +changed at all. + +She said: “You look wonderful, you know. I couldn’t think when I was +ever to see you again, or Richard either.” + +Myra kissed her--a compact, sudden pursing and placing of the lips. It +was as though they were meeting again only now. The door swung to with +a rush. “It’s been too bad, too bad--not even as if you had been in +Canada!” + +The linen of Myra’s sleeve was cool to the touch of the dusty Francie. +Myra wore a grey linen dress with embroidered panels, a lace scarf +twice round the throat and a green hat dipping in front and trimmed +with clover. Her bright grey eyes, with very black, urgent pupils, +continued in a deep crease at each outside corner. High on the curve +of her cheeks, like petals, bright mauve-pink colour became, within +kissing distance, a net of fine delicate veins. Her eyebrows, drawn in +a pointed arch, suggested tragic surprise till one saw the arch never +flattened, the face beneath never changed from its placid eagerness, +its happy dissatisfaction. “_Has_ she aged?” Francie thought, glancing +closely and shyly again as they parted. Yes, she felt something set now +in Myra; she was happier, harder. + +Myra receded now that the kiss was over. There was life to go on with, +the duty of love and pleasure fully discharged. She moved round the +Blue Room, nodded out of a window to some one distant coming out from +some trees--she could never learn how one vanishes in the dark of a +house. She glanced intently along the books in the book-trough. “Lois +has not changed the books!” she exclaimed. “You know how I like them +to be appropriate. Here’s a technical book on rubber a man left behind +last summer--it looks ridiculous. She’s a girl who never forgets the +same thing twice; always something different....” + +“She looks sweet, I think. And surely the image of Laura?” + +“She’s not so much like Laura in character. There’s a good deal, I +sometimes think, of poor Walter.” + +“Wasn’t it terribly sad about Walter?” + +“To tell you the truth, it was what we always expected,” said Lady +Naylor. + +When Francie was left alone she went to the window and shook the dust +out of her motor veil. Then--she was so very tired from motoring, +everything seemed to rush past--she sat down on the sofa and put her +hands over her eyes. Her mind lay back in the silence, but there was +a kind of sentinel in her waiting for Hugo. She did not know what she +should say if he noticed the drive from Carlow really had been too much +for her. She had said beforehand she was afraid it might be too much, +and he had said: nonsense, that she was fit for anything nowadays. +Flattered by this, she gave in. She was so tired--just for these +few moments when she let herself go--she could not bear to realize +Danielstown. Her thoughts ached. When she looked out, there were some +intolerable trees and a strip of gold field hot on the skyline. + +When she heard steps coming she fled to the washstand. Her skin was +dry, her hair felt laden and limp, it was so dusty. But that was the +fine, the phenomenal weather for which, in this country, one could not +be thankful enough. When Hugo came through from his dressing-room she +was washing her hands--they turned in the water like gentle porpoises +in a slaver of violet soap. + +“Well,” he said, looking round the room. + +“Well, Hugo ... isn’t it lovely?” + +“Richard’s in great form--I thought I’d never get up at all to you.... +Not tired?” + +“Indeed, no.... Doesn’t it all seem the same as ever?” + +“I tell you one thing: Myra’s ageing. Didn’t you notice?” + +“Oh,” said Francie vaguely. She stooped her face to the basin, the +rain-water comforted, creeping into the pores. “_Oh!_” She dried her +face in damask, among stiff roses. “But then, we all are.” + +“She’s got into a terrible habit of shutting doors.” + +“Times have been worse down here. Yes, I thought, you know, she had +rather a strained look. What does Richard think of the situation?... +Oh, and had you any idea that Lois was so grown up? I had imagined her +quite a schoolgirl. She’s so pretty, such a ... a frank little face.” + +“She’s self-conscious,” said Hugo, “but I dare say most girls of that +age are.... I should lie down now for a bit, it will freshen you +up--though you don’t need it. Then would you like me to brush your +hair?” + +Francie got her dressing-gown out of a trunk and lay down on the sofa. +She had just relaxed there when Hugo said that the sofa did not look +comfortable and she had better lie on the bed. He made a valley for +her head between the two pillows--he did not believe it rested anybody +to lie with their head high--and she lay down on the bed with her head +in the valley. “Oh, but I don’t think I ought to lie on this lovely +quilt,” she soon protested. + +“They’re not fussy here,” returned Hugo; “do lie and be still.” + +So she lay and watched him begin to unpack her two boxes, carry +dresses over his arms and lay them along the shelves of the +“gentleman’s wardrobe.” She wondered: whatever would Richard and Myra +think?--“Uxorious” they would be bound to declare; Richard who could +hardly handle a jug without dropping it, and Myra who would not have +him otherwise. + +“What a disgusting noise,” said Hugo, pausing and listening. + +“Somebody playing a gramophone--” + +They might well say she had taken the brilliant young man he’d once +been and taught him to watch her, to nurse her and shake out her +dresses. And she knew she could, now, never explain to Myra what +she had failed to explain twelve years ago--when there had been +so much less to explain and to justify--how Hugo was too much for +her altogether. How she had tried, but had not been able, to keep +him--first from marrying her, then from giving up Canada, leaving his +friends when she had to go to the south of France, or from brushing her +hair in the evenings. + +“Hugo, you might leave that blue dress out; I think I’ll wear it.... +_When_ was it you were in love with Laura?” + +“When I was twenty-two--I was in a sort of way. She was lovely +then--though indeed she was always lovely. But she was never happy at +all, even here. She never knew what she wanted--she was very vital.” + +He hesitated over two pairs of evening shoes. “Leave the bronze ones +out,” she suggested. “They go with the blue.” She lay with her eyes +shut a moment, then asked, “But why wouldn’t she marry you?” + +Francie’s delicacy, her absences from him, her long queer relapses into +silence gave her the right to ask curious things, as from a death-bed. +Hugo, wandering at the end of the bed, looked at her feet thoughtfully. + +“She wanted her mind made up,” he said at last, “and I couldn’t do +that--why should I? I had enough to do with my own mind. And she was +Richard’s own sister--talk and talk and you’d never know where you had +her. And if she thought you had her, she’d start a crying-fit. Then she +went up North and met Farquar, and I imagine that that was all fixed +up before she knew where she was or had time to get out of it. After +that of course she really _had_ got something to be unhappy about. Yet +I don’t believe things ever really mattered to Laura. Nothing got close +to her: she was very remote.” + +“I wonder if Lois is remote?” + +“What I think I felt about Laura,” pursued Hugo, interested, “was, +she was never real in the way I wanted. Nobody was before you, as you +know.... If you get up now, I can brush your hair.” + +“It is very dusty,” said Mrs. Montmorency. + +She had met Laura in England and been very shy of her. Laura was +a success in England, and so quite brilliant--she was too Irish +altogether for her own country. Lois had been at school as usual +and did not come home because Laura had forgotten which day the +Montmorencys were coming. Six months afterwards, without giving anyone +notice of her intention, Laura had died. + +“It still seems odd,” remarked Mrs. Montmorency, “that I shouldn’t have +met Lois.” Seating herself in front of the glass she took out the pins +one by one, then shook down her hair round her face--bright bronze +threads went in and out, crisply, over the light-grey waves--she ran +it through with her finger-tips, shaking her head ruefully. But the +dust seemed to have gone, perhaps because she was happier, less tired; +or perhaps she had left a drift of it between the two pillows. Her +husband, selecting a brush, knocked over the vase of geraniums. “The +darlings!” she cried out, mopping with her kimono-sleeve. + +“Confusion,” said Hugo, shaking water out of the brush, “on all who put +vases on dressing-tables!” + + + + + III + + +LOIS, dressed for dinner, was tidying her writing-table; two stamped +letters, her handiwork, leaned on the clock. She shook out her pink +suède blotter and started to sort its contents, but had to re-read +everything. Gerald, who had written about a tournament, concluded: “You +have the loveliest soft eyes.” She was perplexed, thought: “But what +can I do?” and snapped the letter, with others, under a rubber band. +Then she pulled out a drawer called “general” and swept the rest into +it. She had a waste-paper basket, but only for envelopes. Strokes of +the gong, brass bubbles, came bouncing up from the hall. She ran to the +glass, changed a necklace, had an apprehensive interchange with her own +reflection. What of the night? + +Mrs. Montmorency and Laurence were in the drawing-room. They looked +anxious, nothing showed the trend of the conversation. The pale room +rose to a height only mirrors followed above the level of occupation; +this disproportionate zone of emptiness dwarfed at all times figures +and furniture. The distant ceiling imposed on consciousness its blank +white oblong, and a pellucid silence, distilled from a hundred and +fifty years of conversation, waited beneath the ceiling. Into this +silence, voices went up in stately attenuation. Now there were no +voices; Mrs. Montmorency and Laurence sat looking away from each other. + +As Lois came in Laurence slapped his pockets over and saying something +about a pipe left the room quickly, leaving Lois in the grip of a +_tête-à-tête_. Mrs. Montmorency, seated in a window, held by a corner +a copy of the _Spectator_, that had slipped down against the silk of +her dress, as though she must be sure to retain this constant refuge +from conversation. Vague presence, barely a silhouette, the west light +sifting into her fluffy hair and lace wrappings so that she half +melted, she gave so little answer to one’s inquiry that one did not +know how to approach. So Lois stood staring, full in the light. + +“Oh, you do look sweet!” exclaimed the visitor. “Black is so striking. +No, you are not like Laura--I don’t know who you’re like.” + +“Aunt Myra isn’t sure about black for girls,” said Lois, sweeping +forward for admiration the folds of her dress. “But a white slip +lightens it.” + +“And I expect you are having a wonderful time now you’re grown up?” + +“Oh, well ...” said Lois. She went across to the fireplace and rose +on her tiptoes, leaning her shoulders against the marble. She tried +not to look conscious. She still felt a distinct pride at having grown +up at all; it seemed an achievement, like marriage or fame. Having a +wonderful time, she knew, meant being attractive to a number of young +men. If she said, “Yes, I do,” it implied “Yes, I am, very--” and she +was not certain. She was not certain, either, how much she enjoyed +herself. “Well, yes, I do,” she said finally. + +“Tell me,” continued Mrs. Montmorency, “wasn’t that your cousin +Laurence?” + +“As a matter of fact I am Uncle Richard’s niece and he Aunt Myra’s +nephew.” + +“And isn’t he very intellectual?” + +“I suppose he is, really.” + +“I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Montmorency, “I had no idea how to talk to him. +I suppose _you_’d never find that difficult. I expect now, Lois, you’re +very modern.” + +“Oh, well, not really,” said Lois, pleased. Mrs. Montmorency’s +expression, condensing now from her outline, was of such affection and +interest that Lois was moved to go on: “You could talk to him really +about almost anything except about politics. He isn’t allowed any here +because the ones he brings over from Oxford are all wrong.” + +“_Wrong?_” cried the visitor with a startled flush, putting up a hand +to her face as though to press back the mounting colour. “Wrong--which +way? How do you mean, ‘wrong’?” + +“Inconvenient.” + +“Oh,” said Mrs. Montmorency. And upon a recurrence of the puzzled +silence that had been the note of Lois’ entrance, Sir Richard came +in. Sir Richard was very much worried by visitors who came down early +for dinner: evidently he had not expected this of Francie. “Oh!” he +exclaimed reproachfully, “this is too bad; I had no idea you were down. +Myra’s been delayed--you know yourself how it happens.” + +“Indeed, yes,” said Francie warmly. She would never have been in time +herself if she had had a home of her own. Only the little blanks and +rifts in her life accounted for her punctuality. + +Sir Richard, touching his tie vaguely, wandered about the room, +displacing with some irritation the little tables that seemed to spring +up in his path, in the pent-up silence of a powerful talker not yet in +gear. + +“Very fine weather,” he said at last, “warm at nights--or would you +like me to shut that window?” He was bothered; he could not remember +how well he had once known Francie, or decide at just what degree +of intimacy he was expected to pick her up again. “Lois has grown +up, hasn’t she?” he continued, pointing out his niece with an air of +inspiration. “She seems to me to have grown up very fast. Now how long +is it since you saw her over in England?” + +“But I never did see her.” + +“That was extraordinary,” said Sir Richard, looking from one to the +other. “Didn’t you meet poor Laura?” + +“I did, but Lois was out.” + +“That was too bad.” Sir Richard’s bother increased, with a suspicion of +something somewhere. He observed rather flatly: “Then it can hardly be +such a surprise to you that she’s grown up.” + +“Not in the same way.” + +“We can all sit out on the steps to-night,” said Lois, determined to +check the couple in their career of inanity. She went across to a +window and folded her arms on the sill. + +The screen of trees that reached like an arm from behind the +house--embracing the lawns, banks and terraces in mild ascent--had +darkened, deepening into a forest. Like splintered darkness, branches +pierced the faltering dusk of leaves. Evening drenched the trees; the +beeches were soundless cataracts. Behind the trees, pressing in from +the open and empty country like an invasion, the orange bright sky +crept and smouldered. Firs, bearing up to pierce, melted against the +brightness. Somewhere, there was a sunset in which the mountains lay +like glass. + +Dark had so gained the trees that Lois, turning back from the window, +was surprised at how light the room was. Day, still coming in from the +fields by the south windows, was stored in the mirrors, in the sheen +of the wall-paper, so that the room still shone. Mr. Montmorency had +come in and was standing where she had stood, his shoulders against the +mantelpiece. + +“We can sit out on the steps to-night, can’t we?” persisted Lois. And +because no one answered or cared and a conversation went on without +her, she felt profoundly lonely, suspecting once more for herself a +particular doom of exclusion. Something of the trees in their intimacy +of shadow was shared by the husband and wife and their host in the +tree-shadowed room. She thought of love with its gift of importance. “I +must break in on all this,” she thought as she looked round the room. + +“Do you still go to sleep after dinner?” she asked Mr. Montmorency. + +“It’s a thing that I never have done,” he said, annoyed. + +“But it’s what I chiefly remember about you.” + +“I’m afraid,” he said, tolerant, “you are mixing me up with some one +else.” + +“Listen, Richard,” said Francie; “are you sure we will not be shot at +if we sit out late on the steps?” + +Sir Richard laughed and they all shared his amusement. “We never have +yet, not even with soldiers here and Lois dancing with officers up and +down the avenue. You’re getting very English, Francie! Isn’t Francie +getting very English? Do you think maybe we ought to put sandbags +behind the shutters when we shut up at nights?” + +“No, but Richard, seriously--” began Francie then, as they all +stared, laughed and had to give up and go on laughing. Now in County +Carlow they had said things were bad round here, that she made a grave +mistake in coming at all. But then, as Richard would certainly say, +that was County Carlow all over. + +Lady Naylor came in arm-in-arm with Laurence and said they were all +very punctual. “The gong’s only gone three minutes, also I could be +certain I never heard any of you go down. But I was delayed, as I told +Richard to tell you. Shall we go in?” + +“Francie wants to know,” said Sir Richard, offering Francie his arm, +“if we haven’t got a machine-gun?” + +“Ah, you’re too bad!” + +“_Do_ you dance on the avenue?” said Mr. Montmorency to Lois. + +“Only once, for a bet. I and a man called Mr. Lesworth danced to the +white gate, and the man that we had the bet with walked after us +carrying the gramophone. But naturally, I don’t as a rule.” + +“It would come hard on your shoes, I expect,” said Mr. Montmorency +distantly. + +“And the men we know can’t get over here in the evening, now.” + +“Still, I expect you have a very gay time,” said Mr. Montmorency, and +turned away. + +In the dining-room, the little party sat down under the crowd of +portraits. Under that constant interchange from the high-up faces +staring across--now fading each to a wedge of fawn-colour, and each +looking out from a square of darkness tunnelled into the wall--Sir +Richard and Lady Naylor, their nephew, niece and old friends had a +thin, over-bright look, seemed on the air of the room unconvincingly +painted, startled, transitory. Spaced out accurately round the enormous +table--whereon, in what was left of the light, damask birds and roses +had an unearthly shimmer--each so enisled and distant that a remark +at random, falling short of a neighbour, seemed a cry of appeal, the +six, in spite of an emphasis of speech and gesture they unconsciously +heightened, dwindled personally. While above, the immutable figures, +shedding on to the wash of dusk smiles, frowns, every vestige of +personality, kept only attitude--an outmoded modestness, a quirk or a +flare, hand slipped under a ruffle or spread airily over the cleft of +a bosom--cancelled time, negatived personality and made of the lower +cheerfulness, dining and talking, the faintest exterior friction. + +In Laurence’s plate of clear soup six peas floated. Six accurate +spoonfuls, each with a pea in it, finished the soup. He glanced right +in his aunt’s direction, left in Mrs. Montmorency’s: both were talking. +Mr. Montmorency, listening to Lady Naylor, seemed to be looking across +at Laurence, but he sat with his back to the light so that Laurence, +short-sighted, could not be sure--he preferred uncertainty. + +Lady Naylor spoke of the way things were, with her pointed spoon poised +over her plate. She noticed the others were waiting, and with a last +bright emphatic look in Hugo’s direction bent to finish her soup. He +said at once to Laurence: “And what do _you_ think of things?” + +“Things? Over here?” + +“Yes--yes.” + +“Seem to be closing in,” said Laurence, crumbling his bread detachedly; +“rolling up rather.” + +“Ah!” nodded Mr. Montmorency, in significant comprehension. + +“Ssh!” exclaimed Lady Naylor, running out a hand at both of them over +the cloth. She frowned, with a glance at the parlourmaid. “Now you +mustn’t make Laurence exaggerate. All young men from Oxford exaggerate. +All Laurence’s friends exaggerate: I have met them.” + +“If you have noticed it,” said her nephew, “it is probably so.” + +Lois, on his other side, leant eagerly to Mr. Montmorency. “If you are +interested, would you care to come and dig for guns in the plantation? +Or if I dig, will you come as a witness? Three of the men on the place +here swear there are guns buried in the lower plantation. Michael +Keelan swears he was going through there, late, and saw men digging. I +asked him, ‘What were they like?’ and he said, ‘The way they would be,’ +and I said, why didn’t he ask them what they were doing, and he said, +‘Sure, why would I; didn’t I see them digging, and they with spades?’ +So it appears he fled back the way he had come.” + +“--Ah, that’s nonsense now!” Sir Richard exploded. “Michael would see +anything: he is known to have seen a ghost. I will not have the men +talking, and at all accounts I won’t have them listened to.” + +“All the same,” pursued Lois, “I feel that one ought to dig. If there +is nothing there I can confound Michael for the good of his soul, and +if there should be guns, Uncle Richard, just think of finding them! And +surely we ought to know.” + +“And why would we want to know? You’ll have the place full of soldiers, +trampling the young trees. There’s been enough damage in that +plantation with the people coming to sight-see: all Michael’s friends. +Now I won’t have digging at all: do you understand?” said Sir Richard, +flushed. + +Francie felt torn in herself, dividedly sympathetic. “I expect one +can’t be too careful.... The poor young little trees ... and besides,” +she added to Lois, “one might blow oneself up.” + +“This country,” continued Sir Richard, “is altogether too full of +soldiers, with nothing to do but dance and poke old women out of their +beds to look for guns. It’s unsettling the people, naturally. The fact +is, the Army’s got into the habit of fighting and doesn’t know what +else to do with itself, and also the Army isn’t at all what it used +to be. I was held up yesterday for I wouldn’t like to say how long, +driving over to Ballyhinch, by a thing like a coffee-pot backing in and +out of a gate, with a little brute of a fellow bobbing in and out at +me from under a lid at the top. I kept my temper, but I couldn’t help +telling him _I_ didn’t know what the country was coming to--and just +when we’d got the horses accustomed to motors. ‘You’ll do no good,’ I +told him, ‘in this unfortunate country by running about in a thing like +a coffee-pot.’ And those patrols in lorries run you into a ditch as +soon as look at you. They tell me there’s a great deal of socialism now +in the British Army.” + +“Well, it’s difficult for them all,” said his wife, pacific, “and +they’re doing their best, I think. The ones who come over here seem +quite pleasant.” + +“What regiment have you now at Clonmore?” + +“The 1st Rutlands.” + +“And there are some Field Gunners and Garrison Gunners too,” added +Lois. “Most people seem to prefer the Garrison Gunners.” + +“The Garrison Gunners dance better,” said Laurence to Mrs. Montmorency. +“It would be the greatest pity if we were to become a republic and all +these lovely troops were taken away.” + +“Fool,” said Lois across the flowers. Mr. Montmorency looked at her in +surprise. + +Lady Naylor continued: “From all the talk, you might think almost +anything was going to happen, but we never listen. I have made +it a rule not to talk, either. In fact, if you want rumours, we +must send you over to Castle Trent. And I’m afraid also the Careys +are incorrigible.... Oh yes, Hugo, it’s all very well to talk of +disintegration; of course there is a great deal of disintegration in +England and on the Continent. But one does wonder sometimes whether +there’s really much there to disintegrate.... I dare say there may +have been.... And if you talk to the people they’ll tell you the +whole thing’s nonsense: and after all what is a country if it isn’t +the people? For instance, I had a long conversation this morning with +Mrs. Pat Gegan, who came down about the apples--you remember her, +Hugo, don’t you, she always asks after you: she was really delighted +to hear you were coming back--‘It is the way the young ones do be a +bit wild,’ she said, and I really agreed with her. She said young +people were always the same, and wasn’t it the great pity. She is a +most interesting woman: she thinks a great deal. But then our people +do think. Now have you ever noticed the English? I remember a year ago +when I was staying with Anna Partridge in Bedfordshire--she is always +so full of doing things in the village, little meetings and so on. +Well, I went to one of her meetings, and really--those village women +sitting round in hats and so obviously despising her! And not a move +on their faces. I said to her afterwards: ‘I do think you’re splendid, +Anna, the way you throw yourself into things--but really what you can +do with people with so little brain--’ She seemed quite annoyed +and said that at least they were loyal. I said they hadn’t got any +alternative, and if they had an alternative I didn’t suppose they’d +see it. She said they had hearts of gold if they didn’t wear them on +their sleeves, and I said I thought it was a pity they didn’t--it would +have brightened them up a bit. She said that at least one knew where +one was with them, and I said I wouldn’t live among people who weren’t +human. Then I thought it seemed a shame to unsettle her, if she really +likes living in England.... Oh, and I said to Mrs. Gegan this morning: +‘Some of your friends would like us to go, you know,’ and she got so +indignant she nearly wept. And the Trents were telling me-- Oh, Hugo, +the Trents are coming over to tennis to-morrow, specially for you and +Francie. And the Thompsons are coming, and I believe the Hartigans. The +Hartigan girls are still all there, you’ll be surprised to hear. Nobody +seems to marry them--and oh, a Colonel and Mrs. Boatley are coming, and +three or four of the Rutlands--” + +“Five,” said Lois. + +“--Anyhow, several Rutlands. Every one’s so delighted to hear that you +and Francie are back.” + +“The Trents,” said Lois to Mr. Montmorency, with indignation, “swear +that you and they are related. But you are not, surely? It is a perfect +obsession of theirs.” + +When he said he supposed that he was, through an aunt’s marriage, +she became pensive. It seemed odd that even the Trents should have a +closer claim than she had. Though it was she who had been humming with +agitation the whole morning. The sweet-peas in the urn before them bore +evidence to her agitation: they all slanted to the west like a falling +haystack. It was true she now hoped nothing more of him, but he still +was in shadow, faintly, from the kindly monolith of her childhood. +What he might have been, what he persisted in being, met in her mind +with a jar, with a grate of disparity. The face she had watched +sleeping--wiped clear of complexity, quiet but so communicative in +stillness that, watching, she seemed to have shared in some kind of +suspense, stayed--like the bright blur from looking too long at a +lamp--over the face now turned to her, intelligent, dulled, with its +sub-acid smile. She was likely to think of him now as a limitation, +Mrs. Montmorency’s limitation; something about Mrs. Montmorency that +was a pity. The Trents could have him. + +“I expect,” she said slightingly, “you are related to every one.” + +“The longer one lives in this country,” he all too agreeably said, “the +more likely that seems.” + +Yet she had been certain she felt him looking at her while she argued +with Uncle Richard about the guns. Seeking a likeness, perhaps. It was +this consciousness that had lent her particular fervour--though she was +interested in the guns. Though when she turned round his profile was +turned away--in, it seemed, the most scornful repudiation. + +He had, as a matter of fact, been looking at her, but without intention +and with a purely surface observation of detail. When she turned +away, light from behind her ran a finger round the curve of her jaw. +When she turned his way, light took the uncertain, dinted cheek-line +where, under the eyes, flesh was patted on delicately over the rise of +the bone. Her eyes, long and soft-coloured, had the intense brimming +wandering look of a puppy’s; in repose her lips met doubtfully, in +a never-determined line, so that she never seemed to have quite +finished speaking. Her face was long, her nose modelled down from the +bridge then finished off softly and bluntly as by an upward flick +of the sculptor’s thumb. Her chin had emphasis, seemed ready for +determination. He supposed that unformed, anxious to make an effect, +she would marry early. + +“Danielstown can’t have been so exciting when you were here before,” +said Lois to Mrs. Montmorency. + +But Mrs. Montmorency, in an absence of mind amounting to exaltation, +had soared over the company. She could perform at any moment, +discomfitingly, these acts of levitation. She was staring into one of +the portraits. + + + + + IV + + +LOIS was sent upstairs for the shawls; it appeared that a touch of dew +on the bare skin might be fatal to Lady Naylor or Mrs. Montmorency. +On the stairs, her feet found their evening echoes; she dawdled, +listening. When she came down everybody was on the steps--at the top, +on the wide stone plateau--the parlourmaid looking for somewhere to put +the coffee tray. Mrs. Montmorency sat in the long chair; her husband +was tucking a carriage rug round her knees. “If you do that,” Lois +could not help saying, “she won’t be able to walk about, which is the +best part of sitting out.” + +No one took any notice: Mr. Montmorency went on tucking. + +“Haven’t you got a wrap for yourself?” said Lady Naylor. Lois took a +cushion and sat on the top step with her arms crossed, stroking her +elbows. “I shouldn’t sit there,” her aunt continued; “at this time of +night stone will strike up through anything.” + +“If you don’t get rheumatism now,” added Francie, “you will be storing +up rheumatism.” + +“It will be my rheumatism,” said Lois as gently as possible, but added +inwardly: “After you’re both dead.” A thought that fifty years hence +she might well, if she wished, be sitting here on the steps,--with +or without rheumatism--having penetrated thirty years deeper ahead +into Time than they could, gave her a feeling of mysteriousness and +destination. And she was fitted for this by being twice as complex as +their generation--for she must be: double as many people having gone to +the making of her. + +Laurence, looking resentfully round for somewhere to sit--she had taken +the only cushion--said: “I suppose you think ants cannot run up your +legs if you cannot see them?” + +Mr. Montmorency surprised her by offering a cigarette. He had a theory, +he said, that ants did not like cigarette smoke. The air was so quiet +now, the flame ran up his match without a tremble. “The ants are +asleep,” she said, “they disappear into the cracks of the steps. They +don’t bite, either; but the idea is horrid.” + +“Don’t you want a chair?” When she said she didn’t, he settled back in +his own. Creaks ran through the wicker, discussing him, then all was +quiet. He was not due to leave the ship in which they were all rushing +out into Time till ten years after the others, though it was to the +others that he belonged. Turning half round, she watched light breathe +at the tips of the cigarettes; it seemed as though everybody were +waiting. Night now held the trees with a toneless finality. The sky +shone, whiter than glass, fainting down to the fretted leaf-line, but +was being steadily drained by the dark below, to which the grey of the +lawns, like smoke, as steadily mounted. The house was highest of all +with toppling immanence, like a cliff. + +“I don’t think,” said Francie, “I remember anything so--so quiet as +evenings here.” + +“Trees,” said Laurence, shifting his pipe. His shirt-front was high +above them, he stood by the door with his foot on the scraper. + +“This time to-morrow,” said Lady Naylor, “we shall want to be +quiet--after the tennis party.” She let out a sigh that hung in the +silence, like breath in cold air. + +“Oh yes, the party! The tennis party ...” + +“Francie, did I tell you who were coming?” + +“You told her,” said Laurence. “I heard you.” + +“It is the people who don’t play tennis who make it so tiring.” + +Something about the way, the resigned way, Francie’s hands lay out on +the rug gave her the look of an invalid. “It is a good thing,” said +Sir Richard, “you two never went out to Canada. I never liked the idea +myself; I was very much against it at the time, if you remember.” + +“I was divided about it myself,” said Hugo. “It seemed worth trying, +and yet there was so much against it. I don’t know that I should have +done very much good--I wonder.” + +They wondered with him, with degrees of indifference. Lois stroked her +dress--the feel of the stuff was like cobwebs, sticky and damp. There +must be dew falling. + +“Oh!” cried Francie. “_Listen!_” + +She had so given herself to the silence that the birth of sound, after +which the others were still straining, had shocked her nerves like a +blow. They looked, from the steps, over a bay of fields, between the +plantations, that gave on a sea of space. Far east, beyond the demesne: +a motor, straining cautiously out of the silence. A grind, an anguish +of sound as it took the hill. + +“Patrols,” said Laurence. + +Hugo reached out and pressed a hand on to Francie’s rug. “Patrols,” he +told her, translating the information. + +Sir Richard explained severely: “Out every night--not always in this +direction.” + +“They’re early; it’s half-past nine. Now I wonder ...” + +The sound paused, for a moment a pale light showed up the sky in +darkness. Then behind the screen of trees at the skyline, demesne +boundary, the sound moved shakily, stoopingly, like some one running +and crouching behind a hedge. The jarring echoed down the spines of the +listeners. They heard with a sense of complicity. + +“A furtive lorry is a sinister thing.” + +“Laurence, it isn’t furtive!” said. Lady Naylor. “Can’t you be +ordinary? If it wouldn’t be taken in some absurd kind of way as a +demonstration, I should ask the poor fellows in to have coffee.” + +“They’re careful enough,” said Hugo impatiently. It seemed that the +lorry took pleasure in crawling with such a menace along the boundary, +marking the scope of peace of this silly island, undermining solitude. +In the still night sound had a breathlessness, as of intention. + +“The roads are so rough,” said Lois: she could see the wary load +lurching into the hedges. “I wonder now,” she added, “who is with the +patrol to-night?” + +“Some one you know?” cried Francie. But Sir Richard, who did not like +his friends to be distracted from him by lorries any more than by +introspection or headaches or the observation of nature, bore this down +with one of his major chords: + +“The lower tennis court, Hugo”--waving sideways into the darkness--“is +not what it used to be. Some cattle got on to it after the rain and +destroyed it. It’s had rolling enough to level a mountain, but it won’t +be the same for a long time. D’you remember the fours we had on that +court that summer--wasn’t it nineteen-six--you and I and O’Donnell and +poor John Trent?” + +“I do. Now was it James O’Donnell or Peter that went to Ceylon?” + +“That was a great summer; I never remember a summer like it. We had the +hay in by the end of June.” + +The lorry ground off east towards Ballyhinch; silence sifting down +on its tracks like sand. Their world was clear of it and a pressure +lightened. Once more they could have heard a leaf turn in the trees +or a bird shifting along a branch. But they found it was now very +dark. Francie shivered, and Lady Naylor, rising formally, said she +thought they should go in. “Poor John Trent,” she added, gathering up +her cushions, “never got over that trouble he had with the Sheehans +over the Madder fishing. It went into court, you know, and of course +he lost. We always told him to keep it out of court. He was very +obstinate.” + +“He was indeed,” said Sir Richard. “He made an enemy of Sheehan and +it’s not a good thing to have made an enemy. Though of course he’s +dead nowadays, so it may not matter.” + +“It may to the Archie Trents.... Laurence, help Uncle Richard in with +the long chair, and remember to bring in your own chair afterwards.” + +“I never had a chair.” + +“Oh, they haven’t lighted the lamp in the hall. That is too bad! I am +lost without Sarah--do you remember Sarah, Francie? She died, you know.” + +Lois, sitting still among rising, passing and vaguely searching +figures, cried: “But it’s only just beginning! You’re missing the whole +point. I shall walk up the avenue.” + +Francie went in, groping; trailing her rug. The three men, carrying +wicker chairs, converged at the door: the chairs jostled. They all +put them down and apologized. Lois repeated: “_I_ shall walk up the +avenue.” But having arranged an order of procedure they all passed on +into the house, creaking and bumping. She walked down the steps alone: +she had wanted to be alone, but to be regretted. + +“Mind you don’t get locked out!” her uncle shouted after her. The glass +doors shut with a rattle. + +Lois walked alone up the avenue, where she had danced with Gerald. +She thought what a happy night that had been, and how foolish Mr. +Montmorency now thought them. He had seemed annoyed at her being young +when he wasn’t. She could not hope to explain that her youth seemed +to her also rather theatrical and that she was only young in that way +because people expected it. She had never refused a rôle. She could +not forgo that intensification, that kindling of her personality at +being considered very happy and reckless, even if she were not. She +could not hope to assure him she was not enjoying anything he had +missed, that she was now unconvinced and anxious but intended to be +quite certain, by the time she was his age, that she had once been +happy. For to explain this--were explanation possible to so courteous, +ironical and unfriendly a listener--would, she felt, be disloyal to +herself, to Gerald, to an illusion both were called upon to maintain. + +Just by the lime, in that dancing night, she had missed a step and +sagged on his arm, which tightened. His hand slid up between her +shoulders; then, as she steadied back to the rhythm, down again. They +had set out laughing, noisy and conscious, but soon had to save their +breath. Gerald’s cheek, within an inch of her own, was too near to see. +All the way up, he had not missed a step; he was most dependable. And +remembering how the family had just now gone into the house--so flatly, +so unregrettingly, slamming the glass doors--she felt _that_ was what +she now wanted most--his eagerness and constancy. She felt, like a +steady look from him, the perfectness of their being together. + +“Oh, I do want you!” + +But he was very musical, he conducted a jazz band they had at the +barracks: while reaching out in her thoughts she remembered, the band +would be practising now. She was disappointed. To a line of tune the +thought flung her, she danced on the avenue. + +A shrubbery path was solid with darkness, she pressed down it. Laurels +breathed coldly and close: on her bare arms the tips of leaves +were timid and dank, like tongues of dead animals. Her fear of the +shrubberies tugged at its chain, fear behind reason, fear before her +birth; fear like the earliest germ of her life that had stirred in +Laura. She went forward eagerly, daring a snap of the chain, singing; +a hand to the thump of her heart, dramatic with terror. She thought of +herself as forcing a pass. In her life--deprived as she saw it--there +was no occasion for courage, which like an unused muscle slackened and +slept. + +High up a bird shrieked and stumbled down through dark, tearing the +leaves. Silence healed, but kept a scar of horror. The shuttered-in +drawing-room, the family sealed in lamplight, secure and bright like +flowers in a paper-weight--were desirable, worth much of this to +regain. Fear curled back from the carpet-border.... Now, on the path: +grey patches worse than the dark: they slipped up her dress knee-high. +The laurels deserted her groping arm. She had come to the holly, where +two paths crossed. + +First, she did not hear footsteps coming, and as she began to notice +the displaced darkness thought what she dreaded was coming, was there +within her--she was indeed clairvoyant, exposed to horror and going to +see a ghost. Then steps, hard on the smooth earth; branches slipping +against a trench-coat. The trench-coat rustled across the path ahead, +to the swing of a steady walker. She stood by the holly immovable, +blotted out in her black, and there passed within reach of her hand, +with the rise and fall of a stride, a resolute profile, powerful as a +thought. In gratitude for its fleshliness, she felt prompted to make +some contact: not to be known seemed like a doom: extinction. + +“It’s a fine night,” she would have liked to observe; or, to engage his +sympathies: “Up Dublin!” or even--since it was in her uncle’s demesne +she was straining under a holly--boldly--“What do you want?” + +It must be because of Ireland he was in such a hurry; down from the +mountains, making a short cut through their demesne. Here was something +else that she could not share. She could not conceive of her country +emotionally: it was a way of living, an abstract of several landscapes, +or an oblique frayed island, moored at the north but with an air of +being detached and washed out west from the British coast. + +Quite still, she let him go past in contemptuous unawareness. His +intentions burnt on the dark an almost visible trail; he might well +have been a murderer he seemed so inspired. The crowd of trees, +straining up from the passive disputed earth, each sucking up and +exhaling the country’s essence--swallowed him finally. She thought: +“Has he come for the guns?” A man in a trench-coat had passed without +seeing her: that was what it amounted to. + +She ran back to tell, in excitement. Below, the house waited; vast on +its west side, with thin yellow lines round the downstairs shutters. +It had that excluded, sad, irrelevant look outsides of houses take in +the dark. Inside, they would all be drawing up closer to one another, +tricked by the half-revelation of lamplight. “Compassed about,” +thought Lois, “by so great a cloud of witnesses....” Chairs standing +round dejectedly; upstairs, the confidently waiting beds; mirrors +vacant and startling; books read and forgotten, contributing no more to +life; dinner-table certain of its regular compulsion; the procession of +elephants that throughout uncertain years had not broken file. + +But as Lois went up the steps breathlessly, her adventure began to +diminish. It held ground for a moment as she saw the rug dropped in the +hall by Mrs. Montmorency sprawl like a body across the polish. Then +confidence disappeared, in a waver of shadow, among the furniture. +Conceivably, she had just surprised life at a significant angle in the +shrubbery. But it was impossible to speak of this. At a touch from +Aunt Myra adventure became literary, to Uncle Richard it suggested an +inconvenience; a glance from Mr. Montmorency or Laurence would make her +encounter sterile. + +But what seemed most probable was that they would not listen.... She +lighted her candle and went up to bed--uncivilly, without saying good +night to anyone. Her Uncle Richard, she afterwards heard, was obliged +to sit up till twelve o’clock. He had not been told she was in, so did +not think it right to lock up the house. + + + + + V + + +GERALD walked across the lawn to the lower tennis court, swinging +his racquet. Once he put up a hand and touched the back of his head, +but with assurance: it was perfectly smooth and round. His flannels +were gold-white in the sun; he almost shone. He smiled everywhere. It +was nonsense for him to pretend he did not care for parties; he went +everywhere, he liked to go out every day. + +Everybody was sitting or standing about where the green slatted seats +were, at the edge of the shade. No one was playing yet; there were +two courts and eighteen players; they were discussing who was to play +first, their voices sharp with renunciation. Lois was nowhere; Laurence +sat on the ground smoking and taking no part in the argument. Lady +Naylor talked eagerly to a number of guests who, holding up parasols +very straight in the unusual sunshine and wearing an air of vague +happiness, were waiting for play to begin before settling down to +conversation. Livvy Thompson was organizing: as Lois’ friend she felt +this devolved upon her in Lois’ absence; also, she liked organizing. +“You and you,” she said shrilly, stabbing the air within an inch of +each player’s chest with a sharp forefinger, “and why not _you_ and +_you?_” But before she had ever finished arranging the second four, +the first would become involved again. + +“Oh, Mr. Lesworth,” cried Lady Naylor, and waited for him to approach, +“if you really are coming out, would you bring some more rugs for some +more of the people to sit on?” + +He turned and went back to the house. It seemed very odd about +Lois--now where could she be? + +Livvy Thompson looked after him anxiously. Had not Mr. Armstrong come +also? During this temporary absence of her attention two fours arranged +themselves and walked hurriedly out to take possession of the courts. + +The hall, very dark after sunshine, was full of wraps and racquet +presses; shoes had wandered away from each other under the chairs. +The rest of Gerald’s party--they had all driven out from Clonmore in +a hired motor--were still there, waiting for Mrs. Vermont. Captain +Vermont and David Armstrong stood holding her things while she powdered +her nose with difficulty before an antique mirror. + +“Aren’t women awful?” she cried gaily, as Gerald rejoined them. She +knew the subalterns hated going about without her. “My dears, I do +wish I knew if we really were asked. Lois is so--I mean, well, you +know--vague, isn’t she?” + +“Well, they wouldn’t mind, anyhow,” said David, and tried not to sound +proprietary. + +“Aren’t they hospitable!” Betty Vermont was not disappointed in Ireland +after all. She had never before been to so many large houses with so +small a sense of her smallness. Of course, they were all very shabby +and not artistic at all. Mrs. Vermont used to say she longed to be +turned loose in any one of them with a paint-pot--white--and a few +hundred yards of some really nice cretonne from Barker’s. + +“Half Ireland is here,” said David, looking out at the crowd of cars on +the gravel-sweep. “I doubt if we get any tennis.” + +“Ah, well, David, there’s plenty of that at the club. Now, Gerald, +don’t stand there glaring! You _do_ disapprove of powder, you unkind +wretch!” + +“Rather not,” said Gerald, beaming. But all the same he did like girls +to have natural complexions--he was perfectly certain Lois’s was. He +was carrying all the rugs he could find slung over his shoulder and +looked, she informed him, just like a Bedouin. This was not a thing she +could have said to every man, because really the East had become so +very suggestive. But he was the dearest boy, so absolutely nice-minded. +They all went out. + +“There seem to be many more people here than I thought we’d asked,” +Lady Naylor was saying to Mrs. Carey of Mount Isabel. “Lois asks +people she meets at the Clonmore club, and then forgets. I have been +rather wondering about the raspberries; I’ve sent her out to the +garden to see about getting in some more. Colonel and Mrs. Boatley +are coming--she was a Vere Scott, a Fermanagh Vere Scott.... Why is +it that the Hartigans never will talk to men? I never think they give +themselves a chance, do you? Oh, Mr. Lesworth, how kind to think of +bringing the rugs out! And now there doesn’t seem anyone left to sit on +them.... Look, would you break up that party of girls on the bank; I +don’t think they seem to be sitting on anything, and anyhow they look +dull and would like to talk. And I am sure they’d be glad if you’d +smoke--the midges are terrible. Who is that girl in pale blue who’s +just coming out?” + +“Mrs. Vermont. She--er--I think Miss Farquar--” + +“Oh, well, never mind; it’s a pleasant surprise.” She went over to Mrs. +Vermont with enthusiasm. “I’m so glad you could come; it’s delightful.” + +Gerald looked round everybody again, carefully. Then he respectfully +displaced the Miss Hartigans, spread out a rug on the bank and sat down +between them. He was at a disadvantage, he could not remember if he +had ever been introduced to them, whereas they were perfectly certain +he had been. They were pleased at his coming, though on the other hand +they were suffering so terribly from the midges that what they wanted +most at the moment was to scratch their legs peacefully. + +“I call this a frightfully good party,” said Gerald, breezily. + +“Yes, it’s most enjoyable,” agreed Norah Hartigan. + +“I don’t think there’s anything like these tennis parties you have in +Ireland.” + +“We have never been to tennis parties in England,” replied Doreen. + +“Oh, you must certainly come over.” + +“I dare say we should feel strange,” said Norah and her sister agreed +with her. Gerald smiled from one to the other so encouragingly that +they told him how a sister of theirs, who was not here to-day, had +once stayed for quite a long time near London, and had been taken by +an aunt, who was rather what they would call a London Society sort of +person, to a very fashionable party--in South Kensington it had been. +But their sister had not cared for the party, she thought the English +unnatural and said it was extraordinary how their voices sounded when +they were all shut up in the one room. “But excuse me,” concluded the +elder Miss Hartigan, turning away because she was afraid the talk was +becoming personal and scratching her ankle as discreetly as possible, +“we should not say this to you.” + +“It was splendid of you to forget I was English. Well, we shall all be +leaving you soon, I dare say; all we jolly old army of occupation.” + +“Oh, one wouldn’t like to call you _that_,” said Miss Hartigan, +deprecatingly. + +“--As soon as we’ve lost this jolly old war.” + +“Oh, but one wouldn’t call it a _war_.” + +“If anyone would, we could clean these beggars out in a week.” + +“We think it would be a great pity to have a war,” said the Hartigans +firmly. “There’s been enough unpleasantness already, hasn’t there?... +And it would be a shame for you all to go,” added Doreen warmly, but +not too warmly because they were all men. In fact, it was all rather +embarrassing, they fixed their eyes on the players firmly and wished +that the set would finish. They thought how daring it was of Mr. +Lesworth to come so far to a party at all, and only hoped he would not +be shot on the way home; though they couldn’t help thinking how, if he +should be, they would both feel so interesting afterwards. “Poor young +fellow,” they thought with particular tenderness because he was so +good-looking, and neither of them, with this tenderness in their eyes, +dared to look at him. + +Livvy was walking along the top of the bank with David Armstrong. She +smiled, with a small tooth over her lower lip; the tip of her nose +quivered downward with feminine sensibility. “It is really a long time +since I have seen you, Mr. Armstrong.” + +David was the nicest of all the subalterns; so agreeable. “Why, yes,” +he agreed, “I suppose it really must be.” He glanced at the brim of her +hat and added: “It has certainly seemed an awful long time to me.” + +“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” cried Livvy; she blushed to the chin and +laughed. + +“_I_ don’t see why I shouldn’t,” said David, alarmed but gratified. + +“Well, I mean, you oughtn’t to say it _like_ that!” + +“But I can’t help saying what I mean.” His manliness increased with +confusion. “I suppose I am that kind of fellow.” + +“You _are_ awful!” Livvy laughed so much from the shock of David’s +behaviour that people sitting along the foot of the bank looked up +expectantly. She would not share him, she hurried him off at an +angle and then continued: “Why were you not at the Mount Isabel +bicycle gymkhana? I understood you to say that you would be. It was +the greatest pity you couldn’t be there, it was a grand gymkhana, +and they had a putting competition too. And they had sentries armed +in the avenue and made twenty-four pounds for the hospital. And the +priest’s niece from Kilnagowan fell off and cut her lip; she bled too +dreadfully, but Doreen Hartigan has her V.A.D. certificate. And two +hundred people sat down to tea--how was it now that you couldn’t be +there?” + +“On duty,” said David, and took on a mystic and obstinate look. “I was +up with some of the men and an N.C.O. in those mountains the other side +of the Madder.” + +Livvy felt in her spine, running down it from under her waistband, a +sharp little thrill. She felt all the soldiers’ woman, and said in a +glow: “Well, I call that too awfully dangerous.” He told her: “It’s +what we are here for.” They glanced at each other, then both were +embarrassed--and showed it--at what they had seen. She stooped, and her +hat was an elegant mushroom. From David’s complexion blushes cleared +slowly away--the last having never quite vanished into his hair before +another came after it up from his well-fitting collar. + +“I can’t think what Lois can be doing.” She peered through gaps in the +shrubbery towards the gate of the garden. This concern for her friend +she put up and twirled like a parasol between them. She sighed: the +expansion of her thin little frame, the rise and fall of her two little +points of bosom were clearly visible under her white silk jersey. Her +panama hat turned down and light tufts of hair came out in fluttering +commas against her cheekbones. From under the brim her eyes looked, +slanting slightly up at the corners, with a veiled preoccupied kind of +inquisitiveness. She was inquisitive as to so many things her friend +Lois hoped one might not have to bother about. David watched her watch +the shrubbery for her friend and thought, with a shock, that this +really did seem a girl he was to be in love with. He had the fatalism +of a recurrent sufferer. + +“It will be too bad,” continued Livvy, “if she doesn’t come soon. +You would think she might be picking those raspberries herself. You +see, all the people she asked from Clonmore have come and were not +expected. If she doesn’t come soon I must go--yes, indeed I must, +Mr. Armstrong--and see about the two next fours. You see, her cousin +Laurence is no good for that, he is so intellectual, and Lady Naylor +doesn’t much notice the tennis so long as the party goes off all right. +But it seems too bad she shouldn’t see Mr. Lesworth. I expect Mr. +Lesworth often speaks to you of her, doesn’t he, Mr. Armstrong?” + +“Er--I don’t remember, really.” + +“I think it’s wonderful to see a man so much in love. I must say I +often wonder what love feels like. I always seem to feel so natural +about the men I know. But I suppose that’s because I am so young--or +perhaps I was born platonic. Do you believe in platonics, Mr. +Armstrong?” + +“Plato? Jolly old Grecian--what?” + +“No, but listen--do you?” + +“Well, what I think,” said David, looking carefully at his racquet +and turning it over and over--“of course it is awfully difficult to +express, but I think the right kind of girl and the right kind of +fellow can be almost anything to each other, if you know what I mean?” + +“_I_ think,” said Livvy, “you put it rather wonderfully.” She suddenly +waved her racquet. “Ah--there’s Lois!” + +Lois came down the shrubbery path from the garden startled, as if at +her own great speed, flushed and visibly breathless. A pink unbuttoned +cardigan slipped away at the shoulders, she had a hand in both the +pockets to keep it on. Her hat flapped back, it rose above her face +in surprise, like a wave. Behind her the bushes stirred in an almost +visible backwash. Over the laurels, cropped knee-high at the back of +the tennis court, her body rose and dipped with her long steps. + +“Ah, here she is!” exclaimed several people, and all looked up the +bank uncritically and kindly. The dark air of the shrubbery glittered +with midges; she jerked her hands from her pockets and waved her way +through. Chinks of sunlight darted up her like mice and hesitated away +like butterflies. She had been looking down at the party, deployed in +all its promise, with greed and eagerness as at a box of chocolates; +eyes like a thumb and finger hovering to selection. Now, engaged by its +look, she became all profile; her step flattened, she would have liked +to crawl. She was, as Mr. Montmorency had noticed, very self-conscious. + +The Hartigans said to Gerald: “Here comes Lois; isn’t she very +sweet-looking!” They smiled at each other across him. + +He said “Rather!” pocketing their tribute gratefully, with simplicity, +as a small boy pockets a tip. His directness baffled them, they were +shocked--but he thought how nice they were. In his world affections +were rare and square--four-square--occurring like houses in a +landscape, unrelated and positive, though with sometimes a large bright +looming--as of the sunned west face of Danielstown over the tennis +courts. He did not conceive of love as a nervous interchange but as +something absolute, out of the scope of thought, beyond himself, matter +for a confident outward rather than anxious inward looking. He had +sought and was satisfied with a few--he thought final--repositories +for his emotions: his mother, country, dog, school, a friend or two, +now--crowningly--Lois. Of these he asked only that they should be +quiet and positive, not impinged upon, not breaking boundaries from +their generous allotment. His life was a succession of practical +adjustments, into which the factor of personality did not enter at +all. His reserve--to which one was apt to accord a too sensitive +reverence--was an affair of convenience rather than protection. Pressed +for a statement, he could have said, “I love her,” to the Hartigans, +Mrs. Carey, anyone there, without uneasiness, without a sense of the +words’ vibrations or alarm at a loud impact on something hollow. So he +looked up the bank at Lois, while the Hartigans watched him. + +Mr. Montmorency sat on the ground with his knees apart, holding his +ankles limply. His grey flannel coat-collar was turned up over his +white shirt, as though a strong wind were blowing. He was being talked +to by ladies who sat above him on high green chairs, and though he +looked up to answer, it was never higher than their knees. He had more +than ever his waxen blinking look, as though exposed unnaturally to the +sunshine. His nostrils contracted slightly, as though the smell drawn +up from the roots of the grass in a perpetual hot shimmer were more +offensive than he cared to explain. He was to play in the next set, +and Laurence looked forward to a melancholy exhibition of departed +proficiency. A wiry tenseness and setting of teeth there would be, +Laurence anticipated, then balls going straight and cleanly into the +net. He would be the magnificent player of ten years ago, with little +painful grunts as point after point was given away. Laurence guessed +that Mr. Montmorency hated parties and conversation as much as he +himself did, but being less adept at evasion or honouring less fiercely +the virginity of his intelligence, could not escape from talking and +being talked to. + +Laurence achieved this escape by sitting always with a social alert +expression between two groups, when one tried to claim him he could +affect to be engaged by the other. + +A net had been carefully stretched behind the seats to prevent balls +going through to the shrubbery. But it was full of rents, and these +the balls, driven with force from the further back line, discovered +unerringly. To meet these deficiencies children up from the lodge were +on duty in the shrubbery; they stared and rambled, pushing among the +laurels. They got their teas, an excellent view of the party and a +halfpenny for every ball they recovered. Those who did not find any +balls and seemed disappointed were given halfpennies also. So why, as +Lady Naylor said, bother? She hated to see her guests go round the net, +smearing their nice white flannels. + +But now, as three balls in succession fled through the leaves, she +broke off a conversation and cried: This was too much! Would some kind +person--she looked at Laurence--go round and help? He rose, reluctant: +simultaneously Mr. Montmorency went gratefully round the net at the +other end. He was followed by an anxious little boy called Hercules, +the only child among the guests and gravely _de trop_. They all three +met in the middle. + +Laurence said--beating the bushes vaguely--“Imagine, sir, a small +resurrection day, an intimate thing-y one, when the woods should +give up their tennis balls and the bundles of hay their needles: the +beaches all their engagement rings and the rivers their cigarette +cases and some watches. The sea’s too general, an affair of furniture +and large boilers, it could wait with the graves for the big day.... +Yes, Hercules, that is a tennis ball, but it is pre-war. Put it back +in the rabbit hole for the children to find; it is worth a halfpenny +to them.... Last term I dropped a cigarette case into the Cher, from +the bridge at Parson’s Pleasure. It was a gold one, left over from +an uncle, flat and thin and curved, for a not excessive smoker. It +was from the days when they wore opera cloaks and mashed, and killed +ladies. It was very period, very virginal; I called it Henry James; I +loved it. I want to see it rush up out of the Cher, very pale, with +eyeballs, like in the Tate Gallery. It wants a woman to be interested +in a day like that, to organize; perhaps the Virgin Mary? Don’t you +think, sir?” + +Mr. Montmorency, startled at this address, replied: “I have never been +to the Tate Gallery.” + +“Talking of being virginal, do you ever notice this country? Doesn’t +sex seem irrelevant?” + +“There certainly are a great many unmarried women,” said Mr. +Montmorency, looking doubtfully through the net at the Miss Hartigans. + +“It is: ‘Ah, why would we?’ And indeed why should they? There is no +reason why one should not, so one never does. It applies to everything. +And children seem in every sense of the word to be inconceivable.” + +“My mother has five,” said Hercules, “I am the youngest. Hercules is a +family name because I am the only boy, but when I go to school I shall +be called Richard after my godfather, as everybody says that Hercules +even as an initial would be such a disadvantage to me, though not +nearly so bad as being afraid of bats.” + +“I wonder you aren’t at school now,” said Mr. Montmorency. + +“It would be holidays now anyhow, so I should be bound to be here. That +is my eldest sister, playing tennis. They do not see how I can possibly +go to school till I have got over being afraid of bats. Besides, I am +using up the end of my sisters’ governess.” + +“Nobody could possibly be sorrier for you than I am, Hercules,” said +Laurence. “This is an unreal party.” + +“Well, nobody brought you, I suppose,” said Hercules. + +The strong and dreadful smell of laurels made them all irritable. +Hercules tore off the tips of bland leaves which kept slapping +against his forehead. Laurence came with a ball on his racquet to Mr. +Montmorency and said: “I am sure this is one that you lost with Uncle +Richard and poor John Trent and the man who did not go to Ceylon in the +summer of ’06.” + +“Whereas, I did not go to Canada.” + +“No, you never did, did you?” + +Lady Naylor came and looked at them through the netting. “If between +you you cannot find any balls,” she said, “Laurence, you had better +please fetch that other box from the back hall. They are beginning a +new set with only three.” + +“I have two here that seem quite clean, but they haven’t much bounce,” +said Hercules. + +“Oh, that is splendid, you are a good little boy!” She took the balls +from him through a hole. “Here are a nice lot to go on with,” she +called out hopefully, rolling them to the court. Mr. Montmorency and +Laurence went on searching. + +“Now take Aunt Myra; what does she think she’s doing?” + +“If it comes to that,” said Mr. Montmorency, nettled, “what do you +think _you_’re doing? Why are you here at all if you don’t like it--as +Hercules said? I was happy here at your age, I was full of the place, I +asked nothing better. I ask nothing better now.” + +“Oh,” said Laurence. + +“However, I have no doubt you are right in being dissatisfied; I dare +say it is progress,” said Mr. Montmorency angrily. “I dare say it is +good for the race.” + +Laurence, who did not consider that he had anything to do with the +race, replied with some indignation: “I have no money; where do you +expect me to get any money from? I was to have gone to Spain this month +with a man and last year I should have gone to Italy with another man, +but what do you expect me to go on? I have to eat somwhere, don’t I, +and here it is simply a matter of family feeling.” + +“This is one of the balls; I shall throw it over.... I had no idea that +you were such a materialist.” + +“I can’t help my stomach. Besides, I like eating, it is so real. But +I should like something else to happen, some crude intrusion of the +actual. I feel all gassy inside from yawning. I should like to be here +when this house burns.” + +“Quite impossible; quite unthinkable. Why don’t you fish or +something?... Nonsense!” he added, looking warningly at the house. + +“Of course it will, though. And we shall all be so careful not to +notice.” + +“Are you the undergraduate of to-day?” + +“I should love to be quite, quite abstract.” + +Mr. Montmorency, offended by all this clever conversation, felt more +than ever his isolation, his homelessness. Life was to him an affair of +discomfort, but that discomfort should be made articulate seemed to him +shocking. The over-fine machinery of his mind ceaselessly strained and +caught and was agonizingly jerked over details. His refuge was manly +talk: he suspected Laurence. He said: “You are fortunate. There was +never a time when I had not other people to think about.” + +Laurence, who immediately thought this womanish, said: “Oh yes, love.” +He flicked out and studied the word indifferently--coin of uncertain +value. + +“Not entirely. One had a certain debt ...” + +“Oh, yes, yes.” + +Laurence became more formal, very much better mannered. He recalled +that the man was married, had given away his integrity, had not even +a bed to himself. The husband, glancing a last time through and under +the bushes, was negligible, diffused even a certain staleness. Laurence +sheered away mentally, moved further off through the shrubbery. He had +been talking foolishly, in his vein of the third or fourth quality, and +regretted now having talked still. He felt there had been something +morbid about his intrusion, as in a visit to a prison. + +“I was to have played in that second set,” said Mr. Montmorency. “It +seems to be nearly over: perhaps I shall play in the third.” + +“Tea will be coming, never forget tea.” Indeed, a move was being made +to the house already. Tea was too grave an affair to be carried out; +besides, one wasn’t accustomed to stability in the weather. + +“Oh, Hugo, come out now, dear,” cried Francie, walking past with Mrs. +Hartigan. “I am sure it doesn’t matter about the balls. And the Trents +have come--don’t you see them? We are just going back to the house to +meet them now.” + +“Archie? Splendid!” He burst from the shrubbery at the other side, +gained the path and hurried towards the house. At a turn of the path, +in an arch cut under some holly, he saw Gerald and Lois standing; +talking, looking down earnestly at their racquets. With her head bent, +Lois was like her mother. He stared, then passed them quickly. + +But Lois did not notice him going by. She was saying: “I feel certain +you have illusions about me; I don’t believe you know what I’m like +a bit.” And while she spoke she counted the crimson strings in her +racquet: three down, six across. + + + + + VI + + +MRS. VERMONT ate more hot cakes than she cared to remember, because +they were so good and nobody seemed to notice. She went on to chocolate +cake, then to orange layer cake, to which she returned again and again. +An idea she had had, that one should not eat very much when invited +out, languished; she finished up with a plate of raspberries. She put +all thought of her figure resolutely behind her. Mother, of course, had +filled out terribly, but oneself mightn’t. + +“Nummy-nummy,” she said, pointing out the raspberries to David +Armstrong who sat beside her. “David have some!” + +Livvy Thompson, sitting beyond David, deplored these women who talked +baby-talk. She felt that her own appeal to men was more serious. “Mr. +Armstrong has got to play in the next set,” she said warningly. + +“Hoity-toity!” thought Betty Vermont (she never used the expression +aloud, as she was not certain how one pronounced it: it was one of her +inner luxuries). Turning to Mrs. Carey (the Honourable Mrs. Carey), who +sat on her other side, she said frankly: + +“Your scrumptious Irish teas make a perfect piggy-wig of me. And +dining-room tea, of course, makes me a kiddy again.” + +“Does it really?” said Mrs. Carey, and helped herself placidly to +another slice of the chocolate cake. She thought of Mrs. Vermont +as “a little person” and feared she detected in her a tendency, +common to most English people, to talk about her inside. She often +wondered if the War had not made everybody from England a little +commoner. She added pleasantly: “This chocolate cake is a speciality +of Danielstown’s. I believe it’s a charm that they make it by, not a +recipe.” + +“Things do run in families, don’t they? Now I am sure you’ve all got +ghosts.” + +“I can’t think of any,” said Mrs. Carey, accepting another cup of tea. +She smiled and nodded across the table to Mrs. Archie Trent, who had +just come in. “We have been much more worried lately by people taking +away our car. Of course it is always brought back again, but one +doesn’t like to think of its being used for nefarious purposes. That is +the worst of a Ford.” + +Mrs. Vermont opened her mouth to tell Mrs. Carey the latest Ford story, +then checked herself because in Ireland they seemed to take Fords so +seriously. She observed instead: “All this is terrible for you all, +isn’t it? I do think you’re so sporting the way you just stay where +you are and keep going on. Who would ever have thought the Irish would +turn out so disloyal--I mean, of course, the lower classes! I remember +Mother saying in 1916--you know, when that dreadful rebellion broke +out--she said: ‘This _has_ been a shock to me, I never shall feel the +same about the Irish again.’ You see, she had brought us all up as +kiddies to be so keen on the Irish, and Irish songs. I still have a +little bog-oak pig she brought me back from an exhibition. She always +said they were the most humorous people in the world, and with hearts +of gold. Though of course we had none of us ever been in Ireland.” + +“Well, I hope you are pleased with us now you have come,” said Mrs. +Carey hospitably. “I expect you have all been enjoying this lovely +weather?” + +“Oh, _well_--you see, we didn’t come over to enjoy ourselves, did we? +We came to take care of all of you--and, of course, we are ever so +glad to be able to do it. Not that I don’t like the country; it’s so +picturesque with those darling mountains and the hens running in and +out of the cottages just the way Mother always said. But, you see, one +can’t help worrying all the time about Timmie--my husband--and all +the boys: out all night sometimes with the patrols or else off in the +mountains.” + +“Terrible. And do you find this a tiring climate?” + +A word attracted Mrs. Trent’s attention across the table. “Terrible +what?” she said. “Terrible who?” She was youngish, brusque and +dominant; the high pink colour over her face as from riding hard in +a wind gave her a look of zestfulness alarming to Mrs. Vermont. “I +shouldn’t worry,” she said to Mrs. Vermont. + +Mrs. Vermont replied with a shade of asperity that it was _they_ who +were in a position to worry and therefore must not. “’Cause _we_’re +here to take care of you!” The remark, caught in a momentary silence +around the table, was received with civility and attention. “That’s +splendid!” said Mrs. Trent heartily. She got up, having finished her +tea rapidly and went to smoke outside. Her husband was M.F.H. and +really, thought Mrs. Vermont, they did not seem to worry about anything +but wire. Mrs. Vermont turned for support to David; his ears were +scarlet, he rapidly stirred his tea. + +Five days ago, an R.I.C. barracks at Ballydrum had been attacked and +burnt out after a long defence. Two of the defenders were burnt inside +it, the others shot coming out. The wires were cut, the roads blocked; +there had been no one to send for help, so there was no help for them. +It was this they had all been discussing, at tea, between tennis: “the +horrible thing.” No one could quite understand why Captain Vermont and +the subalterns did not seem more appalled and interested. It was not +apparent how the subject rasped on their sensibilities. These things +happened, were deplored and accepted, and still no one seemed to look +on David or Gerald, Smith, Carmichael or Mrs. Vermont’s Timmie as a +possible remedy. Here they all were, playing tennis, and every one +seemed delighted. “If they’d just let us out for a week--” felt the +young men. David could not look up as he stirred his tea. What was the +good of them? This, he felt, every one should be wondering. But the +party would indeed have been dull without them, there would have been +no young men. Nobody wished them elsewhere. + +Lois had been worrying chiefly because Gerald had illusions about her, +also, as to whether Aunt Myra noticed the raspberries still would not +go round. The guests for which she was responsible were not only +unexpected but ravenous. And while she sat watching Aunt Myra, Gerald +sat watching herself as though she were an entirely different person, +not the sort of person one could describe at all. After tea she played +on the upper court with Captain Vermont, against Gerald and Nona Carey. +She played well, all her strokes came off; it seemed that worry agreed +with her. It could not agree with Gerald, who played badly. Then it +occurred to her: he was not worried; she had not the power to worry +him. Some idea he had formed of herself remained inaccessible to her; +she could not affect it. + +By now the upper court was in shadow, they all flickered against the +dark screen of the trees like figures cut out of light green velvet. +Below, where hot bands of light still blinded the players, there was +a suggestion of strain and violence. Whenever she looked down, Mr. +Montmorency seemed to be handing balls to his partner in silent anger. +She guessed it must be himself who was playing badly, so that while she +could not resist looking down, she had to keep looking away from him +just as fast. + +“You were splendid,” said Captain Vermont when their set finished. + +“Oh no, I wasn’t,” said Lois by reflex action, and wished all the other +things to which she was always replying, “Oh no, I didn’t,” or “Oh no, +I’m not,” were half as true. And she thought what a pity it was that +Mr. Montmorency, instead of exerting himself so fruitlessly, had not +been sitting there at the edge of the court to watch her. + +She walked down the slope from the court with Gerald beside her. +Conscious of many people’s attention, she did not know if she seemed +enviable or foolish. “I wish you wouldn’t keep looking so pleased the +whole time,” she said to Gerald. + +“Oh?... but I am.” + +“What at?” + +“Well, I love coming over here. I think you have such awfully nice +parties.” + +“Oh, the party.... But David enjoys them, and he hasn’t got the same +expression as you have. In fact, he looks rather sick. What can be the +matter?” + +“Well, we all feel a little rotten about that barrack.” + +“_Don’t!_ Do you know that while that was going on, eight miles off, I +was cutting a dress out, a voile that I didn’t even need, and playing +the gramophone?... How is it that in this country that ought to be full +of such violent realness, there seems nothing for me but clothes and +what people say? I might just as well be in some kind of cocoon.” + +“But what could you have done? You, you--” + +“I might at least have felt something.” + +“But you do; you’ve got the most wonderful power of feeling.” + +“But you never take in a word I say. You’re not interested when I tell +you about myself.” + +“You know I could listen all day to you talking.” + +She thought: “As though you could make me talk all day!” To cover the +thought she said earnestly: + +“You think we don’t all understand your not being there in time and +not doing anything afterwards? We’re not all such idiots. We know +it’s most terribly difficult for you and that you must obey orders. +It’s bad luck the orders are silly. It’s all this dreadful idea about +self-control. When _we_ do nothing it is out of politeness, but England +is so moral, so dreadfully keen on not losing her temper, or being +for half a moment not a great deal more noble than anyone else. Can +you wonder this country gets irritated? It’s as bad for it as being a +woman. I never can see why women shouldn’t be hit, or should be saved +from wrecks when everybody complains they’re superfluous.” + +“You don’t understand: it would be ghastly if those things went.” + +“Why? I don’t see--and _I_ am a woman.” + +Which was, of course, exactly why it wasn’t to be expected or desired +she _should_ understand. He smiled, too happy to answer, and tore out a +handful of leaves from the privet hedge. She had this one limitation, +his darling Lois; she couldn’t look on her own eyes, had no idea what +she was, resented almost his attention being so constantly fixed on +something she wasn’t aware of. A fellow did not expect to be to a girl +what a girl was to a fellow--this wasn’t modesty, specially, it was an +affair of function--so that the girl must be excused for a possible +failure in harmony, a sometimes discordant irreverence. When he said: +“You will never know what you mean to me,” he made plain his belief in +her perfection as a woman. She wasn’t made to know, she was not fit for +it. She was his integrity, of which he might speak to strangers but of +which to her he would never speak. + +He tore out another handful of leaves from the hedge and scattered +them carefully over the grass. They both laughed. + +She was thinking: “When next I write to Viola, can I describe him?” +Viola flashed off her men in a phrase, with a sweep of her red quill +pen. The red pen had leaned from the Chinese inkpot, against the +window, like a thin flame, a leaning flamingo on that day’s sunny mist +in the Westminster street. It remained a picture of their intercourse. +They had said good-bye in December, a slight day, anxious between the +enormous past and future. The parting was hardly real, they had barely +kissed. They were impatient, nervous, waiting for the curtain to rise. +They had just left school. + +They had left school the day before. Yet the new life had been +impatient for Viola, drawing her away from Lois in the taxi, +appropriating her with certainty. She had stepped from their taxi +toppling with school trunks with a kind of solemnity, as on to a +carpet stretched for her festal approach from the kerb to the doors +of her home. Next day, when they said good-bye, her hair was in place +already, woven into her personality. Her pigtail had been the one +loose end there was of her, an extension of her that had independence, +a puppyish walloping thing with nerves of its own. Now the hair was +woven in bright sleek circles over her ears, each strand round like an +eel’s body. The effect completed her; Lois knew she had been missing or +else discounting something all these years. Viola must have played at +being a schoolgirl just as Lois would have to play at being a woman. +Two expensive young men’s photographs had risen like suns on her +mantelpiece; these young men had loved since last Easter holidays; +their position was now regularized magically by the putting up of +Viola’s hair. For only little commonalities, she declared, had affairs +while still at school. And Lois, after that good-bye so distinct and +distant, as at the little end of a telescope, had left her with the +composed, knowing photographs and the red pen leaning against the +sunshine. She had wondered, going out to a day of shopping and the +night mail to be caught at Euston, whether life was to hold for her, +too, a man’s passion; and if so, when? And she had bought a dozen pairs +of silk stockings and the black georgette Aunt Myra said was “old.” + +But a man’s passion was not at all the thing. My dear, too Dell-ish! +Viola went to what she supposed one would call her first ball; in +tulle she went, smoke blue, with a close gold-leaf round the hair--not +bright gold, dull gold. Various people had seemed intrigued, were in +fact intrigued rather definitely. There was So-and-so, an absurd person +(flash of the red pen), and the aloof, rather mask-like So-and-so--who +might intrigue Lois. But when it came to _So-and-so_ (a most brilliant +flash of the pen) Viola would admit to Lois she _was_ affected: it +really had been affecting. But enough of Viola. “Now, Lois darling, you +must tell me about them all: I must know everybody.” + +And there arose, recurrently, the difficulty in describing Gerald. Who +else had been intrigued, Lois was not certain. How much was somebody +intrigued when they wished to sit out in a car in the barrack square +for four dances? Might not Viola consider sitting out in a car at all +rather Dell-ish? When some one tried to kiss you with whisky-ish +breath, how much were they intrigued and how much was whisky? She +thought a major proposed to her, though he seemed rather old, but he +was so much confused and had such a mumbly moustache she could not be +certain. And later on at the Clonmore Club a lady was pointed out to +her as, she was almost certain, that major’s wife. David had seemed +intrigued, but then he himself intrigued Livvy so very definitely and +did not a young man under these conditions become slightly sordid? +So Lois became so very general in her references that Viola was +suspicious: she asked, was there really anyone? Then she began to +write in a married-womanish tone of encouragement, which considering +she _could_ be married at any moment was really justified. Lois was +forced to state, there _was_ a man in the Rutlands, a Gerald Lesworth, +whom she found affecting. She supposed there was no question as to his +being intrigued; people seemed to notice. So Viola wrote back, she must +hear all about him, should have heard before: her Lol was really the +final Sphinx. She wanted to know, to see, to hear him, even to smell +him--because all the nicest men did smell, didn’t they, indefinably but +divinely. One noticed it when one was dancing or, sometimes, sitting +out. So now, please, everything; by return. + +Viola did not like moustaches, but some men did qualify their +moustaches, surely? Gerald’s lay like a fine dark shadow, so that +his lip seemed to curl up more than it did. It answered his eyebrows +somehow--that had a way of drawing together while he spoke--and some +soft edgeless darkness about his eyes. If one mentioned his teeth +so white that his smile seemed a long slow flash in the tanned face, +didn’t it make him sound like Fairbanks? For he was _not_, at all. +He had a way of looking down while he spoke, as though his thoughts +were under his eyelids. From his look she had sometimes turned in +impatience, never in discomfort. There was emotion there unclothed in +the demi-decency of thought; nakedness, not a suggestive deshabille. +If he was looking away and one spoke, his eyes returned with an +extraordinary look of welcome. He had a good chin, cut sharply away +underneath with a strong shadow. His head was pleasant with bumps, +that made planes of light and shadow over his polished hair. And she +knew she liked something about the back of his neck: it was a personal +neck--not just a connection, an isthmus--with skin fitting closely over +the muscles. + +As she stood looking at Gerald by the privet hedge, he emerged from the +mist of familiarity, clear to her mental eye. She saw him as though for +the first time, with a quick response to his beauty; she saw him as +though he were dead, as though she had lost him, with the pang of an +evocation. While she could hold him thus--before he receded or came too +closely forward--she wanted to run indoors and write to Viola. Viola +would be certain to tell her she loved him, and by that declaration, to +be expressed with vigour, Lois was too certain to be affected. She was +afraid at the thought of it. + +She would have loved to love him; she felt some kind of wistfulness, +some deprivation. If there could only be some change, some movement--in +her, outside of her, somewhere between them--some incalculable +shifting of perspectives that would bring him wholly into focus, mind +and spirit, as she had been bodily in focus now--she could love him. +Something must be transmuted.... Or else, possibly, if he would not +love her so, could give her air to grow in, not stifle imagination. + +He said: “What’s the matter? Bothered?” + +“Thinking--about you, in a kind of way.” + +“Good.” + +“I was describing you. How would you describe me?” + +He was surprised, he needed time to think of this; he did not know. “I +must just go in,” she said--“do you mind?--and write a letter. It’s so +important. Will you post it for me at Clonmore?” + +But meanwhile, they had been irritating Lady Naylor, who seeing Lois +stand so vaguely down by the privet hedge, disclaiming implicitly +the party given for her amusement, was goaded to the point of an +interruption. Now she called: “Lois--Lois!” + +Lois sighed and went to her. + +“I want you to take the Trents and Maguires and Boatleys round +the garden,” she said as her niece approached. “I shall be coming +later”--she murmured: “when some more of the people have gone. Mrs. +Trent wants a cutting of the allspice and would like to see if there’s +anything else she would like. Tell Donovan.” She murmured again: “And +don’t let Mrs. Boatley get with Mrs. Maguire, she is a Christian +Scientist and will talk of it, and you know the Maguires’ little +nephew died of that. And if the Boatleys like the peaches give them +some; let Donovan pack them.” She added in a still lower tone of +reproach: “Because I don’t believe there were raspberries for them at +tea.” + + + + + VII + + +FRANCIE was finding Laurence not so difficult after all, if one just +ran on quite naturally. They sat at the top of the steps together, +after everybody had gone. The fields looked wider, the sky more +gracious and distant seen through the clearing smoke of social +activity. The Trents left last but one, the Hartigans and their aunt +Mrs. Foxe-O’Connor had just gone jogging away up the avenue, knee to +knee in their little trap. The gravel at the foot of the steps was +all scored up and flung into spirals by the turning of wheels. Early +to-morrow, there would be a busy sound of gardeners raking it smooth +again. At present, there was the busy sound of rooks: it heightened +Mrs. Montmorency’s and Laurence’s peaceful lassitude to reflect that +rooks still had to talk, to flock and mix in intricate sociability. Men +and women had, since seven o’clock, been released from this obligation. + +There was nothing to say, they did not have to say anything: they +exclaimed their thoughts casually, not answering one another’s, on +the retreat towards silence. All the afternoon they had been asking +questions, and ignoring the answers as far as possible. Laurence +knew he could not be asked by his aunt to bring the chairs in or see +whether Lois had locked up the garden while he sat here, so apparently +entertaining Mrs. Montmorency. + +Francie had not wanted to know how anyone was; health played too large +a part in her life already. She had not wanted to know if they thought +the garden lovely--the supremacy of Danielstown garden made opinion +irrelevant--whether they preferred winter to summer because of the +hunting, or summer to winter because of the tennis. Neither had it +seemed to Laurence important whether anyone wanted more tea or had had +really enough, whether they feared to be driven into the ditch by Black +and Tans on the way home, or whether they knew Oxford. They both felt +themselves coming to life again slowly, now that the party was over, +and putting off a sort of antagonism. At an upstairs window they could +hear Lady Naylor and Lois discussing the guests, agreeing that it had +been a successful day. + +Francie said: “I do wonder now whether this weather will last.” +This gold weather had all the delights of a new perception, it made +Danielstown real as a memory. + +“I suppose they don’t really feel like that inside,” said Laurence. + +“I wonder at them bringing a child like Hercules. I found him walking +about the house when I went up for my air-cushion. The poor little +fellow ... I let him blow up my air-cushion and then I took him and +showed him photographs of the Carnival that I brought back from Nice. +We talked quite a time; he tells me he is afraid of bats. I wonder now +why they called him Hercules.” + +“Wouldn’t it be terrible to be in the Army ...” + +“Isn’t that young Mr. Lesworth devoted to Lois? I wonder does she feel +it at all?” + +“I always wonder what one does in the Army when one’s not doing +something particular, very particularly.” + +“I wonder if they would marry?” + +“Marry?” said Laurence, surprised into attention. “I don’t see why. +Though I don’t see why not. As Lois never does anything or seems +to want to, I suppose she must be expecting to marry some one. And +Lesworth is pleasant, I think, and rather pretty. He is like a +photograph of a man in an advertisement putting on the right kind of +collar. Doesn’t advertising develop--I sometimes wonder if one might +not think of taking it up.” + +“But doesn’t she draw very nicely?” + +“Well, she could draw people in the Army doing things, like Lady +Butler.” + +“She is so sweet, I think; I love to watch her.” + +“Her consumption of tennis is something enormous. There’s tennis +to-morrow at Castle Trent and I’ve got to drive her over. I often +wonder whether she really _would_ get assaulted by Black and Tans if +she went alone, or by sinister patriots, or whether she might not be +old enough now to look after herself.” + +“I’m afraid at _her_ age,” said Francie, blushing; “her age isn’t any +protection.” + +“I cannot imagine wanting to assault anybody. But then I never can +conceive of anybody else’s mentality--or isn’t that mentality? Why is +it so much worse for a young girl to miss tennis than for a young man +to miss Spain? I suppose it is something to do with the life force and +that one must not trace the connection.” + +“I wonder why she’s so fond of that Livvy Thompson--she seems to me +managing.” + +“She’s not fond--it’s contiguity. Why should they chop up the rather +beautiful name of Olivia into something that sounds like cat’s meat?” + +_This_ Francie well understood, she herself did not care to be +called Frances, it sounded formal. She sighed, and gathered together +the folds of her grey-and-blue “mottledy” foulard. She had been +wondering--watching Hugo so happy with Mrs. Trent, and now the +speculation recurred to her--whether the woman Hugo had really needed +would not have worn coats and skirts, snapped her fingers at dogs +and recrossed her legs with decision. Mrs. Trent was an amusing good +sort; she so radiated the quality that Francie, after a minute or +two’s conversation, had felt quite a good sort also. Was she, though, +perfectly understanding? But then did not Hugo perhaps feel a little +smothered in one’s own understanding, a little reduced by it? For +instance: Francie thought, honestly, Hugo had played magnificently +this afternoon; several people had said to her: “It’s a delight to +see your husband play on these courts again”; they would not have +said that, surely, if he had not been playing magnificently! But even +so armed, she would not be able to combat Hugo’s conviction that his +tennis was going off, because it was something he never mentioned and +he would be furious at hearing it put into words. So still she would +have to feel his pride suffer--as though he were growing old, when +there wasn’t a shadow of age on him. She remembered how he had shown up +to-day, playing, sitting or walking, among the young men. She liked the +young men, but they seemed all limbs and faces, not yet related. She +wondered what Hugo had thought of the young men. + +She thought of their room upstairs with quiet light in the ceiling; +of ghostly roses that still showed faintly when one drew the curtains +over the daylight. She supposed she ought to be lying down; she got up, +murmuring something, and went indoors. Laurence stood up, vacillating. +He wondered if they would meet him and make him do things if he were to +venture up for his book. + +Francie, crossing the ante-room, was waylaid by Lady Naylor coming out +of Lois’s room. “Ah, there you are, Francie, good! Now I’m longing to +know what you thought of them all. To tell you the truth, I am thankful +it’s safely over. I hope they enjoyed themselves really: they _looked_ +all right.” + +“Indeed they must have! It was a great success.” They sat down on two +of the crimson chairs, stepping-stones over a lake of floor, to discuss +the party. + +Francie declared how pleasant she had found Mrs. Archie Trent, and how +nice it had been to see Mrs. Carey again, and how handsome Nona was +growing up. And what a pity it was, she said, about the Hartigans; they +had been grown-up girls when she had seen them last, and it did seem +hard! “And oh,” she cried, in a glow of pleasure and sympathy, “isn’t +that young Mr. Lesworth very devoted?” + +“Yes, he has charming manners; he comes over here a good deal. He’s so +helpful with chairs and rugs: I do wish he were Laurence!” + +“But so devoted to Lois--and really one can’t be surprised. The way he +follows her round with his eyes--and his feet too--” + +“_Sssh!_” exclaimed Lady Naylor. “She’s in her room! I wouldn’t like +her to pick up ideas like Livvy’s. Are you sure, by the way, you’re +not thinking of Mr. Armstrong? There’s a very great case of devotion +there. He follows Lois and Livvy follows him. I expect in the general +confusion, with so many people, you mixed up the young men. They are +all alike--it’s a pity, I always think. It’s a pity, too, about Lois +and Livvy; it isn’t a friendship I like. But poor Livvy’s motherless +and she’s always riding over to meals, and of course Lois needs girls +of her own age. She made very nice friends at her school in England, +but it’s so unlucky, they’re never allowed to come over. Something said +in the English press has apparently given rise to an idea that this +country’s unsafe. It’s unlucky for Lois. _I_ should never go by the +papers about England.... No, Francie, if you didn’t mix up the young +men, I really don’t know what you mean.” + +“Oh, it’s been very stupid of me,” cried Francie, flushing with +agitation. “Of course I should never have said if I hadn’t thought--if +I hadn’t been led to think ... No, I see now that I oughtn’t to have. +But I thought from what every one said ...” + +“But I am still quite in the dark, dear,” said Lady Naylor, flushed +also and smiling with irritation. “I suppose, however, you must have +gathered that as I _don’t_ understand what you _do_ mean, what you mean +cannot really be so.” + +“Oh, of course,” agreed Francie, ruffling the silk on her lap with +light, feathery touches. “All the same, I do think you ought to know, +Myra, that every one said ...” + +“One cannot help what people say, though it is always annoying. Not +that I ever do know what they say: I make a point of not knowing. +You know how I’ve always turned my face against gossip, especially +these days: it’s annoying to hear of it everywhere, even at one’s +own parties. It’s a very great danger, I think, to the life of this +country.” + +“Well, but really, you couldn’t say this was political. It seems to me +natural that people should take an interest--they’re all so fond of +her. If young Mr. Lesworth and Lois _are_ really--” + +Lady Naylor was forced into open country. “Oh, is that it?” she +exclaimed in enlightenment. “But really, my dear Francie, what a fuss +about nothing! No, not you, dear; I never meant you made the fuss, +but really with all these hints: ‘People are saying,’ you might have +meant almost anything. One’s friends do excel themselves, really! +Just because they’ve played tennis together and danced once or twice! +Really, you would think they wanted one to divide one’s tennis parties +up like a Quaker meeting, and turn ballrooms into that horrible kind +of country dancing they have in England--Anna Partridge’s people do +it--women hopping one way, waving things, men all hopping the other +way, stamping. ‘Really,’ as I said to Anna Partridge, ‘if this is +what you call getting in touch with the people, give me what you call +feudalism!’” + +“Yes. But really, Myra, is it so very improbable? They’re both so +young, and so--” + +“Why yes, of course; exactly!” Lady Naylor sat up in her chair with +a heightening of colour, an incisive gesture; her eyes threatened a +falcon-swoop on her friend’s rash flank. “Ex-_actly!_ Which is one of +the many things that do make it so impossible.” + +“I said ‘Improbable!’” Francie spoke with a funny zest. She hated +arguments as she hated rain; once caught in the rain she could hear +it crashing on her umbrella, feel it spill on her shoulders with +exhilaration. She knew so little excitement. She now felt for the first +time Myra’s equal in vigour and personality; she felt this opposition +to Myra must at last increase their confidence in each other. + +“In the first place,” said Lady Naylor, “he’s a subaltern. Subalterns +can’t marry--not of course that they’re like priests, but they might +just as well be until they are captains and thirty. Colonel Boatley +feels very strongly ... Of course, he’s a thoroughly nice boy, so +much liked in the Regiment. But then, what are the Rutlands nowadays? +Of course they did magnificently in the War. But now they seem to be +full of people like that extraordinary little Mrs. Vermont, who turned +up perfectly pleased with herself this afternoon, in spite of Lois’s +having quite forgotten that she’d asked her. No, _he_ of course is +charming, but he seems to have no relations. One cannot trace him. His +mother, he says, lives in Surrey, and of course you do know, don’t you, +what Surrey _is_. It says nothing, absolutely; part of it is opposite +the Thames Embankment. Practically nobody who lives in Surrey ever +seems to have been heard of, and if one does hear of them they have +never heard of anybody else who lives in Surrey. Really altogether, I +think all English people very difficult to trace. They are so pleasant +and civil, but I do often wonder if they are not a little shallow: +for no reason at all they will pack up everything and move across +six counties.... Of course, I don’t say Gerald Lesworth’s people are +in _trade_--I should never say a thing like that without foundation. +Besides, if they were in trade there would be money, money on English +people shows so much and he quite evidently hasn’t any. No, I should +say they were just villa-ry.” + +“But there are so many villas in England,” said Francie, “that some of +the people who live in them are bound to be nice. I often think so, +looking out of the train.” + +“Very nice in their way, I am sure--but that’s not the immediate point, +dear. There is _no_ question at all--you understand?--of anything +between Mr. Lesworth and Lois. And of course naturally _they_ haven’t +thought of it--if they had, don’t you see, they’d be much more careful +to make it appear there wasn’t. Of course I agree that Lois ought to +be more careful. I was careful at her age; I was careful by instinct, +which is a thing that girls nowadays seem to lack. There seems nothing +to do between putting ideas in a girl’s head and letting her behave +like an absolute donkey. It is all very difficult, really. If she +were my own niece I should speak to her--I should certainly speak to +Laurence if he were going on like that--but as she’s Richard’s niece +I don’t very well see that I can. There’s so little to go on. And I +really cannot have Richard bothered, it makes him so difficult. When he +feels he ought to do something and isn’t sure what, there’s no saying +at all what he may do. One does dislike awkwardness. And it doesn’t +seem kind to ask the young man his intentions when if he _should_ have +any they would have to be quashed immediately.... No, one must leave +it at this. I rely on you, Francie, to contradict any more of this +gossip that comes your way, and you might ask Hugo to also--if he has +heard any-- Perhaps on the whole better not put the idea into his +head; he might forget and discuss it with Richard.... Meanwhile, I +shall talk to Lois seriously about her future. She draws very nicely; +I often think that she might take that up. I must tell her to show you +and Hugo some of her drawings.” + +“But I don’t know anything about drawing.” + +“Oh, all she needs is a little encouragement.” + +“Just one thing, Myra--I think you’re so wise, you’re so perfectly +right, as you know. I do always in general believe in letting things +like this take their course. But ... as this thing can’t _have_ a +course, really mustn’t: is it quite fair to the young man? Because Lois +is so very--” + +Here she broke off, scared by a terrible clatter in Lois’s room. A pail +had been kicked and some furniture violently shifted. + +“Oh, Francie!” exclaimed Lady Naylor reproachfully. “You ought to +remember she’s there! One can’t be too careful! In fact, if you don’t +mind, I expect we had better not talk any more. You must go and lie +down--you’re looking as fresh as a rose, but I know how Hugo insists +upon it.” + +They got up, she took Francie’s arm and led her as far as her door. +Francie felt like something being put back in its box. Lady Naylor went +down, calling, to look for Laurence and ask him to bring the chairs in +and lock up the garden. + +For Lois, this had all been exceedingly difficult. There she was, +caught in her bedroom, she had not the face to come out. The door went +paper-thin as they raised their voices. At first it had seemed all +right: Aunt Myra knew she was in here, having just left her. But soon +their tones changed, a keen hunting note came into them; they were on a +topic. Carried away, Aunt Myra had forgotten. She heard “Lois ... Lois +... Lois ...” She hummed and sang: they were too intent. To one’s sense +of honour such things were agonizing. She leaned right out of a window +into the cooling air, into the hush of limes on the avenue; she watched +Uncle Richard and Mr. Montmorency walk to the white gate. Their heads +nodded down from their shoulders like old men’s, happily; they spoke +of Archie and Mrs. Archie and poor John. But from the room behind the +other voices, flooding in through the door, came after her. She flung +herself on her bed with a squawk from the springs and pressed her ear +shut till the lobes and her finger-tips ached: also she pulled the +pillows over her head. It was hot thus and still the voices penetrated. +They came on steadily, like the Hound of Heaven. It was hard, really, +the way they both kept at it. + +The voices spoke of love: they were full of protest. Love, she had +learnt to assume, was the mainspring of woman’s grievances. Illnesses +all arose from it, the having of children, the illnesses children had; +servants also, since the regular practice of love involved a home; by +money it was confined, propped and moulded. Lois flung off the pillows +and walked round the room quickly. She was angry; she strained to +hear now, she quite frankly listened. But when Mrs. Montmorency came +to: “Lois is very--” she was afraid suddenly. She had a panic. She +didn’t want to know what she was, she couldn’t bear to: knowledge of +this would stop, seal, finish one. Was she now to be clapped down under +an adjective, to crawl round lifelong inside some quality like a fly in +a tumbler? Mrs. Montmorency should not! + +She lifted her water jug and banged it down in the basin: she kicked +the slop-pail and pushed the washstand about.... It was victory. Later +on, she noticed a crack in the basin, running between a sheaf and a +cornucopia: a harvest richness to which she each day bent down her +face. Every time, before the water clouded, she would see the crack: +every time she would wonder: what Lois _was_-- She would never know. + + + + + VIII + + +SIR RICHARD, to whom the idea about Lois and Gerald percolated in time +through the family conversation, declared the idea was preposterous. +What chiefly worried him was, might she not have mentioned to Gerald +those guns in the lower plantations? He had charged her not to, but she +was just like Laura, poor Laura’s own child in fact; she would talk and +talk and you never knew where you had her. He announced, he had been +thinking for some time subalterns should be fewer and more infrequent. +He was delighted when he heard from the postman, and was able to pass +on, how three young women in the Clonmore direction had had their hair +cut off by masked men for walking out with the soldiers. And indeed +they had got no sympathy from the priest either, the postman said, for +the priest knew that English soldiers were most immoral. + +“And how would you like it,” Sir Richard said to his niece indignantly, +“if a thing like that were to happen to you?” + +“I should be bobbed,” said Lois. “I should take it as a sign. But I +have never walked an inch with anyone, not what you would call _out_, +Uncle Richard.” + +“But masked men,” said Lady Naylor, “would be a very nasty experience +for a girl of your age.” Lois said she would prefer the men to be +masked; she would be less embarrassed in the event of meeting them +afterwards. + +“I wonder what they do with the hair,” she added. She thought inwardly: +“If they’re going to take this attitude, I could not be blamed for +falling in love with a married man.” She searched her heart anxiously. +She wrote to Viola that she feared she might be falling in love with +a married man. But when she looked at Mr. Montmorency next morning at +breakfast, and still more when she had to drive him back from Mount +Isabel, the idea seemed shocking. She regretted having sent her letter +to post in such a hurry. + +Scandalized by the memory, she drove home briskly. On the bright sky, +opposite, Mr. Montmorency’s pale face hung like an apparition’s. She +took the curves of Mount Isabel drive with a rattle: the trap swung +on its axle, the traces creaked. Beyond the gates, light lay flat and +yellow along the hedges where brambles showered; hard red blackberries +knocked on the spokes and swung back, shining. She took the short way, +over a shoulder of mountain; the light-pink road crunched under the +wheels like sugar. Coming up out from the lanes they bathed an hour +or so in the glare of space. Height had the quality of depth: as they +mounted they seemed to be striking deeper into the large mild crystal +of an inverted sea. Out of the distance everywhere, pointless and +unrelated, space came like water between them, slipping and widening. +They receded from one another into the vacancy. On yellow furze-dust, +light was hard and physical; over parching heather shadow faded and +folded tone on tone, and was drawn to the sky on delicate brittle peaks. + +The road bent over a ridge, the trap ran down on the pony’s rump; +he and she shifted back on their seats. They stared with unfocussed +intensity over each other’s shoulders. Gorse, they said, was never out +of bloom (he commented). Nor kissing, they said (she supplied), out +of season--yet she supposed this untrue; she supposed that they both +sometimes must be. “And so much bitterness,” he exclaimed, “over this +empty country!” + +“What is it exactly,” she asked, “that they mean by freedom? What does +it affect? What is it besides an excuse for war?” + +“I suppose,” he said in his faint voice, as at the pit of a yawn, “some +kind of a final peace--stability.” + +“Then to fight’s absurd; the more one keeps on, the further from it one +is. It’s a hopeless kind of beginning.” She looked at him earnestly, +lucidly, like a puppy. + +“You are very reasonable.... Do you read the papers?” + +“Well ... I do hate things that have just happened.” + +“--I don’t follow?” + +“They’re so raw.” + +The road was steep and the pony determined to trot; it stumbled; she +pulled it up sharply. She was inclined to forget she was driving at +all. He started and put out a hand, to steady himself, along the back +of the seat. He hated things to be done badly; he was old-maidish. They +were silent in a mutual criticism. As they came down and the mountains, +drawn behind, were once more scenic, as hedges ran up at the sides of +the road, the illusion of distance between them faded; they obtruded +upon each other; a time when they could have talked was gone. They +might have said, she felt now, anything; but what had remained unsaid, +never conceived in thought, would exercise now a stronger compulsion +upon their attitude. She was to believe they had approached each other +in the unintimacy of silence. Shy with retrospective emotion she +fidgeted in the trap, irked by his look, his manner, all his presence +physically. Whenever she stretched a foot it touched his, always she +seemed to be retreating, apologizing, having to shift her position. +When she sat well forward to give her attention to driving, their knees +touched. + +“This trap’s too small,” she said finally. Mr. Montmorency--face +dull on the bright sky--replied: “Oh, I don’t know--it depends on +how one arranges oneself.” If he only would not smile--but he smiled +constrainedly. Next to Laura, she was the most fidgety person from +whom he had suffered. But Laura’s unrepose had been an irradiation, +a quiver of personality. She was indefinite definitely, like a tree +shining, shaking away outlines; a bay, a poplar in wind and sunshine. +Her impulses--those incalculable springings-out of mind through the +body--had had, like movements of branches, a wild kind of certainty. He +had been half aware of some kind of design in her being of which she +was unaware wholly. + +Whereas, here still was Lois (now Laura’s tree had fallen), twisted +away from him on the opposite seat of the trap, outraging tone in her +pink jersey--a shade or two nearer than Laura, perhaps, to the accuracy +passing for beauty. She looked gênée, dispirited; some failure, no +doubt, in his company: he must be an old man to her. She glanced back +once or twice at the mountains, from which a light peaty breath still +came after them down the descending road. + +She laughed suddenly, parted the reins, and jerking a rein in each +hand, with wide elbows, chirruped and clucked to the pony. “This,” +she said, “is how my governess used to drive. She used to say it came +natural because all her people were horsey. She said her father had +been a colonel and she used to plait hats out of crinkled paper and +wear them. She loved my mother embarrassingly, and she was always +embroidering things. My mother hated it--do you remember?” + +“I don’t remember your governess. Hated what?” + +“Being loved like that, and given embroidery. Miss Part used to laugh +and say, ‘I’m afraid I’m terribly whimsical, Mrs. Farquar,’ and Mother +used to say, ‘Oh no, I don’t expect you are really’--was it unkind?” + +“Well, it sounds unkind.” + +“I wonder if she would have liked being loved at my age--do you +remember?” + +“I don’t suppose she had made up her mind.” + +Lois turned and looked at him so intently that he was uneasy suddenly: +the bottom dropped out of the past, spilling all its security. He would +never know how much Laura had said to her daughter those last ten +years--years locked away from him: Lois had got the key. He said with +acidity: “If she and I had married--” + +“Oh, _yes_....” + +“My dear child, you wouldn’t be here.” + +“Oh, but half of me would be. And I dare say,” she said charmingly, +“the other half of me would have been much nicer.” The turning away of +her look was more confidential than any directness. + +“Thank you--don’t run over the little pigs!” + +Michael Connor’s farm first announced itself by some pink little silky +pigs running along the roadside. A sow got up, like a very maternal +battleship. Connor children looked, shrieked, fell from a gate and fled +to the farmhouse, skirting a pool of liquid manure in the front yard. +It was a nice farm, Lois pointed out, it had the door and window-frames +painted blue, the colour of all the cart-wheels. The Connors were +darling people; she drove past slowly, leaning over the side of the +trap to see if the family were about. The house was one story high, +with a slate roof. Mr. Montmorency sat frowning; he could not remember +if this were a Michael Connor he ought to remember. + +Michael Connor came out from a furze-thatched shed at the side. He took +off his wide straw hat and shook hands with them both. His hand was +bony, nervous and dry as earth. “It’s a grand evening,” said he with a +melancholy smile. + +“It is indeed. And how,” she asked, apprehensive, “is Mrs. Connor?” + +“Ah, the poor woman ... the poor woman!” Michael looked away from them, +nobody spoke. Lois at last said: “Give her my love.” + +“I will,” said Michael, “and proud she will be. And yourself’s looking +lovely, Miss Lois; a fine strong lady, glory be to God.” + +“You remember Mr. Montmorency?” + +“Sure indeed I do!” exclaimed Michael, and shook hands with Mr. +Montmorency again with greater particularity. “And very well I remember +his poor father. You are looking grand, sir, fine and stout; I known +you all these years and I declare I never seen you looking stouter. And +welcome back to Danielstown, Mr. Montmorency, welcome back, sir!” + +“Are your grandchildren well?” + +“They are,” said Connor gloomily, “but they’re very bashful. And they +do be stravaging about always and not contented at all. They are a +great distress to herself, and she unable to come out after them.” + +“But is Mrs. Peter Connor not with you?” + +“She is, Miss Lois. But she is desthroyed with it all and disheartened. +Indeed, miss, she is in great distress; and she always looking and +starting and craning up the boreen. It is torn in herself she is; +distracted for Peter and dhreading he’ll come. It would dishearten yous +to be with her daily and nightly the way she is, the poor woman. And +the military from Carveen have the hearts torn out of us nightly, and +we stretched for sleep, chasing and charging about in the lorries they +have. Sure you cannot go a step above in the mountains without them +ones lepping out from your feet like rabbits. Isn’t it the great pity +they didn’t finish their German war once they had it started?” + +“And no news at all of Peter?” Lois asked, diffident. + +“We have not,” said Michael, expressionless. His face resumed its +repose. The sum of detachment and sadness was this special kind of +nobility. “And I don’t know what is to be the end of it,” resumed +Michael, with a return to his conversational manner. “I couldn’t tell +you what will be the outcome at all. These surely are times that +would take the heart from you. And thank you, Miss Lois, and you too +yourself, your honour.” + +They once more shook hands, complimented each other again on the beauty +of the evening, and Lois drove on. Michael stood at the gate till they +turned the corner. The mountain farm, its wind-bitten firs dragged +east, its furze-thatched byres, sank slowly under the curve of a hill. +Looking longest after them, like an eye, a window glittered. Some grey +geese that had gaped and straggled behind the trap relinquished the +chase abruptly, stumbled round in a flock and went straining off in the +other direction. Their backs were more than oblivious; they made the +trap, the couple in it, an illusion. And indeed Lois and Hugo both felt +that their pause, their talk, their passing had been less than a shadow. + +“That is not,” said Hugo, after reflection, “the Michael Connor that I +remember. He was a foxy man with a chin. Has that one a son Peter?” + +“He has. I expect you guessed--he is on the run--‘Proscribed’ don’t +they call it? He could be shot at sight. He is wanted over an ambush +in County Clare; they got him once, but he escaped again--I was so +glad. I shouldn’t wonder if he was up the boreen at the moment. I know +he is home, for Clancey saw him three days ago. But don’t speak of +it--one cannot be too careful. Poor Mrs. Peter must be in a dreadful +state, wherever he is. Mrs. Michael is dying, you know: she has been +dying a long time. The last time I went up they wouldn’t let me see +her, because of the pain.... There are young men gone from three of the +farms up here--Captain Carmichael told me; he is Intelligence Officer. +And I know it is true, because Clancey told me too--I say, supposing +Gerald had happened to be with us and Peter Connor had come down the +boreen, would Gerald have had to have shot him, or would he have been +off duty?” + +“Peter might have shot Gerald.” + +“Oh no, not when he was with me. Besides,” she added, “Gerald is so +matter of fact. Nothing could make him into a tragedy.” + +Hugo debating if she were subtle or very stupid, Lois busy with +melodrama, they drove home briskly. To the south, below them, the +demesne trees of Danielstown made a dark formal square like a rug on +the green country. In their heart, like a dropped pin, the grey glazed +roof reflecting the sky lightly glinted. Looking down, it seemed to +Lois they lived in a forest; space of lawns blotted out in the pressure +and dusk of trees. She wondered they were not smothered; then wondered +still more that they were not afraid. Far from here too, their +isolation became apparent. The house seemed to be pressing down low in +apprehension, hiding its face, as though it had her vision of where it +was. It seemed to gather its trees close in fright and amazement at the +wide, light, lovely unloving country, the unwilling bosom whereon it +was set. From the slope’s foot, where Danielstown trees began, the land +stretched out in a plain flat as water, basin of the Madder and Darra +and their fine wandering tributaries, till the far hills, faint and +brittle, straining against the inrush of vaster distance, cut the droop +of the sky like a glass blade. Fields gave back light to the sky--the +hedges netting them over thinly and penetrably--as though the sheen +of grass were a shadow on water, a breath of colour clouding the face +of light. Rivers, profound in brightness, flowed over beds of glass. +The cabins lifting their pointed white ends, the pink and yellow farms +were but half opaque; cast doubtfully on their fields the shadow of +living. Square cattle moved in the fields like saints, with a mindless +certainty. Single trees, on a rath, at the turn of a road, drew up +light at their roots. Only the massed trees--spread like a rug to dull +some keenness, break some contact between self and senses perilous +to the routine of living--only the trees of the demesne were dark, +exhaling darkness. Down among them, dusk would stream up the paths +ahead, lie stagnant over the lawns, would mount in the tank of garden, +heightening the walls, dulling the borders like a rain of ashes. Dusk +would lie where one looked as though it were in one’s eyes, as though +the fountain of darkness were in one’s own perception. Seen from above, +the house in its pit of trees seemed a very reservoir of obscurity; +from the doors one must come out stained with it. And the kitchen +smoke, lying over the vague trees doubtfully, seemed the very fume of +living. + +But as they drove down the home-sense quickened; the pony, knowing +these hedges, rocketed hopefully in the shafts. The house became a +magnet to their dependence. And indeed it was nice, they felt in this +evening air, to be driving home, with all they would have to tell of +the Mount Isabel party, to all they would have to hear of Sir Richard’s +day in Cork. Friendly women smiled at them over half-doors of cabins. +And they both felt approached, friendlier, turning in up the avenue +under the arch of the trees; he accepting her with philosophy as though +she were his daughter, she comforted in her fancy, as though he had +wept coming over the mountains and told her his life was empty because +she could never be his wife. + +She said: “I hope we shan’t have to wait for dinner; I couldn’t bear +it.” He said: “Really?” shocked to discover that he also had been +thinking of dinner. + +Livvy Thompson had ridden over; she sat on the steps with her habit +over her knee, waving as they approached. She had sent a message round +to the yard when she heard the trap, so that a man immediately came +to take the pony. “Listen now--” she began. But Lois only gave her +a brush of the hand; she couldn’t speak till she had rushed past her +into the hall to look for the post, because of a tearing feeling of +expectation. There was Viola’s square blue temperate envelope on the +table. There was nothing more but some gloves Lady Naylor had worn in +Cork, some English papers, a box of tennis balls. She had again that +conclusive feeling of disappointment. “They’re back,” she said to Hugo. + +“Listen now,” resumed Livvy, coming in after her. Lois slipped Viola’s +letter into her pocket and buttoned the flap over it. For what Viola +would think of Livvy she did not like to imagine. + +Livvy was anxious to know if Lois had seen Mr. Lesworth lately, and, if +so, whether he had happened to mention Mr. Armstrong. Because it did +seem strange, she thought, about Mr. Armstrong; she almost feared that +he must be ill. When she heard Mr. Lesworth had not appeared either, +she was amazed, she said, that Lois was not more worried. It was now +too evident something must be the matter. She pointed out it was her +duty and Lois’s to find out if they were ill, or indeed if worse hadn’t +happened, as worse might, to the two young Englishmen in a hostile +country. Lois, thumbing Viola’s envelope, said she was quite certain +they would have heard. Livvy suspected something was hushed up for fear +of the English papers: nothing was ever allowed in the English papers +that could be mortifying for the English people to read. + +“If they should only be ill,” she said, “there would be so many +little things we could do for them. It does seem in a kind of a way +an opportunity. I often think it is only when a man is ill that he +understands what a woman means in his life.” + +Lois said that her own impression of a man ill was one of extreme +crossness and of inability to find the nicest woman attractive at +all. She pointed out that there was an excellent military hospital +at Clonmore, so that they need not imagine David and Gerald tossing +feverish and untended. She did not suppose they would be allowed a +visit, and confessed that, for her part, she found people lying down +while she stood up embarrassing; so curiously bumpy and extremely +difficult to talk to. + +“But if he seemed at all unlikely to recover,” said Livvy, “there would +be several things I should like to say to Mr. Armstrong. If he should +recover after all, he would be gentlemanly enough to forget them, +though there would be no harm in their leaving a pleasant impression. +To tell you the truth, Lois, I have often wondered if he does not think +me a little reserved and cold. Does it ever seem to you that he looks +discouraged? You see, he is accustomed to English girls who are very +free; I believe there is almost nothing they will not let a man say and +that they get kissed before they get engaged. Now I should not like +him to think I had no heart at all. You know Irish girls in books are +always made out so fascinating and heartless; I should not like him to +think that of me. And if he does recover, he might go back to England +and get engaged to a girl simply out of his lower nature. I should not +like to feel I had spoilt a man’s life.” + +“I expect,” said Lois, “it is their week for extra duty.” She thought: +“If only I weren’t so certain there’d be a letter from Gerald +to-morrow! If only he’d let me wonder! He is so terribly _there_....” +If only his coming or writing could have some touch of the miracle, +heal a doubt. + +“Will you not stay to dinner?” she said to Livvy. “You could borrow one +of my frocks.” + +“I’d like that yellow taffeta, though I should have to reef it in. It’s +a great inconvenience, Lois, being so slight as I am, though it does +seem to be admired. Are you sure your aunt will not mind?... But no, +thank you, I couldn’t; my father’d kill me for riding home after dark. +In fact, I should go now,”--looking up at the sky--“one never knows, +does one? Isn’t that too bad?” + +“_Too_ bad,” agreed Lois, touching her letter. She walked round to the +yard with Livvy to get her horse. “But listen,” said Livvy, mounting, +“there’s one thing that we had better do. We can drive in to Clonmore, +Wednesday, to do some shopping: I really do need wool for a jumper. +And if we should meet Mr. Smith or Captain Carmichael, I should just +mention, laughingly, we hadn’t seen any of them for a long time. And +then it might all come out. Or if the worst came to the worst, we could +drop in to tea at the Fogartys’; if there was nobody else, there’d +be bound to be Mrs. Vermont. I don’t think she’s trustworthy, but if +there were anything definite she’d be bound to say--like illness, or an +ambush they were not supposed to mention. Or it might all come right +and the first we would meet might be Mr. Lesworth or Mr. Armstrong.... +I certainly think, Lois, that is what we should do. If you can’t get +your uncle’s trap, I will take my father’s.” + +She rode away. Lois listened until the romantic horse-hoofs had died on +the avenue, smothered in trees. This manner of Livvy’s of coming and +going gave her a setting--picaresque, historical somehow. She would +have been much worse if she had ridden away on a bicycle-- Then she +took Viola’s letter out of her pocket and read it out there in the +yard. Gnats danced in the underneath gloom of the chestnuts. + +Viola did think Lois took feeling rather too earnestly. Lois must +not grow less interesting. She admitted the little Gerald might be +affecting; he was permitted to happen once. Gerald assimilated, she +should be more of a woman. Only don’t lose detachment, darling; do +not lose distance. Viola would be delighted if Lois would give her +“Trivia.” She confessed it did startle her to be reminded that up to +now she had been only eighteen by this talk of a nineteenth birthday. +She felt, she said, older than the rocks among which she sat--she wrote +from a rock-garden. Maurice Evans, a really ridiculous person, sat on a +pink tuft of something valuable, apparently painting her. By the way, +did Laurence read Pater? Maurice did not--did really anyone nowadays? +Did Lois think that Viola might intrigue Laurence? Laurence continued +a subject for speculation for three paragraphs. She only referred to +Mr. Montmorency indirectly, and at the very end. She warned against +introspection. “For introspection, darling, does make us the prey of +the nice-middle-aged.” She complained there was too much introspection +and tennis in Lois’s letters. “Don’t talk of yourself to that elderly +man.” + +Lois, relieved but chagrined by the omission, wondered if Viola really +did read one’s letters at all thoroughly. She always noticed the +split infinitives--one could not be sure. Lois turned in at the back +door and pulled herself up to dress by the back-stairs banisters. She +sniffed--duck for dinner again: it seemed the end of a cycle. This +morning she had renewed the roses in Mrs. Montmorency’s room. + +Crossing the ante-room, a spring in some board from her step made an +unlatched door swing open. She saw Mr. Montmorency in shirt-sleeves +brushing his wife’s hair. And Francie, facing the glass, saw Lois +reflected, standing still in alarm on the shining floor. They smiled at +each other. Mr. Montmorency, thoughtfully and heavily brushing, did not +observe the interchange. + + + + + THE VISIT OF MISS NORTON + + + + + IX + + +LIVVY’S afternoon in Clonmore was such a great success that she forgot +the wool for her jumper. At first there had been uneasiness; she let +Lois drive while she looked carefully round the Square, went into the +Imperial Hotel to see if her father had left a stick and searched both +pavements of Cork Street, down which they drove from end to end. In +despair, she had just suggested going up to the tennis club to see was +there anyone there, when the rain came down--it had been threatening +all day, the mountains looked moist and close on their drive in. They +had to turn in to the Fogartys’. And there, to them anxiously awaiting +tea and social developments in Mrs. Fogarty’s artistic drawing-room, +entered severally all whom they wished to meet: Captain Carmichael, +Smith with Mrs. Vermont, finally Mr. Armstrong himself. Mr. Lesworth +did not appear (which, as Livvy whispered to friends, would be a +disappointment for Lois): it turned out that he was on extra duty. Mrs. +Fogarty had one of the narrow houses looking out on the Square; her +windows were screened from outside observation by cubes of evergreen; +between the pane and the evergreens rain fell darkly. Mrs. Fogarty’s +drawing-room was thronged with photographs; all the dear boys who for +years back had been garrisoned at Clonmore, many of whom, alas! had +been killed in that dreadful War. You could not stoop to put down +a cup on one of the little tables without a twinge of regret and +embarrassment, meeting the candid eyes of some dead young man. The +room was crowded with cushions that slid from the narrow seats of the +chairs and tumbled over the back of the sofa; cushions with pen-painted +sprays, with poker-worked kittens; very futurist cushions with bunches +of fruit appliques, dear old cushions with associations and feathers +bursting out at the seams. And there were cushions with Union Jacks +that she wouldn’t, she said, put away--not if They came at night and +stood in her room with pistols. And this was all the more noble in Mrs. +Fogarty in that she was a Catholic, with relations whose politics were +not above reproach at all. Mr. Fogarty was a retired solicitor; he +had no politics; he became very cross and reproachful when they were +discussed at the Club and said he supposed he could not help being a +philosopher. But he drank, which shows that nobody can be perfect. He +never appeared at tea. + +As more and more people dropped in and the chairs gave out, the +subalterns pulled the cushions on to the floor and sat on them. Mrs. +Fogarty was delighted. The room warmed up, there was just enough air +left not to make one aware of discomfort in breathing. There was a +smell of wall-paper, tea and tea-cakes, polished Sam Browns and the +_Nuit d’Amour_ on Mrs. Vermont’s handkerchief which she pulled out +frequently to wipe honey from her fingers. They all felt very easy and +very Irish--the qualities radiated, perhaps, from Mrs. Fogarty, who sat +flushed with pleasure and hospitality, taking up rather more than half +of her own sofa. She wore a brown lace blouse and a tweed skirt, with a +green shell rope that swung and clinked on the teapot. Indeed, it was +all very harmonious; she did not know how she would have lived at all +without the military at Clonmore. + +After tea, cigarettes went round, there was a kick and splutter of +patent lighters. Livvy said she would _not_ smoke, she would not +indeed: they might laugh but she was an old-fashioned girl. Her +continued protests attracted a good deal of attention, till she noticed +that old-fashioned girls were after all in the majority. The rector’s +daughters and Doreen Hartigan all sat looking approving and rather +unfinished about the mouth. So she accepted a strong cigarette of +Captain Carmichael’s, and Smith broke into a howl and said she had +sacrificed his ideal of womanhood. Mrs. Fogarty suggested music: they +helped her move the bowls and photographs off the grand piano which, +undraped and opened, gave out to Mrs. Vermont’s fingers some damp +chords. It was too bad, declared Mrs. Fogarty, listening doubtfully, +that their tuner had died in Cork and she hadn’t the heart to look for +another since. She said they must have real music, not just the piano. +Real talent was present, she added, and looked round compellingly. +There was a scuffle from which Mr. Smith was forced up. He stood with +his weight on one leg, stroking his hair detachedly, while Mrs. +Vermont looked through the music. + +Mrs. Vermont remarked in passing to Captain Carmichael that this was a +country where the most extraordinary people died. “Well, I mean,” she +said, “who would have expected that of a piano-tuner? There was a house +where I went for tennis; they had had a parlourmaid there who died. +And last week I went for some little cakes to Fitzgerald’s and they +were all plain ones. I asked for some fancies and they said the woman +who did the icing had been taken, God rest her soul! Really, there’s +something grizzly about that cake shop.” + +“In the midst of life we are in death, if you know what I mean,” said +Captain Carmichael. + +Mr. Smith said he didn’t mind what he did sing: they all wanted +“The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God.” The piece was very tragic +and sinister, they all sat wrapt and Livvy did not notice that Mr. +Armstrong was pressing her arm till she felt Doreen Hartigan notice. +She moved away from him, closer to Lois. + + “There’s a b-r-r-roken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carewe + And the Yellow God sits smiling up above.” + +Lois blushed and let Livvy squeeze her hand. They both wondered: “How +should I feel under the circumstances?” The subalterns round all +looked dogged, clasping their knees, and thought of what one would +do for a woman. There was a stagger of emotional clapping. Then Mrs. +Vermont cried they were too ridiculous, the boys were sillies, she +couldn’t sing at all really, but if she must she would. So she sang +“Melisande,” which sent every girl there into a trance of self-pity; it +was so clearly written about oneself. + + “With your eyes for fear and your mouth for love + And your youth for Pity’s grace + --All alone, Mel-lisande, all alone.” + +The subalterns thought it pretty, high-class but rather dull, and +clapped with abandon when it was over. They cast up David Armstrong, +blushing and looking very much surprised at himself and all of them. +He blushed till half-way through “The Shooting of Dan McGrew,” when he +became carried away and carried his audience with him. + + “A woman came between us, + She was beautiful as Venus,” + +brought a momentary return to consciousness. He looked at the ceiling +to avoid seeing Livvy and Lois. The atmosphere strained with cramp, +there was a creak of leather as subalterns readjusted their attitudes. +Mrs. Fogarty sent round a plate of chocolate biscuits. What a pity +it was, she said, that they did not get up some pierrots. When David +returned to his place Livvy was rose-pink; she fluttered at him her +remarkably long lashes. + +“Indeed,” declared Mrs. Fogarty, looking from David to Smith (who had +no Christian name), “I never heard anything like the two of you. No, +not in Dublin in Horse Show week, nor in London nor Liverpool either. +You’re remarkably gifted. Isn’t it a pity they were all so sad? Shall +we all have a song now, something rousing, you know, that you sang in +the Great War?” + +“Oh, do you know,” cried Mrs. Vermont, “I never knew Tipperary was +really a place till I came to Ireland?” + +“Listen to her!” shouted Mrs. Fogarty, sweeping some more of the +cushions on to the floor. They were all delighted. Mrs. Vermont spread +her fingers over her face. Under cover of all this excitement Lois rose +and said they would have to go. She was sorry, because the party seemed +slightly insulted; also, Livvy was so happy. If David should die now, +she did not think Livvy would have to reproach herself. Also Captain +Carmichael had seemed intrigued; he had spoken mysteriously of the +adventures he had in the mountains and of the disguises he sometimes +put on. She knew he must feel like the Scarlet Pimpernel; she could +not help sympathizing. When she rose, he said they must meet again. +He and David came out to help them into their trap in the Imperial +yard, tucked them up in their rugs, relinquished them disapprovingly +to the exposures of the journey and stood looking after them with rain +dripping down their bronzed and military noses. + +They drove home very much flushed and excited. The rain came down in +a curtain and hid the mountains; brown shining puddles were linked +along the road. They agreed about almost every one--especially Mrs. +Vermont and the D.I.’s niece--they laughed at each other over their +mackintosh collars, eyes bright with comprehension and sympathy, while +the strong rain stung their noses, then numbed them. Only when Livvy +said, “Melisande” was a beautiful poem, wasn’t it, something stiffened +in Lois: she said she thought it was sentimental. + +“All that fuss, if you know what I mean, about just somebody.” + +“Well, love is that, if you come to think,” said Livvy, “and myself I +think it is very satisfying.” There was something so very experienced +about the tip of her nose that Lois went flat. She felt that she +herself must be like a cake in which the flour had been forgotten. + +She complained: “I wish we were not being late just this evening. Miss +Norton, you know, is arriving and I did so want to look nice. My nose +will not have thawed till half through dinner.” + +“Oh, who is she? Is she pretty? How old is she? Is she engaged?” + +“Never met her--though she often seems to have come to Danielstown. +But I feel she may be a person one wants to look pretty at. She annoys +Aunt Myra by being unfortunate in ways that are far more trying for +other people than for herself. When she was little she came over to +Danielstown to a children’s party: she fell down at once on the scraper +and cut her knee and there was a good deal of fuss and bloodiness. And +another time there were people to tea she started an argument about +Kimberley: they all stayed till past eight o’clock in the library +taking down the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ while other people who +were coming to dinner kept arriving. And another time she lost her +engagement ring at a tennis party and they were all very much upset. +She wrote afterwards to say it didn’t matter because she had broken +off her engagement anyhow and the man said he didn’t want the ring, +he said he wished it were at the bottom of the sea. I always thought +people breaking off an engagement went all noble, but that sounds to +me vindictive. Aunt Myra stayed put out.... She is twenty-nine.” + +“It seems to me odd,” said Livvy, “that she shouldn’t have brought +anything off by this time. But I dare say,” she added, “that there has +been a disappointment.” + +At this point they heard a lorry coming. Black and Tans, fortified +inwardly against the weather, were shouting and singing and now +and then firing shots. The voices, kept low by the rain, the grind +of wheels on the rocky road tunnelled through the close air with a +particular horror. To meet in this narrow way would be worse than a +dream; before the half-obscured lorry appeared Livvy had turned the +pony hurriedly up a boreen. They went up some way and waited under +a dripping thorn-bush: if Black and Tans saw one hiding they were +sarcastic. They heard the lorry grind past the mouth of the boreen with +apprehension, feeling exposed and hunted. Lois recalled with surprise +that she had cried for a whole afternoon before the War because she was +not some one in a historical novel: it had begun, she thought, because +they told her to go and practise. The road clear again, they discovered +they could not turn the trap; they had to back the pony out. “My!” said +Livvy, glaring at the horizon. “I wish I were driving a lorry! I should +like to crash those fellows head on!” + +Just before eight, Livvy dropped Lois at Danielstown gates and drove +off, beating her pony into a gallop. Her father would kill her, +certainly! Lois raced up the avenue till she had no breath, then had +to crawl the rest of the way, recovering. Apprehensive, she strained +for the throb of the dinner-gong, a shriek of reproach from a window. +But her unpunctuality passed unnoticed: Miss Norton herself had only +just arrived. The hall was full of suitcases, a fur coat sprawled on a +chair, there was a tennis racquet, a bag of golf-clubs. + +“Though where the poor female is going to play golf ...!” thought Lois. +“A nice coat.... Good, she has brought the _Tatler!_” + +No one had even gone up to dress, from the library voices exclaimed +in excitement; voices complained insistently through the drawing-room +door. Lois undid the top buttons of her mackintosh and stepped out of +it, leaving a damp ring. Absently she wrung the water out of her hat. +She listened. + +“She is certain she has left it in the train,” her aunt was saying; +“she says she would swear it was put in with her at Kingsbridge and +that she saw it after leaving Darramore. I do not believe myself in +travelling with suitcases, one is always counting--I believe in one +good trunk.” + +“Looking at it from the porters’ point of view--” said Mrs. +Montmorency. + +The library door clicked open and Laurence, looking quite enthusiastic, +shot into the hall. “She thinks telephoning will do it,” he said to +Lois. “I cannot make her understand about the Ballyhinch telephone.” +He disappeared, shouting, into the back part of the house. Evidently +there need be no hurry for anything. Lois sat on the hall table to +look at the _Tatler_. Early autumn fashions reminded her--this was an +opportunity to try on the fur coat. She hoped for the proper agony, +finding a coat she could not live without.... Her arms slipped silkily +through; her hands appeared, almost tiny, out of the huge cuffs. “Oh, +the escape!” she thought, pressing her chin down, fading, dying into +the rich heaviness. “Oh, the _escape_ in other people’s clothes!” And +she paced round the hall with new movements: a dark, rare, rather +wistful woman, elusive with jasmine. “No?” she said on an upward note: +the voice startled her, experience was behind it. She touched the fur +lightly, touched the edge of a cabinet--her finger-tips drummed with +a foreign sensitiveness. And the blurred panes, the steaming changing +trees, the lonely cave of the hall no longer had her consciousness in a +clamp. _How_ she could live, she felt. She would not need anyone, she +would be like an orchestra playing all to itself. “Is it mink?” she +wondered. + +“You look so nice!” said Miss Norton, from the door of the library. + +Lois went quite blank. “Oh,” she said. + +“Where is that unfortunate Lady Naylor?” + +“I can’t _think_-- Well, she is in the drawing-room.” + +“Anyhow,” said Miss Norton, “I will go up now. When she sees me looking +less arrived she may forget about the suitcase.” She looked at Lois +earnestly. “I don’t lose things except coming here; I am efficient +really. But there seems a kind of fatality ...” + +“I _know_.” + +“Do you?” she said with interest, a keen disconcerting flash. “How odd +that you should!” + +An approach seemed possible, imminent. Lois, feeling herself smiled +at, unwrapped herself from the coat without embarrassment. Miss Norton, +who did not seem surprised by the disappearance of the family, asked to +be shown where she was. They went upstairs together; she was on the top +floor, opposite Laurence. + +“Who was the capable person? Who wouldn’t let me telephone--the young +man?” + +“Laurence.” + +“Oh, Laurence. And the other people: I couldn’t hear their names. +They seemed very much here--faintly resentful: I expect I must be +horrible for them. He at once accused me of having cut my knee on a +scraper--when I was three or four. Who did you say?” + +“The Montmorencys.” + +“Oh, Hugo and Francie? Of course I have heard of them. Isn’t she his +mother--practically?” Miss Norton took off her hat and looked at +herself in the glass dispassionately and closely. “God!” she remarked. + +“He brushes her hair,” said Lois, laughing--in the sharp unshadowy +atmosphere produced by Miss Norton it sounded more of a giggle--and +swinging with her back against the edge of the door. + +“Oh, then it is mutual.” + +“I knew him best when I was a child.” + +“Yes, he looks like that. Thank you so much; I think I have got +everything. Yes, heaps of hot water. Wouldn’t you like to go now: I +mean, won’t there be dinner?... Oh, Lois!” + +Lois, from over the threshold, came back willingly. “Mm?” she said. + +“I mean, you are Lois, aren’t you? I’ve heard so much ... No, don’t +be late: I should hate you to help me.” Miss Norton had taken her coat +off and stood in a frilled shirt looking round distastefully at her +suitcases. “Go,” she said, “do really.” + +Lois, half-way down the gallery, met Laurence coming up. “Mm?” said +Laurence. + +“I think she seems quite mad,” said Lois doubtfully. + +“You would,” replied Laurence and went past her coldly. + + + + + X + + +ONE did not lightly telephone. There was a telephone six miles away, +at Ballyhinch, but its use made excessive demands upon the sympathy +and attention of the post-mistress. Marda could not understand--as +Sir Richard said, one would think she had come from America. From all +their angles she seemed to them very modern. They sat on the steps +after breakfast, waiting for post to come, discussing what they should +do. There was something agonizing to Sir Richard in the thought of +that suitcase. Marda said, it would not have mattered at all but that +her tennis shoes seemed to be in it. It was quite a relief when the +postman settled the matter by saying there had been another raid last +night in the Brittas direction and that all the wires were down again. +It had been a great raid, the postman said; if the boys had not fled +it would have been almost a battle. What times, said Francie, looking +at Marda doubtfully, they did live in! But other times, said Marda, +other disadvantages. Nobody hurt, they hoped? Well, said the postman, +the Black and Tans had been fired on, but why would they not be, they +themselves firing to the left and right continually? It seemed two of +them ones had pitched from the lorry the way you would think they’d be +killed and the boys had bolted, leaving the two lying. + +“How do you know?” said Marda. The postman, looking austerely at her, +asked how would one help hearing? Though it was not for him to say what +was true and what was what you would hear. Sir Richard agreed with +this hastily and with some warmth: he did not want to have the postman +discouraged. + +Marda received her six letters as a matter of course and glanced them +through sceptically. Lois watched her. Putting the letters away Marda +suggested that, since Laurence was so practical, he should drive her +into Clonmore or Ballydarra to buy more tennis shoes. Laurence feared +he did not drive the car nicely: he could avoid things but he was +inclined to wobble. + +Sir Richard had disappeared on his morning round; how much of his corn +had been “laid” by the rain last night he did not like to imagine; it +was better to know. The rain had ceased before breakfast; loud drops +still drummed through the leaves; the trees with their rainy smell +were a wall of moisture. Thin vapours trailed on the sky over an +intermittent brightness; distances showed up thinly, as though painted. +“The end of our weather,” said poor Francie. + +“But I feel,” persisted Marda, “I must have tennis shoes. I don’t mind +wobbling.” + +“Laurence is more of the intellectual type,” explained Francie. + +“I don’t think that matters.” + +“It does with a car,” said Lois. + +“I have never consciously driven _you_,” said her cousin coldly. + +Marda laughed; she got up and stood on the steps. Fixed in their +row, the others all looked up at her. She was tall; her back, as she +stood looking over the fields, was like a young man’s in its vigorous +slightness. She escaped the feminine pear-shape, her shoulders were +square, legs long from the knee down. Her light-brown dress slipped +and fitted with careless accuracy, defining spareness negatively under +its slack folds. Sophistication opened further horizons to Lois. Marda +gathered her strung cornelians in one hand into a bunch at her throat; +they slipped down the nape of her neck. Standing vaguely she had still +that quality of directedness--from which they all swerved off in their +different ways. A hardy unawareness of self in her heightened one’s +own consciousness. Her lightest look watched, her casual listening +assessed, her speech was a lightning attack on one’s integrity out of +the stronghold of her indifference. + +They remained sitting behind her with a vague sensation of having +been abandoned. Hugo came out, shut the glass door with precision and +blinked at the sky. “Clearing,” he said, then asked Marda to come for a +turn. Exercise seemed the order of the morning; Lois and Laurence were +later to go to the village with messages. Francie was waiting to go to +the garden with Lady Naylor. + +“Am I or am I not to drive her?” wondered Laurence aloud, with +fatalism, looking after Miss Norton. + +“She’ll certainly let you know.” Francie’s little ironical smile sent +her cheeks up, their faint flush wavering, under her eyes. She was +not so simple. Her diffidence, her inquiring softness, an outward +“laciness” of her personality--into which impressions seemingly +filtered like light, diffusedly, making no impact--covered a structure +of delicate hardness. She was in spirit insistent, tenacious and quick +in antagonisms; complexity tightened, as had been her delicate body’s, +by constant resistance to pain. She gave hospitality to the ever-living +Laura, she invited claims from Mrs. Archie Trent, she would have +endowed Lois, but she watched Marda turn beside Hugo into the beech +walk with raised brows, a cat’s blank unsparing lucidity. + +“She’s very positive,” said Laurence, still looking after them. + +“Positive about what?” asked Lois eagerly. Laurence held his breath +with annoyance and pulled up a sock. + +Marda wanted nothing of Mr. Montmorency but entertainment. She was +an experienced fellow-visitor. He interested her; his negativeness +was startling. She had heard of him, and of it, in all parts of the +country, had arrived at several houses into a loud reaction, a kind +of indignant excitement following his departure. Her acquiescence +in finding him so exactly as he had been described was tempered by +incredulity, almost shock. And she could define in him qualities which +her friends in the rush of discussion had slurred or had overshot: +one, a kind of drawn-back apprehension in his approaches, as though +something bright were being brandished before his eyes. His look, +coming wavering round this interruption, had, in regard to herself, a +peculiar intensity. She was already real to him as a woman. + +He now swung his blackthorn, slashing the air widely. “I remember this +walk,” she said. “I seem to have been here yesterday. But I thought it +was somewhere in Kerry, at Castle Reagh.” + +“Oh no, it is here,” he said wisely. They laughed. Down the walk, +brightening air slipped like gauze round the beech trunks; great pewter +limbs went turning and straining up with the sheen of muscles. Drops, +infrequent and startling, loudly fell on his hat brim, icily on her +shoulders through the mesh of her dress. The path’s perspective was a +tunnel of glass. Her companion’s lameness of thought, the faltering +silence produced a kind of vacuum in her; she covered a yawn. + +“This is not a good morning,” he suggested, “to walk under trees.” + +“Really the worst possible.” + +“Oh ... had we better--?” However, they walked on. + +“I always come here,” he said in extenuation. “My turn to the right’s +mechanical. I was here as a boy, you know.” + +“Were you here when I bled so much at that children’s party?” + +“Not actually, but I have always heard of it. Didn’t you lose a ring?” + +“At another party, at a more suitable age. It was the most lovely ring +I have ever had--Regent Street. The jeweller said it must be emeralds +because the lady was Irish and Timothy fully agreed with him. I had had +no idea I had such an expensive nationality.” + +“What a pity!” + +“Yes, those things are always a pity.” + +He was not sure how much she included. “Did your--did Timothy mind?” + +“Not so much as the Naylors. Later, he was killed on the Somme. But he +had two sons first, so it all came right--I mean, he married.” + +“Oh yes ... I suppose you are often here? I have often heard of you. +And at Johnstown and Ballyduff and up in the North I have heard you +expected. But I was always going. Once, I believe, we crossed at an +avenue gate.” + +The fact was, she acknowledged with a laugh, that they both visited +incorrigibly. She knew also, she told him, that he not only visited but +travelled; he had been almost everywhere but Canada. + +“But I really should not have come back here,” she said. “There is +something in Lady Naylor’s eye: a despairing optimism. I feel that +suitcase won’t be the end of me here. There will be a raid and I shall +be shot on the avenue, not even fatally, or Laurence will take me out +and upset that car. Then really she will never forgive me, though the +efforts she makes will follow me over Europe.... How far do you think +this war is going to go? Will there ever be anything we can all do +except not notice?” + +“Don’t ask _me_,” he said, but sighed sharply as though beneath the +pressure of omniscience. “A few more hundred deaths, I suppose, on our +side--which is no side--rather scared, rather isolated, not expressing +anything except tenacity to something that isn’t there--that never +was there. And deprived of heroism by this wet kind of smother of +commiseration. What’s the matter with this country is the matter with +the lot of us individually--our sense of personality is a sense of +outrage and we’ll never get outside of it.” + +But the hold of the country _was_ that, she considered, it could be +thought of in terms of oneself, so interpreted. Or seemed so--“Like +Shakespeare,” she added more vaguely, “or isn’t it?... But now tell +me,” she said, “about Lois?” + +“Lois?” He was guiltily startled, thinking of Laura’s daughter. + +“Lois--haven’t you noticed her? She sat beside you at dinner.” + +He feared he was no good at people, he was preparing to say--but the +remark, tried over critically, seemed a kind of echo: he reminded +himself of Laurence. He was confused by her cool watching, her eyebrows +drawn up and together in ironical friendly despair at him. Her +face--like a Dutch doll’s; he defensively told himself, in its accurate +clear disposition of red-and-white colour--was, at this sudden pull-up +to her interest, like a mask in its halt of expression. Her features, +the dark line of hair springing over the white square of forehead, were +in their special relation like something almost too clearly written +that he still could not read; to be learnt now and puzzled over in +retrospect. + +She was, in fact, repelled by his lack of sympathy. “Lois,” she said, +“is nice. She is in such a hurry, so concentrated upon her hurry, so +helpless. She is like some one being driven against time in a taxi to +catch a train, jerking and jerking to help the taxi and looking wildly +out of the window at things going slowly past. She keeps hearing that +final train go out without her. How I should hate to be young again! +But, I had no ambitions.” + +He watched her unguarded profile. “Oh yes,” he said, “ambition?” + +“I’ve never met any woman so determined to love well, so anxious to +love soon, so certain of her ability. She really prays for somebody to +be fatal; she eyes doors. And you are all disappointments.” + +“To begin with,” said Hugo, nettled. “She’s not a woman--” + +“Awful if nothing happens to her! She reminds me, too, of a little girl +I remember at school sports; in a team race, one of those things with +bean-bags. Hopping at the end of the line, working up to the front +slowly, simply sick with eagerness. Her turn comes, she is the whole +world: her eyes shoot out of her head--she drops the bean-bag. They all +groan.... It makes me go dry inside to think of it now.” + +“There is a young man--Harold--Gerald. They dance on the avenue.” + +“Like rabbits?” + +“They have a gramophone.” + +“Is he supposed to love her?” + +“My wife thinks so. Laurence considers he suitably might. Her aunt +does not think it suitable at all and won’t hear a word of it, so he +officially doesn’t.” + +“Anyhow, to be loved is not her affair at all, it is quite irrelevant. +She does not love him, poor little thing: he is useless.” + +“I can’t think it necessary for a young girl, at her age, to love +anybody.” + +“Oh, it is not,” she said impatiently, “at any age. But one has those +ideas.” + +This dismissal, this lightness vexed him. Let her speak for herself. +She had, then, her whole sex’s limitations: a teachable shallowness, a +hundred little abilities. But he, prey to a constant self-reproach, was +a born lover; conscious of cycles in him, springs and autumns of desire +and disenchantment, and of the intermediate pausing seasons, bland or +frigid, eaten at either margin by past or coming shadows of change. + +“I have not these ideas,” he said coldly. + +They turned at the end of the walk through a gateway, into a fir +plantation. Here they walked between walls of dusk, to be released to +an airy green space, tree-pillared. The green strip, measureless on +ahead but narrow, slanted down on their left to the open meadows, on +their right was bounded by an uneven wall. Below the wall an unseen +swift stream flowed, tinkling and knocking. The path hesitated ahead +of them, faint on the bright green turf. Here the few beeches stood, +unrelated, lovely, desultory; between their trunks--the tall mountains, +vivid in a suffusion of distant light. The scene glittered. “More rain +coming,” said Mr. Montmorency. + +But she stared ahead. A trench-coat flickered between the trees, +approaching. Her look focussed; there was an interchange. Coming to +them, the young man almost hurried. After consideration: “Hullo!” said +Mr. Montmorency. + +“Hal-_lo!_” cried Gerald, flushing with expectation. Never had they +been so acclaimed. He was out this way, he explained, coming into +ear-shot, and was proposing to take advantage of something rash that +Lady Naylor had once said about dropping in to lunch any time. “They’re +not _out?_” he asked suddenly with, Marda noticed, a queer haggardness. +They were not? That was splendid, marvellous. Early about?--he had been +out all night, he told them. Oh yes--feeling Mr. Montmorency glance at +his chin interrogatively--he had shaved by the road; he had brought his +tackle with him, he often did. Here--no, that was his pistol: the other +pocket. Marda extolled his foresight. Mr. Montmorency had forgotten to +introduce them; they stood socially grouped round a beech and exchanged +cigarettes. + +“Very busy now?” said Marda, bending down to the match Gerald sheltered. + +“Off and on--generally on, but we don’t know.” She really seemed most +remarkable, he looked intently, just lightly enough to avoid a stare. +He liked talk like this, square and facty, compact with assumptions +Pleasant that she should be here at the house for lunch. Light slipped +back over the dints of her hair as she looked up again. Lunch seemed a +torch in the future; between now and lunch-time he would have come on +Lois, somewhere, somehow, and amazingly kissed her amazed hands. There +would be, till the kiss, no speaking--there she eluded him. He had +thought this out. + +He had thought this out, seen ahead to this climax rather--as though a +flower’s centre had been revealed by an impetuous opening out of lovely +confused petals--on the lorry, breasting the darkness. Watching the +morning skylines form and creep out like enemies from the cold night, +he had burned at her nearness under the insistent groping of the wind. +Rushing under his eyes the hedge-tops shivered; he had laughed and +shivered, hand in his pistol pocket, hand on his razor. And now, as +looking at Marda he once more kissed Lois’s hands, he knew once more, +assured by her eyes, that keen truth of the first showing of daylight. +He was fortified in assurance. Leaning with her elbow against the tree, +returning casually his directness of look, she recalled some profound +and certain excitement, as of his first approach to the War. Now he +meant to go past the hands, to kiss the curve of Lois’s cheek as she +strained away, then stamp her uncertain mouth with his own certainty. +Naïvely, he looked at his wrist-watch. + +“Yes, go on,” she said, looking up through trees where a bright breath +disturbed the closeness. He looked past her, the path led to Lois. This +green open path spaced out with trees was (he afterwards thought) like +something in heaven. + +“It will rain by lunch-time,” said Mr. Montmorency. And indeed the sky +was already creeping together and fading, and the mountains’ sharpness +seemed a kind of anxiety. + +“I wish,” said Gerald to Marda, “you’d been out up there this morning. +You wouldn’t know where you were, with the light coming.” + +“Is there a smell of daylight? I once heard a man say--” + +“Well, that is just like me--I was smoking.” + +“Look, you must go on.” + +“Yes, perhaps--” He went on. She was left only half protected by +irony from an inrush of desolation. His look and smile clung to her +memory with the tenacity of irrelevance: his steps on the grass died +out quickly. There was silence: a cold apprehension of rain in the +beeches, the tinkling and knocking of water beyond the wall. Hugo, +having walked a short way ahead, looked back at her sharply. She was +startled. “Bother!” she thought. For there was bother behind the look. + +“Do we go on?” They walked on, but were oppressed by their lack of +objective. They met the white stare of a cottage, stared and turned. + +“Dannie Regan lives there: he shot out an eye shooting rabbits and now +he’s losing the sight of the other. I used to go out with him when +I was a boy--so high. His mother lives with him--or should still; I +haven’t heard that she’s gone. She must be a hundred and four.” + +“Do you know the man I am going to marry, Leslie Lawe? He’s a +stockbroker; he fishes a good deal. His people are in Meath.” + +“Meath?... I didn’t know you--” + +“I am really. I haven’t told the Naylors. They think my engagements +fantastic; you see, they have all come to nothing. But I ought to have +told the Naylors; it ought to have come at once, but there was that +wretched suitcase. I will say something at dinner, not lunch: please do +something to lessen the atmosphere of surprise.” + +“When?” + +“Oh, we think this winter.” + +He looked from one window of the cottage to the other. “It will make +a break in the winter,” he said at last. “I dare say you will go +somewhere sunny. Algiers perhaps--Morocco, if you are able.” + +“Yes, he is quite rich.” + +“I shouldn’t go to the Riviera.... But I thought you didn’t believe in +this sort of thing?” + +“I? Oh, I never said so.” + +Now he came to think of it, she had not explicitly said so. “I hope you +will be happy.” + +“I don’t expect I shall be much different.” + +“I think,” he said, “I must go in and talk to Dannie. He will have +heard I’m back. It seems a good time now--do you mind?” + +“I’ll talk to Mrs. Regan.” + +“She’s deaf.” + +“Then we’ll smile at each other--she’s not blind.” + +They approached the doorway that yearned up the path like an +eye-socket. A breath of peat smoke, of cold trodden earth, of the +ghostly dark of white walls came out from the cottage. Dannie took form +on the darkness, searching with his one eye. He stood with his white +beard, helpless and eager. “Well!” exclaimed Hugo. Then Dannie broke +out: this was young Mr. Hugo, wasn’t he the lovely gentleman, as fine +and upstanding as ever. And here was his wife he’d brought with him, +the beautiful lady. And, trembling and searching, he took Marda’s hand. +He declared that she brought back the sight of youth to his eyes. + + + + + XI + + +IT rained before lunch-time. Gerald heard loud drops come after him +as he went up the beech walk. Under every beech he expected to see +Lois looking round in surprise. When he heard a dog in the undergrowth +he turned, laughing with expectation. But it was the _louche_ yellow +dog from the lodge, intent on rabbiting. Soon a square black eye of +the house--three--four--looked down at him through the branches; he +came out under the whole cold shell of it, streaked with rain and +hollow-looking from an interior darkness. The yellow dog passed him, +looked back scornfully from the steps and pattered in at the door with +an air of possession. “Hallo!” called Gerald, looking about him. + +But she was nowhere; the place was cold with her absence and seemed +forgotten. The tennis party became a dream--parasols with their +coloured sunshine, rugs spread, shimmer of midges, amiable competition +of voices. Something had now been wiped from the place with implied +finality. Gerald told himself it was all very queer, quiet; that it +was disappointing about Lois. He tugged the bell, a maid appeared in +surprise, did her back hair hastily, encouraged him in with a smile and +left him. The hall with staring portraits contracted round a glove on +the table--a grey suède gauntlet strapped at the wrist--he picked up +the glove and kissed it. But the house was full of ladies, the glove +might as well be Marda’s--he dropped it doubtfully. + +A lovely mystery of feminine life: what did a young girl do with +herself in the mornings? Vaguely he pictured keyboards and pink ambling +fingers. He recollected those sage-green sexless covers of intellectual +books. He recalled the musty smell of work-boxes, the blush through +transparent paper of shell-pink needlework wrapped away hastily. You +never asked a girl what she was making. + +He listened, took off his trench-coat, stepped to the drawing-room +door. The five tall windows stood open on rain and the sound of +leaves, rain stuttered along the sills, the grey of the mirrors +shivered. Polished tables were cold little lakes of light. The smell +of sandalwood boxes, a kind of glaze on the air from all the chintzes +numbed his earthy vitality, he became all ribs and uniform. He was +aware of intrusion. But he dared not go in unasked to the library, +where Sir Richard might well look up from writing, sharp with +pince-nez. He could not again face the hall--he was shy of the glove. + +He took up the _Spectator_, read an article on Unrest and thought +of the Empire. Mechanically his hand went up to his tie. He looked +ahead to a time when it all should be accurately, finally fenced +about and all raked over. Then there should be a fixed leisured glow, +and relaxation, as on coming in to tea from an afternoon’s gardening +with his mother in autumn. He turned in thought to confident English +country, days like the look in a dog’s eyes, rooms small in the scope +of firelight, neighbourly lights through trees. He thought of a woman, +kind and palpable, who should never produce this ache, this absence.... +A door dragged forward its portière; Lois came in from the dining-room, +brushing rain from her frieze coat. He stood for a moment in a kind +of despair at her agitation, as though he were trying to take her +photograph. Then he stepped forward and kissed her, his hands on her +wet shoulders. + +“--Oh, but look here--” cried Lois. + +But she was his lovely woman: kissed. He shone at her, she helpless. +She looked out at the hopeless rain. + +“I love--” he said eagerly. + +“Oh, but look here--” + +“But I love--” + +“What are you doing in the drawing-room?” + +“I’ve come to lunch.” + +“Do they know?” + +“I haven’t seen anyone.” + +“_I_ don’t know who to tell,” she said distractedly. “They have all +disappeared; they always are disappearing. You’d think this was the +emptiest house in Ireland--we have no family life. It’s no good my +telling Brigid because she forgets, and the parlourmaid is always +dressing. I suppose I had better lay you a place myself--but I don’t +know where the knives are kept. I can’t think why you are being so +sudden all of a sudden, in every way: you never used to be. I haven’t +even done the flowers yet. I do wish you wouldn’t, Gerald--I mean, be +so _actual_. And do be natural at lunch, or I shall look such a goat. +You really might have asked me, I never mind talking things over. But +now the gong will go at any moment. And how do you know I’m not in love +with a married man?” + +“You wouldn’t be so neurotic; I mean, like a novel. I mean: do be +natural, Lois.” + +“Don’t look so, so inflamed.... Miss Norton is here; she’s a girl--at +least a kind of a girl. She’s awfully attractive.” + +“I think I met her. She’s awfully--well, not beautiful, but ... Oh, +Lois ...” + +“Do be normal: do play the piano.” + +“I can’t start playing the piano before I’ve even told them I’ve come +to lunch. I may be musical, Lois, but I’m not artistic.” + +“All right,” she said, and walked away from him round the room. So +that was being kissed: just an impact, with inside blankness. She was +lonely, and saw there was no future. She shut her eyes and tried--as +sometimes when she was sea-sick, locked in misery between Holyhead +and Kingstown--to be enclosed in nonentity, in some ideal no-place, +perfect and clear as a bubble. Or she was at a party, unreal and vivid, +or running on hard sands. “It wouldn’t have mattered so much at the +seaside,” she said to Gerald. + +“But we never are at the seaside.” + +She opened a sandalwood box and looked in: three blue beads and a +receipt of her own from Switzers: three-and-eleven for yellow velvet +pansies, worn at a dance and spoilt. “It’s not even as though we were +at a dance,” she added. + +“Lois, I’ve been thinking about you all night, up in the +mountains--right up there when you were asleep. You were wonderful.” + +“Haven’t you been to bed at all?” + +“No, you know I--” + +“Oh, Gerald-- Oh ... darling-- But you did have breakfast?” + +The gong sounded: great brass balls went bouncing about the empty +rooms. The parlourmaid looked in perfunctorily. “Lunch?” said Gerald to +Lois. + +“No one is in--and I don’t suppose lunch is even ready. Gerald, _did_ +you have breakfast?” + +“An enormous breakfast at Ballydarra.... What were you saying, Lois; +what did you call me _then_ ... before the gong?” + +But now she flushed and answered: “I’m sopping wet; I’m steaming, I +smell like a dog. I should have thought you would want me to go and +change. I should have thought you’d be--protecting.” + +“You know I’d die for you.” + +They looked at each other. The words had a solemn echo, as though +among high dark arches in a church where they were standing and being +married. She thought of death and glanced at his body, quick, lovely, +present and yet destructible. Something passed sensation and touched +her consciousness with a kind of weight and warmth; she glimpsed a +quiet beyond experience, as though for many nights he had been sleeping +beside her. + +“What _did_ I say then? Say it.” + +“‘Darling’ ...” + +But she turned away from some approach in his look. + +Lady Naylor and Mrs. Montmorency passed, in profile, under the three +west windows, pressed very close together under a green en-tout-cas, +discussing the vice-regency of the Aberdeens. Simultaneously, Mr. +Montmorency and Miss Norton were heard coming up the steps rather +breathlessly, talking about money. They must both have been conscious +of being a little vulgar, a little English, for as Sir Richard rattled +open the glass door and went out to meet them, they broke off flatly. + +“You must have got very wet,” said Sir Richard. “Marda, about that +suitcase of yours. I have been thinking it over--” + +“Sir Richard, I can’t bear you to--” + +“My dear girl, a suitcase is a suitcase--I was just saying to Marda, +Myra, that I have been thinking over that suitcase of hers--” + +“We had better have lunch at once,” said Lady Naylor imperatively. + +“Miss Norton will have to change.” + +“Hugo, how _could_ you let her get so wet!” + +“My dear, I am not an umbrella.” + +“Marda, how could you go out without a mackintosh!” + +In the drawing-room Gerald walked to a window and stared at the rain in +perplexity, stroking the back of his head, looking rather an ordinary +kind of subaltern. Lois looked at herself in a mirror, then went out to +the hall to tell them about Gerald. Every one stared, she put up a hand +to her face. “Mr. Lesworth has come to lunch,” she said deprecatingly. +“You told him he could whenever he wanted, so I suppose he thought he +might.” + +“Of _course_,” said Lady Naylor; “I suppose you have told Sarah?” + +“Well, I don’t know where to find her; she is always dressing.” + +“Of course she is not always dressing; should I keep a parlourmaid who +was? She only changes once a day, but you always go and look for her at +the wrong times. Where is Mr. Lesworth?” + +“In the drawing-room.” + +“How extraordinary! Wouldn’t he rather be in the library? Richard, +why didn’t you ask Mr. Lesworth into the library? I expect now he had +better wash.” + +Lois went upstairs: Marda came up after her and took her arm; Lois +started. She could not think of anything to say, Marda was not even +trying; they went up silently. “Some time,” Lois said as they parted, +“can I show you my drawings? They’re fearfully bad.” + +“Come up to my room after tea.” + +Throughout luncheon, Sir Richard talked to Gerald about the South +African War and the Cork Militia. He liked the young fellow. Laurence +talked to Marda about whaling, Lady Naylor and Francie continued the +Aberdeens, Lois tried to explain to Hugo about Augustus John. The rain +stopped, they agreed that it had been only a shower. Lois and Gerald +were side by side, but they did not have to speak, they simply passed +things. The side of her next to Gerald felt numb. + +“Raspberries?” she said towards the end of the meal, constrainedly. + +“Please.” _He_ was not nervous at all. Queer, she confusedly thought, +how men throw off action without a quiver at severance from the self +that goes into it. They remain complete, the action hangs in the air +of the place, above the grass or furniture, crystallizing in memory; +eternal, massive and edged to the touch of thought as, to the bodily +touch, a grand piano. She herself felt bound to all she had done +emotionally. But his kissing of her, his attack, were no longer part of +him. He concentrated upon his raspberries, crushing them, on his cream +with carmine beautifully folding through, on his flushing sugar. She +watched the work on his plate. “Magnificent,” he said to Sir Richard, +agreeing about the Cork Militia. + +Going out through the hall, Laurence offered Gerald a cigarette. +“American--extra mild.” + +“Thanks--I--” + +“How is your jazz band?” + +“Very little practising; not much time, you see.” + +“Do tell me: did you kill anybody?” + +“How much?” said Gerald, startled. + +“Anybody last night?” + +“Oh, good Lord, no!” + +“Isn’t that why you go out?” + +“We were looking for arms, really. And nights you find the most +surprising people at home. We were after a fellow called Peter Connor: +we got him.” + +“Fight?” said Laurence eagerly. + +“He was at home, in bed. These blighters think we are greater fools +than we are.” + +“Very cynical of him.... Oh, I say, Uncle Richard, Lesworth has +captured Peter Connor.” + +“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sir Richard, flushing severely. “His +mother is dying. However, I suppose you must do your duty. We must +remember to send up now and inquire for Mrs. Michael Connor. We’ll +send some grapes. The poor woman--it seems too bad.” He went off, +sighing, into the library. + +Gerald was horrified. His duty, so bright and abstract, had come +suddenly under the shadowy claw of the personal. “I had no idea,” he +exclaimed to Laurence, “these people were friends of yours.” + +“Can’t be helped,” said Laurence. “I dare say he was a dirty dog.... +If you hate that cigarette, Lesworth, have one of your own. It seems +a long time since we have seen you. How is this war of yours really +going? Do you realize I know nothing--this might all just as well be +going on in the Balkans. I sometimes rather wish that I were a gunman. +There are one or two things I should like to ask--but don’t let me keep +you if you want to talk to anyone else.” + +“Rather not.” + +The ladies were in the drawing-room laughing intimately, putting across +the open door a barrier of exclusion. Laurence and Gerald wandered +about the hall, taking note of each other indirectly and amicably. +Laurence was by three years the younger, but imposed his own impression +of seniority. Light hair tumbling, eyes startled open and limp grey +flannels, he looked to Gerald as though he had slept through the +morning. While Gerald circled, the grey glove lay on the table, its +fingers crisped in derision. Outside, in an irresponsible burst of +sunshine, the wet fields had a metallic brightness. Gerald thought of +Lois’s shoulders, their rounded squareness, the feel of wet frieze +under his grip. He was flattered but uneasy under Laurence’s interest, +which had indeed, for the simple, the awkward menace of some one +preparing to cast a net. He pursed his lips to a whistle and shrugged +slightly. + +“For instance, what do you, personally, think about all this?” + +“Well, my opinion is--” + +“Oh, but I don’t want your opinion, I want your point of view.” + +“Well, the situation’s rotten. But right _is_ right.” + +“Why?” + +“Well ... from the point of view of civilization. Also, you see, they +don’t fight clean.” + +“Oh, there’s no public school spirit in Ireland. But do tell me--what +do you mean by the point of view of civilization?” + +“Oh--ours.” + +Laurence smiled his appreciation: the conviction, stated without +arrogance, had a ring of integrity. Gerald, embarrassed by this +benevolence, had recourse again to the back of his head, so +gratifyingly polished. “If you come to think,” he explained, “I mean, +looking back on history--not that I’m intellectual--we _do_ seem the +only people.” + +“Difficulty being to make them see it.” + +“--And that we have what they really want ... though of course the more +one thinks of it all, the smaller, personally, it makes one feel.” + +“Oh? I don’t feel small in that way. But I’m not English--” + +“Oh, no--I beg your pardon.” + +“--Thank God.” + +“Don’t understand?” + +“God may. Shall we look for the others?” + +Gerald, shocked, preceded Laurence into the drawing-room. Their +conversation, torn off rough at this edge, seemed doomed from its very +nature to incompletion. Gerald would have wished to explain that no +one could have a sounder respect than himself and his country for the +whole principle of nationality, and that it was with some awareness +of misdirection, even of paradox, that he was out here to hunt and +shoot the Irish. His alertness was blunted, while he approached the +ladies, by a slight stupor of effort; he was groping for something +Napoleon had once said, something remarkably neat and apposite that +Gerald had once copied into a pocket-book. Laurence had not hoped to +explain, but had wished that Gerald could infer, that there was a +contrariety in the notions they each had of this thing civilization. +As a rather perplexing system of niceties, Laurence saw it; an exact +and delicate interrelation of stresses between being and being, like +crossing arches; an unemotioned kindness withering to assertion selfish +or racial; silence cold with a comprehension in which the explaining +clamour died away. He foresaw in it the end of art, of desire, as it +would be the end of battle, but it was to this end, this faceless but +beautiful negation that he had lifted a glass inwardly while he had +said, “Thank God!” + +Gerald knew that no one who spoke of God in that family way could +have any belief. He had heard that Oxford was full of Socialism, of a +wrongness that was the outcome of too much thinking, and in the light +of this it did appear to him that Laurence’s conversation had been +decidedly Sinn Fein. But he liked and respected Lois’s cousin, who +made a man of one by that naïve curiosity as to bloodshed--curiosity +to which Gerald had been a stranger since the days of the _Boy’s Own +Paper_ spread on the nursery floor. Also, he could not have looked so +consistently bored at parties if he had not been, as they all said, +very intellectual. + +Lois, watching Gerald approach with an absence of smile that was almost +a shadow, was certain she must have done him injustice. His constraint +(the pursuit of Napoleon) had a rather grave beauty. Their kiss under +the high ceiling must be present and palpable to him also. Aware of +some growth of manliness in him, she wanted the feel of his lips again, +to capture what she had missed before. And a quick glance of Marda’s +from one to the other sealed their mood with a recognition. + +“Can’t we go out?” she said generally, for Gerald to take up. + +“It will rain again in a minute,” said Lady Naylor, glancing cynically +at the weather. And indeed a few drops already sparkled against the +sunshine. “Also I particularly want to talk to Mr. Lesworth. When he +comes he is always playing tennis, or I forget. But now there are some +things I really want to ask him ... I really want his point of view ...” + +She sat down in a faded bowery chair, settling herself with a rustle +of expectation. Francie, attracted, trailed her skirts and her fancy +work down the sofa; Marda, putting a new cigarette in her holder, +leaned over the back. From the constellation of eager faces Lois +wandered away. The three were no more her enemies than were her own +irresolution or the bright vicious raindrops blotting the pane. Yet +their unforeseen combination defeated her finally. She yawned at the +outlook. + +“Lois, don’t yawn,” said her aunt. “Now I want to know, Mr. Lesworth, +what Colonel Boatley really thinks of reprisals. Of course it will go +no further, though you mustn’t think I want you to be indiscreet.... +Laurence, just shut the door.” + +Laurence shut himself out. And Gerald, sitting down with a sigh, said +that of course it was all rather a problem. He caught Marda’s eye, dark +and bright with amusement, and read there the doom of his afternoon. + +“Yes? Yes? Yes? This is so interesting--you were asking me, weren’t +you, Francie, and I said we would ask Mr. Lesworth.... Marda, do +listen, dear, never mind, shake your ash on the carpet, you mustn’t +miss this. Because these days when so much nonsense is talked on both +sides I do feel one owes it to speak on some good authority--unless Mr. +Lesworth would rather we didn’t. Now please go on!” + +And Gerald, half hypnotized, consciously barren and not in his +Colonel’s confidence, repeated to them what he had read in the _Morning +Post_. As Lady Naylor said at the time, no one would dream of taking +the _Morning Post_ seriously, it was so anti-Irish, but an opinion +on it from anyone so much “in things” as Mr. Lesworth was well worth +hearing. And as she said afterwards, it was extraordinary how no amount +of experience shook these young Englishmen up. Their minds remained +cutting-books. + + + + + XII + + +AN armoured car called for Gerald at four o’clock and he was driven +away through the rain. Towards the end of the afternoon he had become +very dull, a kind of fog came over his personality; he confessed he +was sleepy. Lady Naylor remarked what a pity it was he could not stay +for his tea, that would have freshened him up again. There was still +so much that she wanted to know. The drawing-room became to Gerald +fantastic and thin like an ice-palace, and, reflected backwards +and forwards in tall mirrors, seemed like a chain of galleries at +Versailles down which, numbing with admiration, he had to advance +wearily. He did not see Lois alone any more. She kept coming in, +looking round vaguely, then going upstairs again. Upstairs, he could +hear her playing the gramophone. She came out to the steps with Marda +to see him off; they stood with arms linked, brushing the rain from +their hair. The last they saw of him was a putteed leg being drawn in +carefully. Something steel slid to; they waved, but never a hand came +out. The machine seemed already to be digesting. He was swept from them +with martial impersonality. + +At half-past five Lois went to the top of the house with her +drawing-books, paused for confidence, tickled a panel of Marda’s door. +Coming into the changed and vivid room, she tipped her drawing-books +disengagedly on to a window-seat. Marda sat on the writing-table, +engaged in manicure. Little pots, pads and bottles paraded; a chamois +leather was spread on her knee. A sweet smell of varnish, like +pear-drops, was in the air. + +“The most I can do,” said Lois, intent, “is to keep mine clean.” + +“Quite enough. It’s just this habit of making up every part of one +that’s exposed at all.... Lois, have a cigarette?” + +“Oh ... thanks. You don’t mind my coming?” + +“My dear, why?” + +“What lovely brushes! What a ... what an uncommon photograph frame!” + +“Yes, that’s Leslie Lawe.” + +“Oh? Oh yes,” Lois paused uncertainly. “How good looking! Do--do you +know him well?” + +“Very. We’re engaged.” + +“Oh, how lovely!” Lois had a shock of flatness. + +“Oh, yes; didn’t you know?” + +“Well, I thought you probably would be. Shall you live in London?” + +“I suppose we shall. I suppose we shall have to.” + +“Oh, how lovely!” + +Marda laughed and began screwing on the lids of her little pots. In the +light of her brilliant life, her deftness seemed to Lois inimitable. +One would have had to have lived twenty-nine years as fast, as surely +and wildly, to screw pink celluloid caps on to small white pots with +just that lightness of finger-tip, just that degree of amusement, just +that detachment in smile and absorption in attitude. And the pink smell +of nail-varnish, dresses trickling over a chair, flash of swinging +shoe-buckle, cloud of powder over the glass, the very room with its +level stare on the tree-tops, took on awareness, smiled with secrecy, +had the polish and depth of experience. The very birds on the frieze +flew round in cognizant agitation. + +“What a lovely dress!” said Lois, picking up the end of a red sleeve, +so that she seemed to be standing hand in hand with the dress. + +“Vienna.” + +“And, oh, what a lovely green one!... Am I pawing things?” + +“I like it. But haven’t you got some drawings?” + +“Drawings? Oh, my drawings! Oh--I’m afraid they’d bore you.” + +“I don’t expect so.” + +“Well, I did just happen to bring them along.” + +She had brought two drawing-books, cheerful in mottled bindings with +tissue between the pages. She brought them across to Marda, then turned +away. The drawings, in black ink, illustrated the Morte d’Arthur and +Omar Khayyam. They remembered Beardsley. Lois, away at a window, +heard Marda rustle the tissue paper: she watched the rain intently. +Beyond the demesne trees, a farm cart rattled along the road. Marda, +conscientious, turned back to the title page. Here she paused, for Lois +had printed out, in uncertain Gothic: + + “‘I am a painter who cannot paint; + In my life, a devil rather than saint; + In my brain, as poor a creature too: + No end to all that I cannot do! + But do one thing at least I can-- + Love a man or hate a man + Supremely--’ + + Lois Honoria Farquar: Her Book.” + +“Oh,” said Marda. + +“Browning.” + +“But can you really?” + +“I don’t see why not.” + +“And are you sure that you can’t paint? Have you ever tried?” + +“I hated two of the girls at school and I really rather do hate Mr. +Montmorency. And I can’t help getting involved with people. Personal +relations make a perfect havoc of me; my headmistress said so. Of +course I haven’t had much scope here, so far. Being grown up seems +trivial, somehow. I mean, dressing and writing notes instead of +letters, and trying to make impressions. When you have to think so much +of what other people feel about you there seems no time to think what +you feel about them. Everybody is genial at one in a monotonous kind +of way. I don’t seem to find young men inspiring, somehow. I suppose I +shall. Did you ever have any difficulty about beginning?” + +“I can’t remember. I never can see back to the other side of things +that have happened.” + +“I think I must cut that title page out. I wrote it when I was rather +young. But surely love wouldn’t get so much talked about if there were +not something in it? I mean even soap, you know, however much they +advertise ...” + +“Oh, there must be. Let me look at the drawings.” + +Marda, still on the table with crossed knees, spread out the book +briskly. But Lois, all in a glow, could not help remarking: “Somebody +told me I was neurotic.” + +“I shouldn’t worry.” + +With a brutality of which she was unaware Marda returned to the +drawings. Lois, thinking: “I do not interest her,” sat down on the +floor with her back to the chest of drawers. Over the mottled carpet +curled strange pink fronds: some one dead now, buying this carpet, had +responded to an idea of beauty. Lois thought how in Marda’s bedroom, +when she was married, there might be a dark blue carpet with a bloom +on it like a grape, and how this room, this hour would be forgotten. +Already the room seemed full of the dusk of oblivion. And she hoped +that instead of fading to dust in summers of empty sunshine, the carpet +would burn with the house in a scarlet night to make one flaming call +upon Marda’s memory. Lois again realized that no one had come for her, +after all. She thought, “I must marry Gerald.” + +But with a jump of the heart she heard every page turn over. She +received the print of each look as though her sensibility were +the paper. Reactions to Lois’s drawings were as a rule momentary +and staccato: “My dear!... They’re sinister ... what a marvellous +muezzin!... Aren’t those the seven queens?” And indeed it had come to +seem to herself that the drawings must really mean something. A glance +at them, though she had lost the power to see them, gave her the kind +of surprised assurance one might expect from motherhood. + +Marda said nothing; once or twice she changed her attitude, shifting +the book from knee to knee. Soot, dislodged by the rain, sifted sharply +on to the paper fan in the grate, startling them to an exchange of +glances. Then she said deliberately, closing the drawing-book: + +“I think you’re cleverer than you can draw, you know.” + +“Oh--” + +“You don’t mind, do you? Look--have another cigarette. Why can’t you +write, or something?” + +“That’s so embarrassing. Even things like--like elephants get so +personal.” + +“I know. I give up reading--I’m sick of their personal elephants.... Or +act? But why do you stay here?” + +“I can’t think,” said Lois, startled. + +“You like to be the pleasant young person?” + +“I like to be in a pattern.” She traced a pink frond with her finger. +“I like to be related; to have to be what I am. Just to _be_ is so +intransitive, so lonely.” + +“Then you will like to be a wife and mother.” Marda got off the +writing-table and began to change her stockings. “Jacob’s ladder,” she +explained. “It’s a good thing we can always be women.” + +“I hate women. But I can’t think how to begin to be anything else.” + +“Climate.” + +“But I would hate to be a man. So much fuss about doing things. Except +Laurence--but he is such a hog. Ought I to go to London?” + +“Ever been abroad?” + +Of course she had not, she said, because of the War, and of course she +would like to. There was Rome, and she would like to stay in a hotel +by herself.--There was just “abroad”: she always wondered how long +the feeling lasted. And there was America, but one would have to have +introductions or one would get a crick in one’s neck from just always +looking up at things. She would like to feel real in London. She had +never come out through a pass and looked down on little distinct white +cities with no smoke. She had never been in a tunnel for more than five +minutes--she had heard there were tunnels in which you could nearly +suffocate? She had never seen anything larger than she could imagine. +She wanted, she said, to see backgrounds without bits taken out of them +by Holy Families; small black trees running up and down white hills. +She thought the little things would be important: trees with electric +lights growing out of them, she had heard of; coloured syphons. She +wanted to go wherever the War hadn’t. She wanted to go somewhere +nonchalant where politics bored them, where bands played out of doors +in the hot nights and nobody wished to sleep. She wanted to go into +cathedrals unadmonished and look up unprepared into the watery deep +strangeness. There must be perfect towns where shadows were strong like +buildings, towns secret without coldness, unaware without indifference. +She liked mountains, but she did not care for views. She did not want +adventures, but she would like just once to be nearly killed. She +wanted to see something that only she would remember. Could one really +float a stone in a glacier stream? She liked unmarried sorts of places. +She did not want to see the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower (could one +avoid it?) or to go to Switzerland or Berlin or any of the Colonies. +She would like to know people and go to dinner parties on terraces, and +she thought it would be a pity to miss love. Could one travel alone? +She did not mind being noticed because she was a female, she was tired +of being not noticed because she was a lady. She could not imagine ever +not wanting some one to talk to about tea-time. If she went to Cook’s, +could they look out all the trains for her, in Spain and everywhere? +She had never been to Cook’s. Was there any law about selling tickets +to people under age? + +Marda, smoothing the last wrinkle out of a stocking and fastening up a +suspender, said she did not believe this was so. + +“Of course anybody could do all that. But it would not be me.” + +“But be interested in what happens to you for its own sake; don’t +expect to be touched or changed--or to be in anything that you do. One +just watches. Pain is one’s misunderstanding.” + +The advice, fruit of her own relation to experience, unwisdom, lacking +the sublimer banality, was--as she suspected while still speaking--to +her young friend meaningless and without value. The infinite variance +of that relation breaks the span of comprehension between being and +being and makes an attempt at sympathy the merest fumbling for outlet +along the boundaries of the self. Lois looked vaguely out at the sky, +and thought how she could not possibly travel in Europe with a green +canvas trunk with her school initials. She longed for three leather +suitcases. She said sadly: + +“The thought of places without one is so lonely.” + +“Pull yourself together, my dear child.” + +“Don’t you think honeymoons are great waste of travelling?” + +“That reminds--I must write a letter. Don’t go--look, have another +cigarette. What is the date?” + +“I don’t know. Does it matter?” + +Evidently it did matter; Marda had to unpack the bottom of a suitcase +and look the date up in a pocket-book. And from this Lois immediately +concluded Leslie must be one of those keen square people who did +not care for girls of nineteen, whose eyes slid past one’s look +impatiently, who had no enthusiasms and read the biographies of +politicians other than Disraeli. She heard Marda writing with little +pauses and gushes; her shoulders and the stoop of her head took on +an appearance of obligation. Lois thought how anxious to marry Marda +must really be, how anxious not to frighten Leslie away from her, and +how all her distantness and her quick, rejecting air must be a false +effect, accidental and transitory. + +“I think,” she said, “I must be a woman’s woman.” + +“Oh yes. _Where_ are we going to tennis to-morrow?” + +“Castle Trent--but we won’t because of the rain. Is Mr. Lawe very +social?” + +“Reasonably. Of course, he likes his people nice. _What_ was the name +of the man at lunch--surname?” + +“Lesworth. Gerald is very social. He smiles all the time like a dog. Do +you think that is good in a man?” + +“I am telling Leslie he wants to marry you--may I?” + +“Will it give Mr. Lawe a good impression?” + +“Well, it furnishes you rather. And I can’t think what else to say.” + +“Don’t scratch it out,” said Lois after an interval, “but as a matter +of fact he didn’t speak of marriage. He merely kissed me. The English +have quite a different moral standard.” + +“Besides, he had been up all night.” + +“What are men one is engaged to like?” + +“Very worried and kind,” said Marda, blotting a sheet of her letter. +“Business-like, passionate and accurate. When they press you against +their chests a paper crackles, and when you sit up again to do your +face and arrange your hair, they cough and pull out the paper, all +folded and say: ‘While I think of it, I just wanted to consult you +about this.’ Dinner services come crashing through the air like in a +harlequinade. You feel you have been kissed in a shop. I cannot be +adequate. I suggested writing to those public schools for vacancies +for our three little boys, but that was not nice apparently. When you +are engaged you live in the future, and a large part of the future is +improper till it has happened.” + +“Oh ... what would happen now if you lost your engagement ring?” asked +Lois with enjoyment. + +“I daren’t wear it. Oh, look here, I am talking like a fool. I’m sorry, +Lois, but you really must not talk to me when I am writing letters. I +need Leslie. Dinner services don’t matter. If you never need anyone +as much you will be fortunate. I don’t know for myself what is worth +while. I’m sick of all this trial and error. Will you find a book or +something? Don’t go!” + +Lois did not wish to go, but thought “Why should she keep me here when +she is thinking about Leslie?” She felt deprived and unhappy. She +tried to imagine a situation in which Leslie would look ridiculous. +She prayed that the three correct little boys might never be born. She +hoped he would have five daughters, and all artistic. “One thing more,” +she said, “how is it that men are so seldom photographed in profile? Do +they have to look frank?” + +Steps coming down the gallery, relentlessly, with intention, might have +been Leslie’s but were unmistakably Laurence’s. + +Laurence tapped and remarked through the door that his Aunt Myra wanted +to know if the letters were ready. Timothy would be starting now; he +could wait five minutes, but if he did would almost certainly miss the +post. + +“Damn!” said Marda. + +“What d’you say?” + +“Oh, come in. Why did I polish my nails?” Laurence sat down on the +window-sill. He was annoyed and surprised to find Lois present. He +suspected that she had been bothering Marda, confiding, fidgeting, +asking about love and wishing to try on her hats. Probably she had +brought up a poetry book and kept coming across with a thumb on the +margin to point out the bits she loved. He wished that Lois would marry +and leave Danielstown; he could perfectly see her as a very pink bride, +later as a girl wife in the Tchehov tradition in a pink blouse, sucking +sweets audibly, prattling of girl friends’ lovers, rustling papers +endlessly. He only hoped that she might marry Gerald, who had no papers +to rustle. + +“I hope,” he said, “that Lois has been amusing you?” + +“Don’t talk,” said Lois. “I mean, she wants to finish her letter.” + +“Evidently,” said Laurence. + +“Explain Leslie,” said Marda, writing rapidly. “It will help at dinner.” + +“She is engaged,” said Lois, “to a Mr. Lawe. That is his photograph +there. His name is Leslie.” + +“Oh yes,” said Laurence. + +“He is not comic,” said Marda, leaning around and pushing the letter +away. “She makes him sound so--like ‘a Mr. Wilkinson, a clergyman.’ +Lady Naylor will like it all, but I haven’t told her. Will you help Mr. +Montmorency and Lois form a public opinion and not be surprised when +I talk about him at dinner? About the end of the fish, I thought.... +I cannot finish this letter; it will have to go to-morrow and I will +wire.” + +“And I have a piece of news for you. Castle Trent was raided for arms +last night. Of course they didn’t find any. They think the thing was +entirely amateur, nothing to do with the I.R.A. at all. They took away +some boots. The Trents think one of the raiders was a gardener’s cousin +from Ballydarra who hates the family. He left a quite unnecessary +message behind with a skull and crossbones; he sounds to me rather a +silly man. I am hoping perhaps they will come here to-night. We have +two assegais and a stiletto that Uncle Richard uses for a paper-knife.” + +“It is a paper-knife,” said Lois, “only made so as to look like a +stiletto. How perfectly thrilling; do let us all sit up.” + +“I shall sit up, but you had better go to bed. You might be insulted.” + +“Really, I am not so female as all that.” + +Laurence shrugged his shoulders. + +“At any rate, don’t tell the others. Uncle Richard’ll get fussy and +spoil it, and if Aunt Myra meets them she will keep them talking all +night.” + +“It seems so odd,” said Laurence, “that she should be my blood aunt and +not yours.” + +Marda looked at him thoughtfully over the back of her chair. She had +not realized he could be so disagreeable. If he did not take care, +he would grow up just like Mr. Montmorency. She told him so, and +added that she was surprised he did not appreciate Lois. “She is very +charming,” she said, “and very intelligent. Think of all the cousins +you might have had. It’s not her fault that you’re not in Tahiti or +Valladolid or wherever it was you wanted to go this summer. If I were +not going to marry I should ask her to come abroad with me. I have +never been less bored.” + +“It would be marvellous,” said Lois. Now that Laurence had come in +she felt more alone with Marda, and nearer; she could think of all +the things she had wanted to say. Intoxicated by being told she was +charming and by Laurence’s disapproval, she hitched herself up on to +the end of the wooden bed, where she sat swinging her legs and smiling, +all girlhood. She felt movement, a wind in her face as though she were +on the prow of a ship. With a bound, life carried her forward again. +She felt certain that Leslie would die or break off the engagement. +“Marvellous,” she repeated. + +“At any rate,” Laurence said, “you can ask her to be a bridesmaid.” +And there was Lois, forlorn in the aisle, with hot air coming up her +legs from a grating and tears dripping off her nose into a bunch of +chrysanthemums. She would keep the ribbon from her bouquet and show it +to Gerald in confidence while she unpacked on their wedding night. + +“I am thinking of going abroad quite soon,” she said to Laurence. + +“Mr. Montmorency has gone for a walk,” said Laurence. “He had to take +an umbrella. Apparently he does not usually take an umbrella, but when +he was half-way down the avenue Mrs. Montmorency suddenly said he must, +because it had never rained like this before. So she took an umbrella +and one for herself and started off down the avenue after him. Aunt +Myra said she should not have done this because of her heart and looked +round for me, but I had gone quickly into the dining-room, which is +the last place anybody would look for one between meals. So she found +Uncle Richard and he took another umbrella and ran quickly down the +avenue after Mrs. Montmorency, telling her not to run like that. When +he had caught her up he took the umbrella from her and went still more +quickly, shouting, after Mr. Montmorency, who pretended not to hear +and walked on with a back view of positive hatred.” + +“But how do you know all this if you were in the dining-room?” + +“When they were under way I went to the library window and looked after +them.... Lois, did Lesworth tell you he has captured Peter Connor? He +was in bed, apparently.” + +“Laurence!” called Lady Naylor from the end of the gallery. “Where are +you? What about Marda’s letters?... They can’t go now,” she went on, +approaching. “Timothy waited ten minutes, and now he has got to run all +the way, but he will certainly miss the post.... Oh, you are all here?” + +She looked at her nephew and niece disparagingly and sat down on the +bed. “It is an extraordinary thing,” she said generally, “the way +nobody in this house can be trusted to remember messages.... It has +been a tiring day,” she added. “Nobody could be nicer than that young +Mr. Lesworth, but certainly he is not intelligent. And since then they +have all been running down the avenue with umbrellas. And oh, what do +you think? They have been raided for arms at Castle Trent. They think +the whole thing must have been organized by their gardener’s cousin. +They took some boots away.” + + + + + XIII + + +WHEN they had all gone to bed, lamps downstairs extinguished, doors +upstairs shut with a rattle upon the last voices, Francie talked of +Marda’s engagement and said she was glad. She was glad as a wife that +the net should be flung wider. She talked, but Hugo did not answer; he +was still too angry about the umbrella to speak when they were alone. +So till well on into the night they lay beside each other under the +darkness in an intent and angry silence. Then she wept and said they +should never have come back to Danielstown. + +“It’s as though I couldn’t remember where anything was.” + +“Look here, if you can’t sleep, you’d better take something.” + +“Hugo!” + +“Oh, I suppose this place disagrees with you, too.” He had designed +an insult, he could not bear her to intrude upon his wakefulness. +Whichever way he turned in that mournful freedom--and the perspectives +of his regret opened fanwise, profound avenues each white at the end +with a faceless statue--she would come stumbling after him, hand to +heart. “Try and sleep,” he said, and sent her away angrily. + +She feigned sleep rigidly, hardly bearing to lie there. Her mind +clenched tight, like a fist, at the isolation of this proximity. She +longed to resume the life of day downstairs in the empty rooms. She +had lain awake in the South of France hearing palm trees creak in the +gritty and dry wind, hooked-back shutters rattle against the wall; she +had lain awake in town with her room a battle of lights through the +thin blinds, lights like her thoughts, flashing and crossing-- But +across this battle-piece, under the long lances, had swarmed, like +Ucello’s roses, small comforts, a kind of content at suffering, the +tenderness of imagined contact. She had wept because he was not with +her. Now a nostalgia for that solitude, for a wall so patient and +smooth to the reaching hand where there was now a sleeper, came on her, +quenching tears. He thought she slept. + +But, “I remember,” she said, about two o’clock, “a Miss Lawe. I met +her last in a tram in Dublin. I remember then she was talking of a +nephew--I wonder would that be Leslie?” + +“Did she say his name?” + +“I can’t remember; I got out of the tram.... Hugo, I’m so thirsty.” + +Sighing, he got out of bed. + +Laurence could not sleep either. There must have been something at +dinner.... He longed for the raiders and strained his ears in the +silence--which had, like the darkness, a sticky and stifling texture, +like cobwebs, muffling the senses. The rain had paused, the trees had +shed the weight of it, never a drop came through them or tapped on his +window-sill. Once he heard, he thought, a fleet of bicycles in the +avenue; he sat up propped on his palms, assembled his attitude, and +was prepared to go down and admit the party courteously. He meant to +offer them bread and apples and leisurely conversation--and jam and +whisky, but in relating the incident he would only mention the bread +and apples, he liked that smack of austerity, an Oriental graveness. +But there were no bicycles; no one knocked; all he had to say went sour +in him. It was only some cattle come up close to the house, rubbing +against the wires. They moved away. + +He lit a candle, blinked at the startled flame and blew it out again. +Darkness resumed, with a discomfortable suggestion of normality. +There seemed proof that the accident of day, of action, need not +recur. And from this blank full stop, this confrontation of a positive +futurelessness, his mind ran spiderlike back on the thread spun out +of itself for advance, stumbling and swerving a little over its own +intricacy. He caught trains he had missed, rushing out to the boundless +possible from the shining mouths of termini, re-ordered meals in a +cosmopolitan blue, re-ate them, thought of thought but sheered away +from that windy gulf full of a fateful clapping of empty book-covers. +Far enough back, in a kind of unborn freedom, he even re-made +marriages. Laura Naylor gave Hugo, scoffingly, bridal tenderness; +they had four sons and all hurried out to coarsen in Canada. Here, in +this that had been her room, Laura had lain on her wedding morning, +watching a spider run up the canopy of the bed, while Hugo made ready, +five miles off, to be driven over to take her hand at the altar by +poor John Trent, and the four young sons in excitement jiggled among +the cherubim. And it was Richard who married Francie, who came to him +all in a bloom at his first request and made a kind of a basinette of +a life for him, dim with lace. Aunt Myra enjoyed a vigorous celibacy, +while Laurence, to be acclaimed a second Weiniger, blew out his brains +at--say--Avila, in a fit of temporary discouragement without having +heard of Danielstown. Lois, naturally, was not born at all. + +But this involved a certain re-arrangement of Laurence’s character, +for not for anything would he have put a pistol into his mouth, though +he would have liked to fire a gun out of a window. This neglect of the +raiders pricked his egotism. And alarmed by the dragging tick of the +watch under his pillow, slowing down as at the mortal sickness of Time, +he turned over and thought in a fury that he could not think why Laura +should have married Mr. Farquar. The rudest man in Ulster he was, with +a disagreeably fresh complexion and an eye like a horse. Her confusion +had clotted up in the air of the room and seemed, in that closest +darkness under the ceiling, to be still impending. Here, choked in the +sweep of the bed-curtains, she had writhed in those epic rages; against +Hugo, against Richard, against any prospect in life at all; biting +the fat resistant pillows. Until once she had risen, fluttered at her +reflection, dabbed her eyes, buttoned a tight sleek dress of that +day’s elegance over her heaving bosom, packed her dresses in arched +trunks (that had come back since to rot in the attics) and driven off, +averting from the stare of the house an angry profile. Hotly, she +went up North to attract and marry Mr. Farquar. It was in her to have +done otherwise, but there is a narrow and fixed compulsion, Laurence +recognized, inside the widest ranges of our instability. + +Below, through the floor, a light drawling scrape climbed into +stuttering melody, syncopated dance music, ghostly with the wagging of +hips and horrid in darkness. Lois, child of that unwise marriage, was +playing the gramophone. Laurence listened, paralysed with indignation, +then reached out and banged a chair on the floor. She attended; the +music broke off with a shock, there was a tingling calm, as after +an amputation. He above, she below, they thought of each other with +outrage. + +Certainly, thought Laurence, there must have been something at dinner. + +But Sir Richard and Lady Naylor were soundly asleep. She was dreaming +about the Aberdeens, while he rode round the country on a motor-bicycle +from which he could not detach himself. His friends cut him; he +discovered he was a Black and Tan. But night rolled on over them +thickly and uneventfully. The others exhausted themselves to sleep. The +darkness clamped round their waking brains did not any one moment seem +to abate its insane pressure; only, within an hour of breakfast they +found themselves restored without reason to the illusion of daylight. +With a kind of fatedness, a passivity, they resumed the operation of +living. + +The morning gave birth to a disappointment. Livvy arrived just as Lois +was starting out for the village with Marda to send the telegram. Her +horse was lame so she came over on a bicycle, and certainly, thought +Lois, watching her lean the bicycle into the privet hedge, there were +many things about Livvy that were a pity. For Marda stood at the top +of the steps in a green jumper, fanning the telegraph form on the air +to dry the ink. The green, queer and metallic, cut surprisingly into +the steamy tones of the house and the morning. She would be gone in +three days. And now while Livvy settled her hat and her front and +prepared for speech, Marda, smiling, came down the steps and walked +away down the avenue, not caring. She missed nobody. The dogs went with +her: gloomily Lois’s eyes went after their wagging sterns. + +“Listen,” said Livvy, clutching Lois’s elbow. “Ah, listen, Lois: what +is the matter?--That is a natty jumper she’s got. I wonder, has she +the pattern? Of course, it’s partly her figure. I wonder now that she +didn’t marry.... Lois, will we go up to your room?” + +Lois did not believe the bed was made. Livvy blushed in her little +defined way and said she wished to be confidential. So they went into +the drawing-room--where Gerald’s kiss was hanging: all the doubts +of the night could not disperse it--and leaned on the grand piano. +Lois was surprised to notice Livvy breathing on to her breast-bone +and drawing something up on a long blue ribbon from intimate depths. +A ring dangled. “No one could be more surprised than myself,” said +Livvy modestly, averting her eyes from a finger on which the ring had +flowered. + +“Oh, well _done!_” Lois could have exclaimed with spontaneity. Checking +this, she said doubtfully: “Oh, my dear ...” + +“Who do you guess?” + +“Mr.... Mr. Armstrong.” + +“Aren’t you quick! Listen--swear that you won’t tell. For my father +doesn’t know and I think he’d kill me.” + +“How did you ... how did he ...” + +“Well, it was like this. You see, he asked me at Mrs. Fogarty’s when +would he see me again, and I said I might be going to Cork to the +dentist Thursday, and he said he might be going to Cork too. So I +thought no more of it. Think what I felt when, I getting out at the +station, I saw him there standing as large as life and watching the +train like a dog. So he asked me where was I going for tea, so I said +if I wasn’t alone I might have dropped in at the Imperial because of +the band, but that my father didn’t like me to go there alone because +of the officers. He said would I go with him, and it was raining and +my appointment wasn’t till half-past five, so I said that we ought not +to be seen together, but I turned my hat right down and we went in and +heard the band. He seemed very much confused, so I asked him was there +anything on his mind and he said there wasn’t and I said there must +be. So he went very scarlet and pulled his belt and looked up at the +ceiling and said he did love me. Then the waiter came with the tea and +I only hope he will not recognize me again. When the waiter had gone +I said he might speak lower, and he said he couldn’t because of the +band. Then I said that of course a thing like this came as a shock to +a girl, and he said did it, and I said indeed it did. I said I was not +sure if I could get accustomed to the idea of marriage at all, and he +looked very much surprised. I said when would he wish it to be? And he +said the worst of it was he had no prospects. I said we Irish were not +mercenary, and that anyway I knew he had an uncle-- It was a great +disadvantage to me, Lois, having to keep down so low under my hat all +the time--for I could see the Hartigans’ aunt, Mrs. Foxe-O’Connor, the +other side of a palm-tree, and a man my father buys cattle from kept +rising up and staring round the room. And what with this and my being +naturally very much confused, and David creaking about in his chair, +and the band, I don’t know how much he heard of what I said at all. + +“However, we thought it might be well to buy a ring, though I can’t +wear it. David looked quite wandering and I had to get him across the +traffic. And I felt pretty curious myself. You see, we have neither +of us been engaged before, though I have had two offers. Then he said +he must go to the barracks, so he put me into a tram to go to the +dentist’s. Presently I noticed it was the wrong tram, but I hadn’t the +heart to get out till it was round the corner after the trouble he’d +taken, the poor boy. But the tram kind of bolted and I got out near +the Cathedral and had to take a very expensive car. I was late at the +dentist’s--he had out two of my teeth.” + +All in a dream, it appeared, Livvy had wandered through wet residential +Cork. All in a dream she had sat and bled from the gums in a train. She +opened her mouth to show the two holes the dentist had made as though +they were wounds of love, and Lois looked into them solemnly. Had they +kissed at all? No, they had not had the opportunity. They could have +taken a cab, but Livvy did not think it moral to drive in a cab with +a man, for it roused his passions. Lois said she thought the smell +inside of a cab would put anyone off, and Livvy said that in that case +a cab would be waste of money. + +“But can he marry? _Can_ a second lieutenant?” + +“Oh, I can wait some years. But I shall go and stay with his relations +and wear a ring and all, so that there need not be any uncertainty.” + +“Why not tell your father now and have it announced?” said Lois +hopefully. She watched her own face looking up from the mottled +piano-top and felt very singular, distant and destined, like Melisande. +“I don’t think,” she said, “that _I_ should be afraid of your father.” + +For Livvy’s father seemed really a very despondent, mild man with a +yellow drooping moustache that he had always to lift up over the edge +of his teacup. It was hard to picture his chasing around after Livvy +with a blackthorn, or smiting his fist on the dinner-table so that +(as Livvy declared) the plates leaped, or going down with the half of +a tart in his hand to destroy the cook. The worst she had seen him +do, when Livvy was late, was to take his watch out and stand with his +thumb on the lid--not looking at it, as though he could not abide +the thought of Time--while two or three bubbles ran up his throat. +He was a widower: Livvy declared her mother had died of him. He was +a teetotaller: half a decanter of whisky was in his tantalus, but he +had lost the key. Lois now assured Livvy her father would be the ideal +father-in-law; she was sure that David would like him. He would come +and stay and be so absolutely unobtrusive. + +“He has a prejudice against Army officers,” said Livvy despondently. +“He wouldn’t mind if it was the Navy--but what chance have I, living +so far inland? If David was a general with gold all down his front and +spoke of marriage, I think he’d still kill him. He says I’ll get the +house burnt over his head with my goings on.” + +“But if he heard you’d been compromised at the Imperial?” + +“A girl can’t be compromised in the afternoon,” said Livvy gloomily. + +Mr. Thompson did not entertain very much, but Lois remembered once +staying to supper there, early that summer, with David and Gerald. +That was before times got so bad and the officers had to be back +early in barracks. Mr. Thompson’s dining-room looked on to trees, +that fanned little gusts of light over the table then closed again in +green darkness; it smelt of meat and there was an enormous pilastered +mahogany sideboard like the front of a temple, inside which they could +hear mice running about. Mr. Thompson was silent--from fear, they +thought, rather than disapproval--he kept drawing long black horsehairs +from the seat of his chair and laying them out on the cloth. At each +hair, David and Gerald leaned forward and opened their mouths to speak. +But Mr. Thompson went down in his collar so that they could not: they +spoke to each other. And Lois, looking under her lids, had marvelled at +this fortress of many opinions. His sister Miss Thompson was present, +but she was deaf. The dining-room was dark red, with a smoky ceiling, +and Gerald said afterwards he had felt like a disease in a liver. When +the blancmange came in it lay down with a sob and Miss Thompson frowned +at it. “Death of the cow,” thought Lois, and saved this up. Livvy kept +looking warningly at her friends, but they were all polite. Some ducks +filed in at the French window; the guests flapped with their napkins, +but Mr. Thompson said: “Oh, let them be,” and sure enough the ducks +went round the table with their usual urgent look and out by the window +again. Mr. Thompson got up and shut out the May air. “Times change for +the worse,” he said to Gerald, who agreed with him so emphatically that +David had to repeat the interchange to the anxious Miss Thompson. No +wonder Livvy found home dull. + +But the happiness of the evening, the closeness-up of the four to each +other, the tremors they all transmitted, the cramp of inside laughter, +remained with Lois, as though they had held hands tightly under the +large oppression. And--under that pressure of laughter compact to +bursting-point--a particular stored excitement of pride and pleasure, +a jump of intimacy at each other’s voices and movements. And the +awareness stayed when, afterwards, they had laughed themselves out +and were empty and solemn, tinging their interchanges with unusual +shyness. That supper marked a degree in her appreciation of Gerald--his +crystalline niceness. + +For Mr. Thompson, still with a little blancmange hanging off his +moustache, got up and left them. And later Miss Thompson stood +pulling down her skirt across her hips, when Gerald opened the door +so beautifully that she had to go out through it, to perfect an +experience. Then Livvy, to show what she thought of her family, got up +and waltzed round the table, tugged open the window, ran on to the +lawn and with unabated gentility jumped on all the croquet hoops, David +following. And Gerald turned for the first time to look at Lois, who +looked away. They poured out more barley-water and, in an ecstasy of +bad manners, bubbled into their glasses. They went out and sat on the +seat by the croquet lawn, under a bush of syringa. Waxy petals touched +Lois’s arm stretched out along the back of the seat, the air smelt of +almonds, moths came slanting out of the bush and glittered off on the +dusk. + +Miss Thompson declared it had been a pleasure, and had asked them to +come again. Lois now said: “I should tell your aunt, she has so little +to interest her; I am sure she would be wonderfully sympathetic.” + +“I always find it difficult,” Livvy said, “to open the subject of +marriage.” And as she looked down, looked significant, the word did +flower over with implications, so that it was, to Lois, at once in a +pit and upon a pinnacle that she leaned and frowned and dangled her +garnet ring. + +“If only David were more determined!” + +“But aren’t you certain he wants to marry you?” + +“Yes, but he needs to have it all arranged for him. Just because I’m +such a capable girl.... Listen, Lois: if you were to be engaged to +Gerald Lesworth it would in a kind of way set the ball rolling. Then I +should say to my father--” + +“Oh, but then I--” + +“Of course he may not ask you. But that being so, I should say to my +father--” + +“S_s_h!” + +Laurence was well into the drawing-room before he recognized Livvy’s +shoulder-blades and saw her pink reflection nodding at him in a glass. +He flushed with annoyance and bowed. There was ink on his forehead, +between the eyebrows, where he had rubbed with the tip of his pen. “How +d’you do,” he said and, to Lois: “Has Miss Norton started? Started--set +out--gone to village? Eh?” + +“Oh ... yes.” + +“Pity. Did she seem to be ... waiting about at all?” + +Livvy giggled. Lois said, oh no, she had not seemed to be waiting +about. Why? + +“Curiosity. I could have gone for her; I have nothing to do.” + +“She hadn’t got anything to do either.” + +“Naturally.” The two girls leaning shoulder to shoulder on the piano +filled Laurence with an unutterable depression. He could not leave +them. He went to a table of books, took up a book on Nigeria, looked +intently into it and blew some dust from between the pages. He felt the +only living thing had gone out of the house. He felt hungry, though it +was not yet half-past eleven. He could not go upstairs and work, or in +fact settle down to anything. He felt as though he were the weather: +“Le temps, c’est moi!” He wished he were the sort of man who would go +out to the yard and take the car to pieces. Marda was the only person +who found him amusing--but perhaps he was not amusing, perhaps they +were right. “Mrs. Montmorency did not sleep either,” he said. “Notice +her eyes this morning?” + +“Eh?” said Livvy. + +“This is a dreadful house, Miss Thompson. I should not stay to lunch +if I were you. Besides, it’s only mutton, I asked the cook. Lois, have +you any foolscap? I thought I might write a novel.” + +“Oh, _do!_ Oh, how lovely! But I have no foolscap; ask Uncle Richard. +He has some paper over from when he was going to write his memoirs.... +Laurence, _are_ you going to stay in here?” + +“Well, I’d rather not.” It occurred to him that he might do worse +than walk over to lunch with the Careys. There would be a freshness +in their dullness and dampness after the dullness and dampness here, +while his own would have a charm for them, a fertilizing strangeness. +The households had not seen anything of each other for three days. +Both families had driven over to Castle Trent to hear about the raid, +but had missed each other by half an hour. There would be the raid to +discuss, and how the Trents were taking it; also, the Careys lived +well--at the worst there could be nothing worse than mutton. “I am +going to lunch at Mount Isabel--any message to Nona?” + +“_Oh!_” said Lois. Her eyes went dark with vivid and deep +disappointment at the thought of anybody doing anything without her. +She missed everything, no one would ever care, she would never marry. +She blinked as Laurence went out and shut the door. + +“Funny thing,” said Livvy, “the way your cousin blushes whenever he +sees me.” She looked at herself in the tall glass and settled her side +hair. “Now, Lois, what I always feel: a girl is only young once--” + +“I expect,” said Lois, “that that is all for the best.” + + + + + XIV + + +“THOUGH to tell you the truth,” said Lady Naylor, circulating among the +begonia beds at Mount Isabel, “though I am in a way sorry, I am not +altogether sorry that she is going.” + +She glanced closely at Mrs. Carey’s profile, to see that her exact +shade of meaning had been taken. Mrs. Carey nodded and wrinkled up her +forehead, very profoundly. She was thinking about something else. She +stooped, pulled off three dead begonias and crumpled them into her +pocket. + +“Because if that should be what she is going to do, I should rather she +did not do it with us. For one thing, the Lawes are relations, they +are cousins to a cousin of mine by marriage. One does not know what +they might not say about influence. Though no one could interfere less +than I do, one never knows, does one, what might go round through the +family? And really I am superstitious about her visits, already this +time she has lost a suitcase. One cannot help feeling responsible.” + +“But are you certain,” asked Mrs. Carey, looking critically round this +part of her garden as though she were wishing to have it all up and +replant it again, “that she is going to break it off?” + +“I shouldn’t like to say. She has got into a kind of a nervous habit +of sending telegrams. Up and down, up and down all day to the village. +Surely that is abnormal in an engaged girl? It is not even as if they +were buying a house or anything. It’s bound to be so unintimate--unless +she does not consider the post-mistress, and I do think really she +ought to because it is our post-mistress. And another thing--I don’t +really know that I ought to speak of this, but I really cannot discuss +it with poor little Francie--I don’t think she has at all a good effect +on Hugo. You know what he’s like usually? Well, he’s quite different. +Quite _empressé_.... But I don’t expect there is anything in that +really. One so easily says too much.” + +She paused, sighed and waited. Mrs. Carey looked at her mildly. “Oh?” +she said. “Oh yes. But how do you mean?” + +“I know Francie notices; I know she is unhappy. Of course she always is +unhappy, but she’s unhappy now in a different way. Of course one hates +to say it, but one does know what Hugo _is_ ...” + +“Oh--is he really?” said Mrs. Carey, startled. + +“What Hugo needs is real trouble. Now if poor little Francie died--” + +“Is she seriously--?” + +“No, I feel that he will die first, he has just that way of avoiding +things. Look how he didn’t marry Laura.... However, I expect I am being +quite ridiculous; I hate to exaggerate--it is from having Laurence so +much in the house. Have you noticed how clever young men--? I believe +he’s worse in England; they think him amusing. Of course there is no +harm in Marda; one has known her since she was little. She’s only +wild--two of her uncles were like that. Shall you ever forget how her +knee bled that afternoon? You know, I didn’t give another children’s +party for three years!” + +Coming to the edge of the lawn, they looked down on a court where +Marda, Lois, Laurence and Nona Carey were playing tennis. The two +ladies, at peace and with the faint self-congratulation with which one +generation watches another, gazed with a statuesque remoteness over the +foreground. “She is, somehow, I don’t know ... charming,” said Mrs. +Carey, as Marda and Lois crossed and recrossed. “Shall we go round +before tea and look at the dahlias? I wanted to ask you ...” + +They turned, having cast an imposing shadow over the consciousness of +the players, and went softly, heavily over the grass to the iron door +of the garden. It seemed natural to Mrs. Carey, half dissolved in the +brightness and depth of the afternoon, that Hugo should be attracted +towards a fellow-visitor; such things came on and passed, transitory as +a summer. She did not see that there was anything one need do; she said +so to Lady Naylor. + +The fine weather was back again. Over the roof of Mount Isabel a +mountain sheathed in pink air looked gentle and distant. Light slid +over the heavy burnished trees; the cream façade of the house was like +cardboard, high and confident in the sun--a house without weight, an +appearance less actual than the begonias’ scarlet and wax-pink flesh. +Begonias, burning in an impatience of colour, crowded over the edge of +heart-shaped beds. As the four came up from the court there was silence +over the sheen of grass. Then a maid leaned out from the dark through +the drawing-room window sounding the brass tea-gong: a minor note. + +Marda perhaps was wild, like her uncles, but not inconsiderate. She +had realized, almost upon arrival, that the worst thing she could +do would be to attract Mr. Montmorency. To be loved by him would be +the culminating disaster of her unfortunate visits. The idea seemed +to her silly--she could not think of herself as fatal--but rooted +itself during a fit of extreme apprehension induced by the loss of +her suitcase. She dreaded the suitcase might not be the close of +her record; having made the acquaintance of Hugo she saw it would +not be. She might not be fatal, but _here_ she was certainly fated. +She thought: “Damn him!” with conscious injustice and drew on every +resource, all that might once have been called the arts of her sex to +repel, to annoy and to bore him. That day of the beech walk, in old +Dannie’s cottage, she had had in a flash the measure of her unsuccess. +Persistently charmless, untiring in her attempts not to please, she +had still to retreat, resentful, upon a female wariness, guardedness, +circumspection she had always despised. Her reward: at the foot of +the stairs at bedtime, a contact of finger-tips--all of himself in +the touch--as he gave her her candlestick: a startled look over the +flame. And as the four candles went up with the ladies, drawing a tide +of shadow, she and Lois had turned at a turn of the stairs to see him +still there, looking up from the staggering mounting dark. She took +Lois’s arm. + +That was the night he did not sleep, and Lois did not sleep either. + +To-day, Smith had ridden over to Mount Isabel for tea and Nona. +He stood smiling over the glittering tray, in the high dark-yellow +shadows, pleased but anonymous. He was a man whose name one could not +remember. But his appearance agitated Mrs. Carey, who recalled that he +did not eat any tea. She hoped it would all be all right. + +She said to Marda distractedly: “I am glad you are going to be happy: I +hope you will be really, really married.” + +“Thank you so much,” said Marda. “I am sure I shall be.” + +“Of course,” continued Mrs. Carey, still watching Smith, “I ought not +to congratulate him, I ought to congratulate you.” + +“I am very fortunate.” + +“Oh _no_, I don’t mean that at all. Show me your lovely ring--oh, you +haven’t got it on. But I expect you have got a lovely ring. Mr. Smith, +I hope you will play tennis?” + +But Smith, who did not feel like tennis, had not brought shoes. Tennis +was not his idea at all. He had thought perhaps a little walk in the +garden, a few plums ... And Nona got up very pink and conscious and +circulated with plates of cake. She knew that she must throw off people +like Mr. Smith because next summer she was to be presented and have a +season in London. Lady Naylor could not help raising her eyebrows at +Mrs. Carey. + +“Such a pity,” remarked Mrs. Carey, as they slid up arm-chairs to the +tea-table, “you didn’t bring over the Montmorencys. Wouldn’t they come?” + +“_He_ might have come,” said Laurence, “but as I am not allowed to +drive there was not room in the car. There were too many of us.” + +“Never mind,” said Marda. “I am going on Saturday.” + +“Oh no, you aren’t!” cried Lois, and added respectfully: “Don’t be so +silly.” + +Lady Naylor sighed. “Unfortunately, Marda must go back to England. I +don’t know what we shall do without her....” + +“Do you like England?” said Nona Carey, moving away from Smith. “Are +you really going to live there? I always think it’s so new-looking. But +of course there’s a great deal going on.... Where do _you_ live, Mr. +Smith?” + +“Eastbourne.” + +Though Lady Naylor said at once that that must be very bracing, Smith +wilted under a general commiseration. He recrossed his legs, frowned +at the toe of his shoe and said he thought sometimes of going to East +Africa. A forlorn and slighted feeling the announcement of Marda’s +departure cast over them was heightened by this proposed defection of +Smith’s. Lady Naylor remarked disparagingly that that would be rather +lonely, while Mrs. Carey, seeing Smith at once against hot African +skies in a silhouette of nobility, felt they had been unkind and asked +him to come over here on the sofa and tell her about himself. He told +her. Nona sat and twirled on the music stool. + +“Smith,” said Laurence, “you ought to stay and defend us.” And Smith +had to promise he would not leave the Army and go to East Africa till +they were all settled. + +But to Laurence and Lois this all had already a ring of the past. +They both had a sense of detention, of a prologue being played out +too lengthily, with unnecessary stress, a wasteful attention to +detail. Apart, but not quite unaware of each other, queerly linked by +antagonism, they both sat eating tea with dissatisfaction, resentful +at giving so much of themselves to what was to be forgotten. The +day was featureless, a stock pattern day of late summer, blandly +insensitive to their imprints. The yellow sun--slanting in under the +blinds on full-bosomed silver, hands balancing Worcester, dogs poking +up wistfully from under the cloth--seemed old, used, filtering from +the surplus of some happy fulfilment; while, unapproachably elsewhere, +something went by without them. + +Marda wanted more tea--but they were all distracted, an argument raged +round Smith. “You must, of course, go on Saturday?” said Laurence, +taking her cup. “Oh yes--why?” She leaned back from the bar of sun, +into the shade of the curtains. Shadow gave transparency to her +colours; its brown clarity hardened her face revealingly so that she +was exposed a moment, in her anxiety, without the defence of manner. +Her green linen dress went ghostly against the cretonne’s rather +jarring florescence. + +“Just when it’s fine,” said Laurence, banal with sincerity. + +“That is because I’m going.” + +He listened a moment and, as the uproar of argument was sustained, said +quickly: “Lois and I aren’t a good addition--the Montmorencys think +so. Is that what bored you? Nobody’s ever gone so soon. There was a +walk I wanted to take you.” He rattled the cup and saucer at her in +desperation. “I think you make a mistake, going.” + +“Oh, I expect so, but--” + +“Look at Lois, her eyes are starting out of her head. When you’ve gone, +she’ll go up and cry on your bed. It will fill her mornings.” + +“Oh, shut up, she can hear you.” + +“No,” said Laurence, “she can’t, though she’s trying to. I’m not so +sorry, but I do think it’s unimaginative of you going. Why have you got +to see Mr. Lawe? I mean, quite dispassionately, isn’t there heaps of +time for him?... You see,” concluded Laurence, “I am enraged--by all +this--past snubbing-point.” + +“I want some more tea,” said Marda, “more than anything in the world.” + +Unable to attract the attention of their hostess, Laurence leaned +over the tray and took the teapot. On his way back to Marda he +guessed from the unmoving intentness with which she was staring +out at the begonias--they gave back little vermilion flecks to her +eyes--that there was some one at the bottom of this and that it was +Mr. Montmorency. He had learnt--from leaning out of his window while +his aunt talked to Mrs. Montmorency down on the steps--that they all +thought she contemplated breaking off her engagement. Personally he +thought this improbable. Mr. Montmorency himself was the supreme +objection; but also she would be getting herself a good home and what +went with it--money, assurance and scope. He himself only wished he +could do so as easily. He now stood above her holding the cup of tea +and could have counted three before she turned round. But then--oh, the +waste of his comprehension--he saw she was laughing. + +She had laughed at a thought of the subdued surprise with which they +would come to her wedding; barely dressed as befitted because of that +unshaken disbelief in her; buttoning, till well up the aisle, their +white gloves. But the origin of their disbelief did not seem to her +funny; had acquired for her, in fact, a tragic vulgarity. So that she +did not explain the joke to Laurence; she thanked him and drank the +tea, which was all wrong. + +Out, at last, through the window, dazzled, threading and separating +between the flower-beds, the party dispersed with their cigarettes. +Large to themselves, to each other graduating from a little below +life-size to an eye from the mountain ant-like--but smaller and less +directed--or like beads tipped out. A sense of exposure, of being +offered without resistance to some ironic un-curiosity, made Laurence +look up at the mountain over the roof of the house. In some gaze--of +a man’s up there hiding, watching among the clefts and ridges--they +seemed held, included and to have their only being. The sense of a +watcher, reserve of energy and intention, abashed Laurence, who turned +from the mountain. But the unavoidable and containing stare impinged +to the point of a transformation upon the social figures with their +orderly, knitted shadows, the well-groomed grass and the beds, worked +out in this pattern. + +Driving home, tightly packed hip to hip in the back of the car between +Marda and Lois, and bumping conjointly over the inequalities of the +road, Lady Naylor told them of a discovery she had made. Mrs. Carey, +also, did not understand modern young people. They seemed, Mrs. Carey +had said, to have no idealism, no sense of adventure, they thought so +much of their comfort-- Possibly Mrs. Carey was wrong? But almost +she thought she agreed with her. In their youth, Mrs. Carey and she +would have been deeply excited by all that was happening round them. +Lady Naylor thought all young people ought to be rebels; she herself +had certainly been a rebel. But since the War, they had never ceased +mouching. She herself had had a deep sense of poetry; she remembered +going to sleep with Shelley under her pillow. She used to walk alone in +the mountains and hated coming in to meals. Mrs. Carey had noticed that +Nona would not miss a meal for anything--she was unpunctual always, but +never absent. But perhaps Mrs. Carey misjudged the girl? Mrs. Carey and +she had passed through periods of profound unhappiness. And yet their +youth was a golden period; they would not have missed it. It did seem a +pity, they both had agreed, to be born middle-aged. + +These last remarks were directed with a degree of resentment at +Laurence’s back view, in the front of the car by the chauffeur. His +ears, of unfortunate conformation, curled out semi-transparent against +the evening light. Laurence said nothing, but thought; he must write +that novel, for here lay a gold-mine (then Spain and those first +editions, a Picasso and curtains for his rooms). He would vindicate +modern young people for his aunt and her generation. Only he did +not know if he should write about cocktail parties or whimsical +undergraduates. + + + + + XV + + +HUGO was dumb, his companion inattentive to him in silence. They walked +on the turf of the Darra valley, along the edge of the water: he beat +with his stick at the gold, strident ragwort. At every flash of the +stick she glanced in surprise, but did not say: “Spare them.” Lois, +straggling behind, threw in twig after twig to the swollen, hurrying +Darra; ran a short way with each in intense excitement, lost it and +threw in another. She seemed absorbed but remotely dependent, like one +of the dogs. If she had fallen in with a loud enough splash and a cry +she might have distracted the couple ahead, but she was surefooted and +not quite certain enough of herself to fall in on purpose. + +Recollections of Laura were now wiped for him from the startlingly +green valley, leaving the scene dull. Not a turn of the rocks with the +river, not a break-down of turf along the brink, not the Norman keep +with perishing corners (where they leaned and quarrelled till Laura +had wished aloud it would fall on them) gave back to him what they had +taken of that eroding companionship. He and she might never have come +here; they were disowned. The sharp rocks breaking out from the turf, +the impassive speed of the water were naked and had to be seen as +themselves, in some relation excluding him; like country seen from the +train, without past or future. And, having given proof of her impotence +to be even here, Laura shrank and drew in her nimbus, leaving only--as +in some rediscovered diary of a forgotten year--a few cryptic records, +walks, some appointments kept, letters received and posted. + +He now guessed, in fact, he had never loved her. Shocked but with +an enlivening sense of detachment, he turned to Marda--but still +had nothing to say. She walked rather too quickly beside him, with +long steps. She was leaving to-morrow; she was to be in England +indefinitely: she seemed content. And for this, his anger released from +Laura, settled upon her. He loved her: a sense of himself rushed up, +filling the valley. The rocks again were transmuted: broken all over in +planes of light, a defeated sharpness, they were no more limestone. + +“Mrs. Montmorency knows Leslie’s aunt,” said Marda suddenly. “Do you? +It seems so extraordinary?” + +“If I ever did I’ve forgotten her.” + +“She’s so nice.” + +“I have no doubt.” + +“Let’s ask Lois to come and talk to us.” + +“She seems quite happy. Where do you go--after to-morrow?” + +“Oh, Kent. Doesn’t it seem extraordinary?” + +Having given the matter rather too marked attention, he pronounced that +her sense of the extraordinary seemed to him extravagant. She agreed +there did seem to be some disparity in their outlook. “Disparity!” +he cried out. “Everything! What a good thing we shall never need to +understand each other.” + +“I never try to understand anybody,” she said mildly. + +“No, indeed,” he replied with sarcasm. “Who is worth it?” + +At this she looked back again for Lois. She remembered Francie, +seeing them off from the steps in a pink blouse, and the look that +fluttered after them down the avenue. No wonder Francie looked like a +windflower--her husband had this unfortunate ability to be young at any +time. His unordered moods gave him the churlishness of a schoolboy; his +silliness embarrassed her. Yet anger did illuminate him becomingly: +brighter and harder, for the first time he could be conceived as +lovable. Though in this personal atmosphere generated by his temper she +was feeling least herself, most nearly negative. + +“I should like to go over there,” she said, looking across the water to +where trees began on a skyline and went down steeply, powdered yellow +with light on their tops. + +“We can’t,” he said, triumphant, “the stepping-stones are covered.” He +showed her a line of faint scars, a hesitation across the current. + +“I never thought of there being stepping-stones. I only wanted to cross +because we couldn’t. Why does one always seem to be on the wrong side?” + +“I should have thought you never were--don’t you even make rather a +point of that?” + +She was exasperated past caution. “Mr. Montmorency, what _is_ the +matter?” + +Seeing that he had overreached himself, been absurd, he raised his +eyebrows in courteous mystification--“Matter?”--did not reply but began +talking about his travels--the greenest river he knew was the Ain, +he said; had she ever looked down on the Ain?--an appointment he had +held in the North (a deterrent from travel), his five years in London +(release from the North), a business enterprise with which he had once +been connected. It had never been sound, he now saw, he said, but had +once had a chance of success. She took him as he had intended, as the +practical man _manqué_. They discussed the question of Canada, whether +he would have succeeded. She thought, emphatically, it was a pity he +had not tried. “But my wife’s health--” “Oh yes, Mrs. Montmorency ...” + +“The fact is, I have not made her happy.” + +“She would always be happy a little; she is wonderfully unselfish.” + +“Do you mean--” + +“Oh, what _is_ that? The ghost of a Palace Hotel?” + +The mill startled them all, staring, light-eyed, ghoulishly, round a +bend of the valley. Lois had to come hurrying up to explain how it +frightened her. In fact, she wouldn’t for worlds go into it but liked +going as near as she dared. It was a fear she didn’t want to get over, +a kind of deliciousness. These dead mills--the country was full of +them, never quite stripped and whitened to skeletons’ decency: like +corpses at their most horrible. “Another,” Hugo declared, “of our +national grievances. English law strangled the--” But Lois insisted +on hurrying: she and Marda were now well ahead. + +The river darkened and thundered towards the mill-race, light came full +on the high façade of decay. Incredible in its loneliness, roofless, +floorless, beams criss-crossing dank interior daylight, the whole +place tottered, fit to crash at a breath. Hinges rustily bled where a +door had been wrenched away; up six stories panes still tattered the +daylight. Mounting the tree-crowded, steep slope some roofless cottages +nestled under the flank of the mill with sinister pathos. A track +going up the hill from the gateless gateway perished among the trees +from disuse. Banal enough in life to have closed this valley to the +imagination, the dead mill now entered the democracy of ghostliness, +equalled broken palaces in futility and sadness; was transfigured by +some response of the spirit, showing not the decline of its meanness, +simply decline; took on all of the past to which it had given nothing. + +Rooks disturbed the trees, disturbed the echoes. “_Don’t_ go in!” cried +Lois and clutched Marda’s arm convulsively. + +“Come on,” said Marda, “I feel demoralized, girlish. Let’s hide from +Mr. Montmorency.” Lois shied through the gateway with more than +affected nervousness. This was her nightmare: brittle, staring ruins. +Mr. Montmorency, disgruntled, still dawdled by the river; the idea of +escape appeared irresistible. But the scene was strangely set for a +Watteau interlude. Inside the mill door, a high surge of nettles; one +beam had rotted and come down, there was some debris of the roof. + +“If he starts shouting,” Lois said, apprehensive, “he’ll certainly +bring the mill down. Oh, I can’t come in, oh, I can’t possibly. Oh, +it’s beastly here; I feel sick. I think you are quite mad!” + +“I think you’re a shocking little coward.” + +“I’m not afraid of anything _reasonable_. But I’m simply nervous, one +can’t help that.” + +“Come in through that door.” + +“But it’s so _high_.” + +Marda put an arm round her waist, and in an ecstasy at this compulsion +Lois entered the mill. Fear heightened her gratification; she welcomed +its inrush, letting her look climb the scabby and livid walls to the +frightful stare of the sky. Cracks ran down; she expected, now with +detachment, to see them widen, to see the walls peel back from a +cleft--like the House of Usher’s. + +“Hate it?” said Marda. + +“You’d make me do anything.” + +The sun cast in through the window sockets some wild gold squares +twisted by the beams; grasses along the windows trembled in light. +Marda turned and went picking her way through the nettles; there was +a further door, into darkness--somewhere, a roof still held. “Marda, +help: here’s a dead crow!” “Tchch!” + +“But it’s very dead!” Shuddering exaggeratedly, leaping in a scared +way over the nettles, Lois also made for the dark doorway, eager for +comment, contempt, consolation. She was a little idiot--appealing, she +felt quite certain, to a particular tenderness. + +In the dark of a lean-to, Marda was moving dimly. “Stairs!” she +exclaimed with interest. Then she was back in a flash and stood in +the door, barring it. She stood intently; menace contracted about her +attitude. + +“What?” whispered Lois. + +“Ssh--some one’s asleep here.” + +“Perhaps they’re dead?” She stared past Marda’s shoulder into the +darkness, and, desirous, laughed, then clapped the back of a hand to +her mouth--unnatural gesture, adequate to the drama. Gradually, she +was able to see a man lying face down, arms spread out; a coat rolled +into a pillow under his face which twisted sideways a little to let him +breathe. One fist, clenched loosely, strayed to a clump of nettles; +the knuckles must have been stung quite white. He could not feel the +nettles--one had to imagine sleep like that! Behind him, stairs went up +into visibility, to a gash of daylight. + +Ashamed, the two young women stood elbow to elbow. Marda stepped back, +some plaster crackled under her heel. + +“What’s that?” said the man softly. + +“Come away quickly--come--” + +But the man rolled over and sat up, still in the calm of sleep. “Stay +there,” he said, almost persuasively: a pistol bore the persuasion out. +They were embarrassed by this curious confrontation. Neither of them +had seen a pistol at this angle; it was short-looking, scarcely more +than a button. The man sat looking at them with calculating intentness, +like a monkey, then got up slowly: the pistol maintained its direction. + +“Don’t be silly,” said Marda. “Go to sleep again. We’re not--” + +“Are there any more of yez?” + +“One--not interested either. Better let us go now, there will be less +talk.” + +“We’re just out for a walk,” said Lois, surprised at her own voice. + +“Indeed,” said the man. “It is a grand evening for a walk no doubt. Is +it from Castle Trent y’are?” + +“Danielstown.” + +The man’s eyes went from one to the other, and remained ironically +between them. His face was metal-blue in the dusk and seemed numbed +into immobility. “It is time,” he said, “that yourselves gave up +walking. If you have nothing better to do, you had better keep in the +house while y’have it.” + +Marda, a hand on the frame of the doorway, remained unmoved, but Lois +could not but agree with him. She felt quite ruled out, there was +nothing at all for her here. She had better be going--but where? She +thought: “I must marry Gerald.” But meanwhile Marda, holding her arm +all the time, had softly, satirically pressed it. They could not but +feel framed, rather conscious, as though confronting a camera. The man, +who did not cease to regard them with uneasy dislike, asked which way +they had come, whom they had met, if they had observed any movement of +soldiers about the country. He remained dissatisfied; evidently they +had the appearance of liars. + +Meanwhile Mr. Montmorency, suspicious of merriment somewhere and +determined to humour no one, had sat down to smoke on a parapet. At its +base the bank descended; the river rushed loudly, dark with its own +urgency, under his dangling feet. The mill behind affected him like a +sense of the future; an unpleasant sensation of being tottered over. +Split light, like hands, was dragged past to the mill-race, clawed +at the brink and went down in destruction. He looked at the opposite +hill, its distinct and peaceful trees. Marda belonged there and might +be imagined composedly walking. Knocking some ash off, he leaned +forward and groaned at the intervening water--“On the wrong side”-- +He missed Francie; there welled up in him one great complaint to +Francie. She--selfless woman--would non-committally rustle; some tender +fidgeting always relieved her intentness of listening. Distressed +for her husband, she would let out little sighs. He would tell her +everything.... Yet he could not, for Marda was everywhere present, a +clear ruddy-white mask of surprise. She impinged on the whole of him, +on his most intimate sense of himself, with her cool sombre amusement. +Had she a ghost everywhere?--there was something of her in Francie. + +“It is like this,” he began to rehearse, “what I need is--” + +A shot, making rings in the silence. Eardrums throbbing, he gathered +up the reverberations with incredulity. A battle--a death in the mill? +_Whose_ death? He leapt to one thought, a flash of relief in the panic. +The front of the mill--he ran round to it--grinned with vacancy: corpse +of an idiot. He steadied himself in the door, watched his cigarette +drop into the nettles, then stumbled in over the debris. A crow’s +flight, stooping wildly among the rafters, dislodged a trickle of +plaster. He paused in the well of ruin, terrified for them all. But the +crow swerved out through the roof. + +“Marda!” + +“All right,” said Lois. They appeared in a doorway and looked at him +gravely, rather suspiciously. Marda put up a hand to her mouth--in an +incredible half-glimpse, he thought he saw blood round the lips. + +Something released in his voice, he said: “Marda--for God’s sake--” + +Lois, as though the mill were falling, went white, then crimson. +He had, distantly, some apprehension of an emotional shock. Marda, +perplexedly, continued sucking her hand. Then she took Lois’s +handkerchief, dabbed at her knuckles, wiped the blood from her +lips--where no more came--returned to her knuckles. “I have lost some +skin,” she said at last resentfully. “Just, a pistol went off--you +heard?--by accident. I seem to have lost some pieces of skin.” + +“Let me go past,” he said violently. + +“We swore--” began Lois. + +“Some one went upstairs backward, not very sensibly, not having eaten +much for four days. There was some plaster--the pistol went off, +naturally. It was silly, really. Look at my beastly hand--I was holding +on to the door.” + +“Let me get past--” + +“But we _swore_, Mr. Montmorency--” + +“_You_ deserve to be shot!” He turned in a manner terrifying to all of +them--most of all to himself--on this interruption. “You don’t seem to +see, you seem to have no conception--” + +“Then why sit there and smoke?” said Lois, trembling. “I saw you--you +and your old conceptions.” + +“Shut up,” said Marda, “oh, do shut up!” + +“Don’t stand there, let me go past; I’ll--” + +“Oh, do let’s talk about something else--” + +“We swore,” went on Lois priggishly. “There never was anybody, we never +saw anybody, _you_ never heard--” + +But nobody listened. Vaguely, he waved her silent. + +“The fact is,” said Marda, “we are neither of us good at explosions. +Perhaps if we sat down and thought it over? Perhaps if you went for a +walk--_not_ up in the trees?” + +“No more hide-and-go-seek,” he said, playful with fury. “Still +bleeding--?” + +“Not like I can--I have rather a high standard. Do you remember the +scraper? No, I might have done--_this_--on the broken edge of a slate: +it will be the edge of a slate if you don’t mind. And, being me, it was +bound to happen.” + +He was set on transgressing the decencies. “Don’t you _realize_ you +might have been--” + +Marda laughed, coming out through the door of the mill beside him. He +looked at her lips--no higher--angrily--burningly. Lois looked quickly +away. She thought how the very suggestion of death brought this awful +unprivacy. + +They took his place on the parapet. Warily, they watched him walk back +the way they had come, with effort, as though breasting a current. +Lois took up his forgotten matchbox, shook it and put it away in her +pocket. Their sex was a stronghold, they had to acknowledge silently; +traditionally, one could always retreat on collapse. Mr. Montmorency +having taken away with him any element of agitation, they were left +with a particular sort of shyness. + +“How one talks!” said Marda. + +Lois tied up the hand, she said it seemed like Providence that her +handkerchief should be clean to-day. Marda’s was coloured, that would +never have done. One had always heard that dye ran into the blood. + +“I don’t think it would,” said Marda. “It boils, it is really a good +handkerchief.... This is the worst of big hands.” + +“I suppose they are rather big.” + +“Sorry we went in?” + +“No.” + +“You are being nice to me.... One won’t be girlish again--I think, as a +matter of fact, we were being goatish.” + +“But I’ve had a ... a revelation,” said Lois. She bent forward over the +river, felt streaks of light fly over her face and felt that speech did +not matter when so much was being carried past. “About Mr. Montmorency +... he’s being awful about you, isn’t he?” + +The statement, almost a query, fluttered up at the end. But Marda’s +face was inscrutable with reflections. + +“About you. I had no idea--I was too damned innocent,” she explained +with precision--“till we all stood in there and shouted.--Hear him tell +me I ought to be shot?” + +“He was all--dishevelled. He had to be adequate.” + +“Oh, I didn’t mind. But, I mean, aren’t you rather--embarrassed?” + +“One can’t help things.” + +“_I_ was awful, I said, ‘You and your old conceptions.’ They are rather +old, aren’t they?... I mean, really: he was in love with my mother.” + +“Well, I’m going away, aren’t I?” + +“But, I mean, what is the good of this? It doesn’t make anything.” + +Marda said, inconsequent: “I hope I shall have some children; I should +hate to be barren.” + +“Once I really meant to love him, but it would never have done.” + +Marda leant against Lois’s shoulder. “You are wonderful!” + +“Not so protected as you imagine.” + +“Nothing gets past your imagination.” + +“I wish,” said Lois thoughtfully, “I had really been shot. But I +couldn’t be.” Later she added: “I’m sorry I said that about Mr. +Montmorency. What will become of him?” + +“Nothing.” + +“I’m glad he wasn’t my father.” + +“He couldn’t be anything’s father.” + +“Where shall you be this time to-morrow?” + +“In the train.” + +“Funny,” said Lois. “Queer.” Her heart thumped, she looked at her +watch. “Half-past six,” she said. “It’s harder, for some reason, to +imagine what I’ll be doing or where I shall be.” + +“A nice walk with Laurence, a nice cheerful squabble. If you want +something to talk about, talk about me.” + +“No, no, I mean ... No.” She looked up from the water. “You know,” +she said, “all this has quite stopped any excitement for me about the +mill. It’s a loss, really. I don’t think I’ll come down this part of +the river again.... Will you have to tell Leslie? I don’t think you +ought to: a swear _is_ a swear, isn’t it, even in England.” + +Nothing would have induced Marda to confirm Leslie’s opinion that +her country was dangerous as well as demoralizing. He hated to think +of even his aunts at that side of the Channel. She expected, some +forty-eight hours ahead, to be walking with him in a clipped and +traditional garden, in Kentish light. Under these influences, she would +be giving account of herself. Leslie’s attention, his straight grey +gaze, were to modify these wandering weeks of her own incalculably, not +a value could fail to be affected by him. So much of herself that was +fluid must, too, be moulded by his idea of her. Essentials were fixed +and localized by their being together--to become as the bricks and +wall-paper of a home. + +At present, the mill was behind her, tattered and irrelevantly +startling, like a dream of two nights ago. And Lois kept turning upon +her a tragic and obstinate gaze: she could sense a persistence of +Leslie upon the mental scene. Lois said, but defeatedly: “He is certain +to be suspicious.” + +“I certainly won’t tell.” + +“So it will be a secret?” + +“A perfect secret.” + +“Thank you so much,” said Lois. As though breaking a spell, she shifted +away down the parapet, put her feet to the ground, and was surprised to +feel her legs trembling under her. “Here,” she said generously, “comes +Mr. Montmorency.” + +He came: “with demurest of footfalls.” They smiled and shouted along +the bank. Yes, they could come now; yes, they were feeling splendid. +“Shan’t we be late for dinner?” + +“That is impossible,” shouted Mr. Montmorency, who was coming back to +them looking formal and pleasant. + + + + + XVI + + +MARDA was not due to leave until after lunch, but throughout that +morning they were all distressed and sympathetic, could not settle down +to anything, walked about the house. Every time Lady Naylor saw Marda +she asked her if she ought not to be packing, and while Marda packed, +with her door open, Lady Naylor kept looking in to remark how sad it +was to see her thus engaged. Francie sat and sewed in the ante-room, +looking anxiously up whenever anyone passed. The rain fell, the windows +were open, the rooms smelt of window-sills. Francie rolled up her work +with a sigh and went up to tell Marda how sorry she was about the rain. + +“You’ll have a wet drive,” she said. + +“But the hood works,” said Marda, folding together the sleeves of a +scarlet dress. + +“But rain is so sad when one’s going away. Nothing, I mean but a train +to arrive at.” + +“But I really like trains: I am always talked to.” + +“Hugo will be so sorry, he has so much enjoyed talking to you.” + +“It’s been very nice of him.” + +Sir Richard looked up Marda’s train in a May time-table and was worried +because he could not find it. Had she really any proof, he came up to +inquire, that it had been put on since? Would she not be wiser to +catch the 12.30 and have plenty of time for dinner in Dublin? Also, +what was he to do about her suitcase if it ever turned up? But he +almost feared now it would never turn up. He sighed and went back to +the library. + +Laurence sat in his room with a book with the door open; he could see +across the landing into Marda’s room. Evidently she could not make +up her mind which hat to travel in: she tried on three and looked at +herself in each. He did not care for her looks or her clothes, really; +both were over-assured. But then he could not recall whose looks or +whose clothes he did care for. Finally, he went across to say he did +not want _South Wind_ back, she could keep it to leave in the train, or +simply pack it. + +“Oh, thank you,” she said; “do write my name in it.” + +He recoiled at this awful suggestion. + +Her room had all come to pieces--dresses swirled on the bed, hats +perched everywhere; she had lost the wedge from the mirror so that it +wagged right forward, showing its blank side. She was taking more from +the house than herself and her luggage. + +“You will have a wet drive.” + +“The hood works,” said Marda mechanically, throwing some rolled-up +stockings out to make room for some shoes. + +“Hasn’t Lois been up?” + +“I don’t think so.” + +“What can she be doing?” + +“Last time I saw her she was bouncing a tennis ball on the dining-room +wall between the portraits. She says she has not much to do at present.” + +“Anything I can--” + +“Oh, if you’d write my labels--” + +“I will indeed, but I hate block printing--need they--?” + +“Well, I’m afraid I would rather--” + +“Remarkable orange labels,” said Laurence, taking the packet from her +politely. + +“Here is Livvy Thompson,” he added, looking out of the window. “She +must have ridden over to say good-bye.” + +“But I don’t know her.” + +“She doesn’t know that: you have met.” + +Marda leaned out and called her good-byes to Livvy, who waved and +shouted up to her that she would have a very wet drive. Marda withdrew, +shutting the window abruptly. + +“I am sorry,” said Laurence, “that our young men will not have a chance +to say good-bye to you.” + +“I’ve only met one of them--Gerald.” + +“Oh yes, you weren’t here for our last party. What a very short time +you _have_ been here.... I hope you’ll come back again soon--with your +husband?” + +“Thank you, it’s very kind of you.” + +Laurence bowed and went away with the labels. + +When Lois heard Livvy’s voice on the steps she fled to the back of the +house and hid in a box-room. Sir Richard had to tell Livvy he did not +know where she was; last time he had seen her she had been sorting out +some packs of old playing-cards in the drawing-room and seemed very +busy. Livvy was much disappointed; however, she took her horse round, +then sat in the hall to wait. + +Lady Naylor--who had spared her attention to Marda with difficulty: +this was a busy morning--was agitated by this development. She stood at +the foot of the stairs, calling Lois. + +“She doesn’t seem to be anywhere,” Francie at last called helpfully, +from the ante-room. + +“But Livvy Thompson is sitting in the hall.” + +“Ask Hugo to find her.” + +“I can’t find him either.” + +“Perhaps they have both gone out to the garden?” + +“Not in all this rain.” + +Lady Naylor sighed, gathered up two of the kitchen kittens that were +trespassing on the stairs and plunged away through a swing door. It +was twenty to twelve: extraordinary how one’s mornings went! Lunch was +to be unnaturally early because of Marda’s departure: evidently, Livvy +would, remain for it. She looked reproachfully into the library. But +there Sir Richard was engaged with the herd, discussing the Darramore +pig fair. + +Meanwhile Lois was very melancholy in the box-room. The window was dark +with ivy, she could not see out. The room was too damp for the storage +of trunks that were not finished with anyhow; mustiness came from her +mother’s old vaulted trunks and from a stack of crushed cardboard +boxes. On the whitewash, her mother, to whom also the box-room had been +familiar, had written L. N.; L. N., and left an insulting drawing of +somebody, probably Hugo. She had scrawled with passion; she had never +been able to draw. Lois looked, and strained after feeling, but felt +nothing. Her problem was, not only _how_ to get out unseen, but _why_, +to what purpose? + +She did not really know Marda well; to go up and offer to help her +pack would surely appear unnatural? Or worse, one might seem to be +taking advantage of yesterday? One had been passingly intimate under +the pistol’s little acute, pig eye--but one had not spoken again of +it. If she were free, she could search the rooms for something that +looked plausibly Marda’s--a magazine, a handkerchief--and bring it up. +But then Livvy was unavoidable, varnished up to the height of a shine +with love and bursting open with confidences like a cotton-pod. She was +appalled by these thoughts of Livvy. + +But Livvy was privileged. If she chose to announce her engagement even +Sir Richard must stop and listen. It was a passport at any frontier, +that kind of announcement. Spurred by an impulse she did not examine, +Lois picked up two cardboard lids and with infinite breathlessness +crept from the box-room. Through the back-stairs banisters she peered +and listened. Lady Naylor had given up calling, but could still be +heard complaining to some one in the basement that she did not know +where Lois was. + +Marda had finished packing, but felt it would not be decent to reappear +so soon. Especially when weather did not permit of the “last walk,” +a formal parade of the grounds with her host and hostess before +lunch-time. She was pleased to see Lois appear in the doorway. + +“I brought up some cardboard in case you were packing photographs.” + +“But I haven’t got any photographs.” + +“And you’re packed ... Would you like me to sit on anything?” + +“No, I think they will all shut.” + +“What about Leslie?” + +“Oh, he is in talc--unbreakable.” + +“I say, I have never seen your engagement ring.” + +“Oh yes, we must see the ring,” called Laurence, from over the landing. +Surprised by a sudden stillness inside the whirlwind, he had been +settling down to a half-morning’s work. But he came across and breathed +on the ring with Lois, in an imitation of reverence, then returned +to his work, shutting the door loudly. Lady Naylor was heard on the +stairs again, talking to some one below as she came up. Lois uttered +an exclamation of despair and dashed behind a window curtain. Lady +Naylor came in with some cake in a cardboard box. She said she did not +believe the train had a tea-car, but that Marda should be able to get a +tea-basket at Ballybrophy. “But I am sure you won’t care for tea-basket +cakes, we none of us do.” + +“Thank you _so_ much--” + +“My dear,” said her hostess, “it is really a terrible pity about your +hand. Especially as it’s the left hand, as I’m afraid you will have to +be conventional and start wearing your ring again, now you are going to +England. It is extraordinary, Marda, the way things happen to you.” + +“We must be thankful,” said Marda, “that nothing worse has happened +this time.” Both thinking of Hugo, they looked at each other +benevolently, brightly and blankly. “At least she has not thought of +_that_,” they both thought. + +Lady Naylor looked with surprise at Lois’s feet. “If you are hiding +there,” she said, “it is simply silly. I have been calling you +everywhere. Livvy is waiting for you down in the hall.” + +“But I don’t want to see her.” + +“But she is waiting for you in the hall.” + +“I’ve got nothing to say and I’m sick of always having to keep on +saying it.” + +“I can’t help that, she is your friend. And I thought her feelings +seemed very much hurt.” + +“She will stay to lunch, you know,” Lois retorted. + +“How fickle girls are!” said Lady Naylor, sitting down on the +window-sill. Her manner of sitting and waiting most strongly encouraged +an exit. + +Lady Naylor was more than busy, but could not resist this last +opportunity to discover, before the veil of an international marriage +descended, what Marda really thought of the English. For nothing of +Leslie was Irish except his aunts. + +“Of course really,” she said, “you are very adaptable. I dare say we +all are, but with some of us it does not have to come into play. I dare +say you’ll be very happy indeed. Where did you think of living?” + +Leslie had thought of London, Marda confessed an omission on her part. + +“Of course that is hardly England,” said Lady Naylor, encouraging. “And +of course it will be lovely for you being able to go abroad so easily; +you will be so much nearer everything. And you will have no neighbours, +one never has, I believe.” + +“Demoralizing ...” + +“You could certainly never be happy living like Anna Partridge. She has +an unnaturally sweet disposition: I often pity her.... I always find +the great thing in England is to have plenty to say, and mercifully +they are determined to find one amusing. But if one stops talking, +they tell one the most extraordinary things, about their husbands, +their money affairs, their insides. They don’t seem discouraged by not +being asked. And they seem so intimate with each other; I suppose it +comes from living so close together. Of course they are very definite +and practical, but it is a pity they talk so much about what they are +doing. I can’t think why they think it should matter: supposing I came +up here and insisted on telling you what I had been doing the whole +morning!” + +Marda, feeling how true this must be, pulled open an empty drawer and +looked into it, much depressed. + +“Though I don’t think it is fair,” pursued Lady Naylor, “to say +they have no sense of humour, and of course they are anxious not to +appear conventional, and they are kindness itself once they have +‘placed’ one.... Marda, surely you are not going to travel in that +thin coat? Well, for heaven’s sake do not develop a cold till it can +be obvious that you haven’t caught it here. How very unfortunate you +have been in your weather! Just that one fine day at Castle Isabel +and yesterday evening when you went for your walk. Before you came it +was brilliant--such a pity you missed our last party--and as I was +saying-- Why, Hugo ...” + +He did not seem pleased to be with them. He was nonplussed at finding +the door open, having prepared to tap on it inexpressively. Francie had +insisted on sending him up with some eau-de-Cologne. She expected that +Marda, being so modern, would not care for eau-de-Cologne, but wanted +to give her some little token for the journey: this was all she could +think of. To the idea of this present he offered surprising resistance. +Or could she not take up her present herself? Her large eyes of protest +reminded him--their plan of life must eliminate stairs for her; +already, she had been up to the top once. So here he was, prepared to +recede three steps when Marda should come to her door: he was of that +school. + +He stood back from the door, looking past with surprise at the room’s +non-committal features--the chairs, the window--as though he were +specially struck by there being a room at all in this part of the +house, and especially this room. Some tree-tops fidgeted under his +scrutiny. Where had he been all the morning, his hostess wanted to +know; no one could find him. Indeed? They could not have looked far: +for he had been in the dining-room, down at the dark end, taking out +those old _Illustrated London News_, old bound volumes he remembered +since he was a boy. There was that Tsar being bombed by Nihilists: very +interesting. + +“I can’t think how any of those Tsars had any confidence,” said Lady +Naylor gloomily. + +He looked doubtfully at the bottle of eau-de-Cologne; Lady Naylor +asked at once what he had there, was told, and exclaimed at Francie’s +imagination. + +“There is nothing like eau-de-Cologne at the end of a crossing, when +one is trying to look like something again. Of course, it may not be +so bad to-night: at present I don’t like the look of those trees. Our +inland weather does sometimes go by contraries; it may be surprisingly +calm when one gets to Kingstown. I often wonder if living on an island +does not make one more deeply religious--the French, for instance, +could never have our sense of dependence--though of course they have +railway accidents. But I shouldn’t think of it, Marda, that’s much the +best way. I am sure one is often sea-sick from nervousness.” + +“I don’t know what Miss Norton’s friends will think of her hand,” said +Hugo. “Their worst suspicions will be confirmed; they will think we +have been shooting at her. Her stumble was most unfortunate.” + +“I ought to have brought back that piece of slate from the mill.” + +“I hold you responsible, Hugo; you should not have let her go climbing +about. Never mind, it will give them something to talk about.” + +“You must draw on your imagination,” said Hugo to Marda. “Don’t let +them suspect how tame we all are. They will expect you to be a bit of a +heroine; you must tell them everything that might have happened.” + +Marda, finding a place for the bottle of eau-de-Cologne at the top of +her dressing-case, declared: “That would be inexhaustible.” + +“They may think it odd that you should have cut the _back_ of your +hand....” + +The three closed suitcases had a look of finality. Marda wished to +go down and find Francie and thank her, they all three crossed the +landing at a high pitch of affability. Laurence gripped the hair over +his temples in larger handfuls and crouched lower down over his book. +His thoughts, tight with concentration, were darkened by a wave of +malignance. Marda’s door, which no one had shut, remained flapping and +clicking. + +In the yard, under the dripping chestnuts, Lois and Livvy walked about +in their mackintoshes. This afternoon, Lois intended to wash the dogs; +they might anticipate the occasion by disappearance, so she thought it +better to go down now--they had had their dinners--and shut them up in +the stables. They had gone up and looked for no reason into the loft, +at the chaff and the dead swallows. They went back slowly, listening in +vain for the gong. + +“It seems odd,” said Livvy, “she should be going away; she seems to +have only just come. I generally get so accustomed to your visitors. I +have said good-bye to her once--I had no idea I should be staying to +luncheon. However, I don’t suppose she will remember, she seemed rather +flurried. Laurence was up there with her; it seems odd to me to have a +man in one’s bedroom even in the morning, but I dare say she is rather +cosmopolitan.... It does seem a pity, Lois, you forgot to ask her about +that jumper pattern.” + +“Do you remember those Black and Tans on the Clonmore road? They always +remind me of her.” + +“Why?” said Livvy. Then with her holy look, which Lois had up to now +managed to keep in abeyance, she added: “That was a memorable day for +me, naturally.” + +“Why?” said Lois crossly. + +“David and I decided to go to Cork.” + +“I thought you said that was just chance.” + +“It was predestination. Now I must tell you, Lois--” + +“Things that have come just before people seem like part of them.” + +“How you do talk ...” + +“No, I don’t.” + +“Lois,” said Livvy sagaciously, “I hope things are not going wrong +between you and Gerald?” Since her engagement, she spoke of all young +men by their Christian names and made motherly little impulsive +advances in all directions, like Mrs. Vermont. + +Hugo wished to return to the _Illustrated London News_, but the +parlourmaid was laying the table and looked at him in surprise. In the +hall the two young girls, hair damp from their excursion, were playing +left-hand catch with a tennis ball. So he had to go into the library +where his wife and Marda were still talking about eau-de-Cologne--Marda +against the mantelpiece, bright and hard-looking in her coat and skirt. +Eau-de-Cologne wasn’t scent, Francie summed up; she hated scent for it +seemed a kind of advertisement. Sir Richard joined them; they all four +talked in an eager, unnatural way, as though they had just met for the +first time. + +Indeed, the unfamiliarity of the moment made them strange to +themselves, though it now seemed to have been waiting ahead of them +like a trap into which they had stepped with a degree of naturalness. +Sir Richard, the least affected, thought the Montmorencys unduly +animated and deplored departures. Visitors took form gradually in his +household, coming out of a haze of rumour, and seemed but lightly, +pleasantly superimposed on the vital pattern till a departure tore +great shreds from the season’s texture. Francie rubbed the palms of her +hands lightly on the tapestry of the chair-arms. She knew that life +was unkind and that Marda must have begun at least to suspect this; +she wondered how much Marda had understood from the eau-de-Cologne. +Marda, turned half-away from them, tapped a tune on the edge of +the mantelpiece, laughed at every shade of a silence and felt how +resolutely Hugo did not look at her now. There was to be no opportunity +for what he must not say to be father painfully not said. Hugo wished +there had been a fire: the room was cold with rain and branches went +restlessly up and down beyond the windows. Her face and figure, at +which he dared not look, compelled his imagination with ghostly +sharpness. + +“You will have a very wet drive, I’m afraid,” said Sir Richard finally. +To Francie, the remark had a faint echo. Had it been what she was going +to say, or had she once said it? + +Outside in the hall, Livvy skidded over the edge of a rug and came +down heavily, knocking over a wicker chair. The tennis ball bounced +away, Lois shrieked her condolences. They all made a movement of +consternation and were delighted. + +Livvy came into luncheon fragrant with Pond’s Extract, a shiny patch +on her chin. She kept putting up a finger and feeling the bump: David +must “kiss it better” for her to-morrow. David should have witnessed +her courage: he seemed increasingly struck by her moral qualities; he +had never observed these things in a girl before. Yesterday he had +taken her over to tea at the Vermonts; at her suggestion, they had +“told” the Vermonts, in confidence. It had been a success: she had been +made to feel at once she belonged to the regiment. She had had no idea +Mrs. Vermont was so jolly; she had taken Livvy off for a real little +chat in her bedroom; they agreed what a rag it would be if the regiment +went to China. Livvy looked voluptuously from Sir Richard to Lady +Naylor, thinking what a surprise she had here for them both. She ate +two helpings of fricasseed chicken, in absolute silence, designing her +trousseau dressing-gown; and old Mr. Montmorency, who sat beside her, +did not speak either. + +“I like lunch at one,” said Lady Naylor, surprised. “It shortens the +morning, but gives one so much more time in the afternoon. I can’t +think why we don’t have it always.” + +“I see no reason why we should not, my dear,” said Sir Richard, who, +unlike an English husband, was not conservative in these matters. + +The car came round twenty minutes too early, but Sir Richard said the +chauffeur was quite right. He could hardly bear to let Marda drink +her coffee and was but slightly mollified when she burnt herself. Mr. +Montmorency sugared his coffee twice over, to Livvy’s delight. They +drank coffee out in the hall, standing up; it was like the Passover. +Marda went upstairs and came down in her travelling coat. Hugo stood at +the foot of the stairs, in the back hall, tightening the screws of his +racquet press. + +“Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you for being nice to me.” + +“Oh,” said he, looking blindly at her with his pale eyes, “have I been +nice to you? Good!” + +“Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye--Marda.” + +“Don’t come on to the steps--” + +“No, I’ll finish this press--” + +They both half-turned, heard the pendulum of the clock swing once: she +went on into the hall. Everybody was there but Lois. + +Lois stood behind the door in the drawing-room, waiting. “Marda,” she +said through the crack. “Hullo?” said Marda. She came round the door, +pushing it a little way to behind her. They kissed. + +“Marda, I can’t--” + +“Never mind.” + +“_Darling!_” + +“Be good!” + +“Happy journey!” + +“Oh yes.” They parted. + +Marda came back to the hall, not looking at anybody in particular, +putting her gloves on. Lady Naylor asked her if she had packed the +cake. Sir Richard patted her arm and said she was a good girl and must +be sure and be happy--then looked very much abashed and startled at +what he had done. Laurence looked bored, so bored; she was sorry for +Laurence. She said: “I am really going.” “I’m sorry you’re going, I +don’t think it’s--” They shook hands, he immediately turned--rather +rudely, his uncle thought, and walked into the library. + +After all, there were only Sir Richard and Lady Naylor and Francie to +wave Marda off from the steps and watch the car up the avenue into a +veil of rain. Rather few, they felt, considering what a dear she had +been and how they had come to love her. Wondering why and where the +others had gone, they tried to present the broadest possible expanse +of smile and flutter. And of this effort the flick of Marda’s gloved +finger-tips round the hood conveyed the friendliest, the most satirical +recognition. + +“Well, that’s that,” said Livvy, at last discovering Lois in the +drawing-room. “Partings make me ever so sad. Now listen, Lois--” + +“I’m afraid I’m not well, I’ve eaten something,” said Lois. “I’m +sorry--” She clapped her handkerchief to her mouth and fled from +the drawing-room by the other door, stumbling over the _portière_. +Livvy went a little way after her, talking, then came back: “It is a +disadvantage to a girl,” she reflected, “that kind of stomach.” + +Lois found in the empty spare room a piece of paper that crept on the +floor like a living handkerchief. Through the defenceless windows came +in the vacancy of the sky; the grey ceiling had gone up in remoteness. +More wind came through, flowers moved in the vases, the pages of a book +left open beside the bed turned over hurriedly. The pillow was dinted, +as though half-way through packing Marda had lain down lazily. Or as +though since last night the pillow had not forgotten the feel of her +head. + + + + + THE DEPARTURE OF GERALD + + + + + XVII + + +CAPTAIN and Mrs. Rolfe of the Gunners were giving a dance in their hut. +Denise Rolfe and her dearest friend Betty Vermont of the Rutlands had +been more than busy the whole morning. Flustered and happy, they darted +about the hut, cutting sandwiches, scattering floor powder, pinning +draperies round the walls. They masked the electric lights with pink +crinkly paper to produce the desired enchantment. Every now and then, +one would collapse on to what remained of the furniture and, catching +the other’s eyes, burst into delighted laughter. It was all such a rag. +They smoked cigarettes and ground the ash into the floor to enrich the +polish; they tried the new records over again and again till Mrs. Rolfe +declared that the needles would give out and snapped down the lid of +the gramophone resolutely. + +Mrs. Rolfe’s Colonel disapproved tacitly; Colonel Boatley did not think +the dance was a good idea either. Entertainments in barracks had been +given up long ago. But it was not easy to veto what ladies described +as “a little fun in the huts.” Married quarters in barracks were +limited; as the army of occupation was reinforced, lines of hutments +began to extend up the hill at the back of the Gunner barracks. There +was nothing to beat these hut dances; for one thing, the floors were +so springy. And the fewer the couples, the more intimate the occasion. +Denise and Betty both thought with contempt of the Rutlands’ official +dance in the barrack gymnasium, full of majors waltzing, where you were +nearly blown off the floor by the regimental bassoon. + +“All the same,” said Betty, rubbing a board with her toe, a shade +despondent, “I wish this would polish _more_. You’re certain it won’t +be sticky?” + +“Nothing could be stickier than the C.O.,” said Denise wittily. “If it +wasn’t for him, we should be keeping it up till breakfast.” + +“It’s these wretched patrols and things,” said Mrs. Vermont. + +“It seems odd being short of girls. I do feel I should be getting my +sister over.” + +“There will be heaps for to-night,” said Mrs. Vermont, who thought +people’s young sisters rather a bother. The ladies of the neighbourhood +had praised Mrs. Rolfe’s kind intentions, but said that they feared +the roads were not fit for their girls these nights. But their girls, +meeting Mrs. Vermont at the tennis club, had told her they would be +certain to come. “In fact, if they all come,” said Mrs. Vermont, +apprehensive, “I may have to telephone down to the mess for some more +of our boys.” + +Captain Rolfe came off duty at lunch-time, and during the afternoon +friends kept dropping in, by twos and singly, with offers to help. + +“But don’t _look!_” shrieked Denise every time, flinging herself +against the wall to conceal the draperies. “It’s all a surprise for +to-night.” The subalterns, after a hasty look round, prepared to be +perfectly blind. They began to slide industriously, buffeted on the +head by the Chinese lanterns which Betty had hung too low. Tubby, Mr. +Simcox, sat down on a mat and was whisked round the room by his friends +to perform the functions of polisher. + +“Really,” volunteered some one, “we ought to be rolling the floor with +champagne bottles....” + +Girls who succeeded in coming over for the dance had arranged to be +“put up” in Clonmore, or in married quarters. The two Miss Raltes from +Castle Ralte in the Tipperary direction looked in about four o’clock, +pink from a twelve-mile drive and parental opposition. Father, in fact, +had been more than difficult. “He says,” said Moira Ralte, looking +beatifically round at the decorations, “that the whole proceeding is +not only criminal but lunatic. He says he can’t understand the C.O. +allowing it, with the country the way it is. We really did think, till +we got past the gates, he was going to stop us.” + +“But we came,” said Cicely. Every one laughed. The Miss Raltes had +been cast as wild young Irish and rather liked themselves. But they +exchanged glances, uneasy. It had not been quite the thing, perhaps, to +have laughed at Father. + +“It takes two to make a war,” said Mrs. Rolfe wisely. “_We_’re not +fighting.” + +“More’s the pity,” said a Mr. Daventry of the Rutlands with violence. +“_God_, if they’d--” The Miss Raltes, unaccustomed to swearing, +looked down their noses. There was a moment of slight discomfort, of +national consciousness. + +“Wouldn’t it be a rag,” said Moira, relieving the tension tactfully, +“if they tried to fire in at the windows while we were dancing?” + +“_I_ shall draw the curtains!” cried Mrs. Vermont. + +Cicely glanced at the gramophone, hummed a fox-trot and tapped her heel +on the floor, looking most unconscious. But the subalterns continued +to slide violently, rebounding against each other, and dancing was not +begun till the D.I.’s niece came in. The D.I.’s niece came in with +a flourish and was greeted with uproar. She was priceless. She had +light-red hair fluffed over her forehead, a wide smile punctuated by +gaps in her teeth and tireless repartee in a Cork accent. Denise and +Betty adored her. She was a Catholic, it seemed so queer to think that +she worshipped the Pope. The Miss Raltes hardly knew her. As she came +in, Daventry opened his arms, she ran into them with a gurgle and they +began to dance. The gramophone spurted hoarse music; other couples +followed the gramophone. + +Mr. Daventry, the senior subaltern, elegant, tall and a shade satanic, +was “taken,” obviously, with the queer little person. She could talk +and dance at once with an equal skimmingness and she did. Daventry +shook her, murmuring: “Do shut up!” He whispered into her hair that she +danced like thistledown and that he hated to have it spoilt. + +“Like how much?” shrieked the D.I.’s niece above the music, bobbing her +face up at him. + +Mrs. Rolfe, as distracted hostess, allowed herself to drift into the +arms of the adjutant, who had looked in for a moment or two. He spoke +of himself as a busy man, but she knew this to be a pose. She danced +remotely and kept repeating: “Glasses for claret cup ... Glasses for +cider cup ... Cigarettes ... Cover the washstand ...” + +“Washstand?” said the adjutant, solicitous. + +“They will have to sit out in Percy’s and my bedroom. Do you think it +will matter?” + +The adjutant took a firmer grip of Mrs. Rolfe, an ethereal girl with a +habit of drifting just out of one’s reach like a kite. He gulped, and +said rather too genially: “It will be no end of a rag to-night. We--we +must make the most of it; it may be the last for a bit. As it is, we’re +doubling the guards. The C.O.--” + +“Pig!” said Denise, looking deep into the adjutant’s eyes. + +“Mum,” said the adjutant, blinking. “And another thing: I’m afraid you +won’t have Dobson of the Rutlands, I’ve just met him--he’s to be out on +patrol.” + +“Oh, but he _said_ he’d get out of that! Oh, but he promised me--” + +“He’d no business to; he’s been due for patrol for ages. Their C.O.--” + +“He spoils everything. Captain Dobson is one of my best dancers.” She +stopped short and turned off the gramophone. “Listen, Percy! They’re +sending Captain Dobson out on patrol at a moment’s notice. _Now_ I’d +like to know what I’m supposed to do? I’d calculated the numbers +exactly.” + +“But, Dens,” said her husband, conscientiously. “We had four men +spare. And you’re certain of Lesworth and Armstrong.” + +“_He_ won’t count!” They all laughed: Betty had told a few friends in +confidence ... + +“And for a matter of that,” Denise still clouded, complained to the +adjutant, “Mr. Lesworth won’t count much either. He’s awfully keen on +the Farquar girl.” + +The adjutant thought: “These attachments!” His C.O. did not like these +attachments, either. The gramophone in a perceptibly minor key began +again, they went on dancing. + +“Suppose,” said the D.I.’s niece, during an interval, “all we girls are +left sitting to-night and nobody comes to dance with us?” + +“Dance with each other,” said Cicely Ralte firmly. + +“But I wouldn’t care to dance without men,” said the D.I.’s niece, +frankly languishing. She had hoisted herself on to the cabinet that +held the records and sat swinging her legs in their shiny stockings and +pulling her dazzlingly checked skirt over her knees. Her green eyes +roamed round, returning attention confidently. + +Daventry, a hand on the edge of the cabinet, stood leaning with his +back to the wall’s art-muslin draperies. He kept shutting his eyes; +whenever he stopped dancing he noticed that he had a headache. He had +been out in the mountains all night and most of the morning, searching +some houses for guns that were known to be there. He had received +special orders to ransack the beds, and to search with particular +strictness the houses where men were absent and women wept loudest and +prayed. Nearly all beds had contained very old women or women with +very new babies, but the N.C.O., who was used to the work, insisted +that they must go through with it. Daventry still felt sickish, still +stifled with thick air and womanhood, dazed from the din. Daventry had +been shell-shocked, he was now beginning to hate Ireland, lyrically, +explicitly; down to the very feel of the air and smell of the water. +If it were not for dancing a good deal, whisky, bridge, ragging about +in the huts, whisky again, he did not know what would become of him, +he would go over the edge, quite mad, he supposed. He opened his +eyes: afternoon light lay in bars on the smoky air. The flash of his +partner’s legs in their glassy stockings exasperated him, he gripped +one of her ankles--harshly, as though it had been a man’s. She kicked, +and a high-heeled slipper went rocketing through the air. A forest of +hands went up. The D.I.’s niece looked down complacently on the compact +and plaited backs of the subalterns. The other girls tittered and hung +on the outskirts. + +“Oh, take care,” wailed Denise, “mind my draperies!” She freed an end +of the muslin and, as no one listened, began with angry laughter to +pepper them all with floor-powder. The D.I.’s niece looked at Daventry +queerly and suddenly: their eyes were now on a level. His eyes, dark +with fatigue and nervousness, were set in too close together, like a +good-looking shark’s. + +Cicely Ralte yawned slightly; the struggle did not abate. “We shall all +be tired when it comes to to-night,” she said to the adjutant. + +But he said: “Here comes Miss Farquar, looking as fresh as paint.” + +Lois came to the door with David Armstrong. Livvy would not come up +to the hut till this evening, she would be confused, she feared; she +didn’t know how much they knew. She was down in Clonmore now, buying +sophisticated-looking black pansies to wear in her dress. She and Lois +were spending the night in Clonmore, with the Fogartys. Lois was dazed +still from her long drive under the strained white sunless sky. Sir +Richard and Lady Naylor had viewed her departure with the gloomiest +apprehensions, but Francie had insisted she would enjoy herself. It +must be flat for her these few days, Francie said, after Marda had +gone. And she had slipped a sachet of Californian Poppy into the top of +the suitcase, with Lois’s green tulle dress. + +Lois and David looked through the door at the young men all in a tangle +with a sensation of helplessness, as though it devolved on themselves +to unwind them. Then they stepped in and shook hands with Mrs. Rolfe +and her girl friends. Lois, pleasing the adjutant by her freshness, +wore a light-blue felt hat and a blue cardigan. She suspected she +should not be walking about the camp without a chaperon, but could not +see how to avoid this: she had come up here to look for Mrs. Vermont. +She went pink from the heat of the room and felt Mr. Daventry look +at her--then shut his eyes again. There was a desperation about Mr. +Daventry she could have loved. But he apparently craved relaxation: she +had found out she did not relax Mr. Daventry. + +Gerald was not here--she guessed from the eyes of commiseration. He was +a serious dancer and did not care to tire himself by sliding. Possibly +he was on duty, possibly would be waiting at Mr. Fogarty’s. Now, she +could remember nothing of him but the leg he had drawn so tenderly into +the armoured car. She had heard nothing of him from that moment; he +might have been sealed up permanently in tin, like a lobster. Did he +regret the kiss?--he had not added a word to it. + +Mr. Simcox, the fattest and sweetest of all the Gunners, started +the gramophone with an eye on herself and came to ask for a dance. +He looked so hot, she said she would rather wait till the evening. +“Remember,” said Mr. Simcox, spreading a hand on his heart. And by +some mysterious evocation, the hut, lit up, vibrated; the air was warm +like smoke on her cool arm, and she went throbbing along with Gerald, +feeling his hand on her back through her thin dress--too near to see +each other--his lashes reverent by her hair. She thought she need not +worry about her youth; it wasted itself spontaneously, like sunshine +elsewhere or firelight in an empty room. + +She thanked Mr. Simcox and said she would keep number six and would +not lose count. Mrs. Vermont, looking peevish suddenly, said it was +tea-time now and shooed the young men out of the hut like chickens. +They dispersed through the mud in the tired, wise light of the +afternoon. + +That evening a wind came up. Lois and Livvy dressed in Mrs. Fogarty’s +spare room, stumbling round the edge of the large bed. They took turns +at the looking-glass; in the intervals of their toilet they ran to +the window to look out. It was strange and pleasant to Lois to be in +a town again. The square, where some crisp leaves whirled autumnly, +was pervaded by an excitement. Though only twelve couples had been +invited to Mrs. Rolfe’s dance, all Clonmore seemed to know of it. +People kept coming out quickly through the swing doors of the Imperial. +Some one played half a waltz and broke off, discouraged; two commercial +travellers clapped one another on the shoulder. Livvy pinned the +black pansies under her bosom and turned to invite admiration. Lois +thought the pansies looked common, but, knowing they must have cost +four-and-six, said they were most original. Lois’s green tulle dress +slipped over her head like a cataract. She shone, coming out through +the top of it. If only Marda could see her ... It was half-past six: +she had promised herself to think of Marda. + +They were dressing early, they were to dine with a Mrs. Perkins up +in the huts. Mrs. Perkins could not promise there would be much for +dinner, but after all this was Ireland and it would be rather jolly. + +Captain Vermont was to call for them: they buttoned their over-coats +over their ball-dresses. Mrs. Fogarty kissed them half-way downstairs, +and warned them not to break hearts. She would see them later, she was +coming to watch the dance. + +Since the acquisition of Betty, Captain Vermont’s stock of conversation +to pretty young things had given out naturally; biologically the time +was past for it. They walked rather silently up past the barracks and +picked their way over the mud between the huts. A chill of darkness was +coming down on the air. The wind came, knife-like, down through the +lines of huts from the mountain, over a gulf of land where the farms +were dark--apprehensive, the young girls patted the whorls of their +hair. The Perkins’ hut exposed a flank to the wind; it was chilly, one +slipped one’s bare arms out of one’s coat reluctantly, going to table. + +The dinner was not so jolly as Lois had feared. Mrs. Perkins looked +distraite and had a whispered argument with her husband about a +tin-opener. Mrs. Vermont could talk of nothing but poor Denise (“As +though,” said Livvy, “she were having at least a baby instead of only +a dance”). Captain Perkins and Captain Vermont apologized repeatedly +to the girls for being old and married; their wives told them not to +be so silly. Their wives said the girls could perfectly well see there +was no room for young men here; already their six chairs grated against +the match-boarding. The girls would have young men in the course of +the evening. Lois agreed politely, but Livvy wished they had stayed +to dinner down in Clonmore where one could have at least watched Mr. +Fogarty drink. She sat squinting, watching the wasted powder flake off +her nose. + +A bottle of white wine was divided among the ladies with depressing +impartiality; the men drank whisky. Mrs. Perkins’ pince-nez glittered +with more animation. But the wind like a lunatic fidgeted with the hut, +frames creaked, doors rattled, a shudder went down the walls; a gust +through a crack set the lights dementedly swinging. During a strained +little silence, between two gusts of the wind, Mrs. Vermont observed +that an angel must be passing over the house; she wanted them to listen +for its wings. They listened; they thought of empty country blotted +out by the darkness. “Quiet here, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Perkins. + +“Better not circulate too far between the dances,” said Captain +Perkins, “and don’t go down to the wires. It’s dark, for one thing; we +don’t want any of these girls lost.” + +“Grandpa!” said Mrs. Vermont. Livvy noted, there seemed some communal +feeling between the married: any wife could be faintly rude to anyone +else’s husband. “I don’t go for walks between dances,” said Livvy, +bridling. + +“You don’t know what you’ll do _now!_” said Mrs. Vermont, and they all +laughed. + +Lois was anxious, there was a tight little ball in her throat; she +could hardly swallow. She was always “strung-up” before a dance. But +to-night it was worse; she had not the expectation of being claimed: +she was really doubtful. She had not had a word from Gerald; he +hadn’t been round to the Fogartys’. Was she not nice to kiss; was he +disappointed? Her green frock glinted under the light; she kept looking +down at her breast, and into her lap, where the folds ran off in shadow +under the table. If he were not there when she came, if she did not see +him before he saw her (as she came uphill in the dark) standing full in +pink light by the door, staring eagerly on to the slab of darkness that +was to give her up--she should die, she thought. For this morning she +had written to Viola that she intended to marry Gerald. + + + + + XVIII + + +THE Rolfes’ door swung open and shut; bursts from the gramophone came +downhill like somebody coughing. As the Perkins’ party stepped up from +the duckboards Gerald spun past the door with the D.I.’s niece, in a +nimbus of gauze draperies. The room was sticky with strawberry light, +unlit lanterns wobbled between the electric light cords; the dancers +seemed to be moving slowly in jam. A group of young men stood by the +door, coughing. But one hadn’t yet made one’s official appearance: +Lois blinked and began to tug out her silver shoes from her pockets; +somebody pulled her on down a passage to change. + +In what Denise called the kitchenette at the end of the passage the +five spare men were smoking, looking into their glasses of whisky and +wishing to play bridge. Lois looked in and they all waved to her, but +Livvy pulled her away quickly: she said that must be the gentlemen’s +cloak-room. Lois met, with surprise, her own eyes of interrogation in +six inches of mirror between the coats. + +David came to claim Livvy, Betty went swooning off over the chalky lake +of the floor with Mr. Simcox, Mr. Daventry stared at the passage door +with severity, balanced his cigarette on the rim of the gramophone and +came up to Lois and frowned, without speaking. He opened his arms +slowly. They danced; she had no idea she could dance so beautifully. At +the end of the record Mr. Daventry impassively moved back the needle +again. “Tiring day,” he said. + +“Oh, I don’t think so.” They went on dancing. + +The D.I.’s niece picked off ends of her tangerine draperies from +various parts of Gerald and walked away with an aquiline-looking +gunner. Over Lois’s temple Mr. Daventry’s jaw moved slightly; his neck +muscles strained. Again he revived the gramophone. Lois, breathless, +said: “Isn’t there going to be an interval?” “Not necessarily,” replied +Mr. Daventry. Meanwhile, one wall of the hut seemed propped against +Gerald’s rigid, resentful back. + +“What a crowd ...” + +“I beg your pardon?” + +She did not speak again. Anxiously dancing, she merely constituted +Mr. Daventry’s revenge. Mrs. Vermont, going past Gerald, said: “Oh, +diddums?” She asked Mr. Simcox if he had noticed, nice-looking boys +looked their nicest sulky? Mr. Simcox, looking round so carefully that +he missed a step, said he would not call that _sulky_ ... More worried. + +“Nonsense, Tubby, what’s he got to worry about?” + +“You never know.” + +Mr. Simcox was a bit of a philosopher, because he was so fat. He gave +up Mrs. Vermont with a sigh to another young man and went across for +somebody’s young, shy sister. “No luck?” he said on the way, to Gerald. +And Gerald looked at him candidly, with despair. + +The evening “went” with a rush, with a kind of high impetuousness out +of everybody’s control. Every one looked and spoke and danced close up +with a kind of exalted helplessness; intimacy tightened the very air. +Sandwiches were ambrosia, brightening the eyes; rims of plates went +electric where fingers touched. Mrs. Rolfe laughed all the time, you +would have said with despair. She climbed past couples very close up +at the darkest part of the passage, she entered the kitchenette with +a shriek and swept some cards from the table. The spare men danced +with each other. She ran in and out of her bedroom, shaking a plate of +chocolates at the couples sitting out on the chest-o’-drawers and on +the washstand covered with Turkish cushions. If the hut had risen and +soared up into the air, so that some one stepping out at the door had +to step back dizzily, she would hardly have been surprised. Indeed, two +subalterns running down to the mess for more siphons did leap to the +mud as from a great height. + +The room was hot; they drew the curtains back and opened the windows, +then were stared in at oddly by hard little squares of night. Couples +went out for walks, to cool their faces. Livvy was kissed twice and +went off to powder her chin. “Of course, this is post-war madness,” +said Mr. Simcox, standing beside a window. + +“Oh yes,” agreed Lois. + +“Awful, really.... I expect _you_ understand what I mean?” + +“Oh yes.” Wishing Mr. Simcox were not intrigued, she put her two hands +out of the window, as into a well, to feel wind cold on her wrists. +Gerald came up behind her. + +“Mine next,” he said, as though they had just parted. “What a row!” he +yelled. + +“This jazz,” said Simcox. “They ought to have let me bring my band,” +complained Gerald, “it wouldn’t have taken up much more room than Mrs. +Fogarty.” + +Mrs. Fogarty had indeed come in and sat at the end of the room in a +purple tea-gown. Her circumference was enormous, her feet stuck out +beyond it--but she was such a darling. Every time a couple stumbled +over her feet she beamed and nodded in the friendliest way. She had +just whispered to Gerald, who brought her a glass of lemonade: “Here, +where’s _your_ girl?” And her eyes had rolled at him, dark with worry. +Gerald could not have borne to disappoint Mrs. Fogarty. + +Gerald did not dance silently. His hand supported her wrist, cool and +familiar. Lois felt she was home again; safe from deserted rooms, the +penetration of silences, rain, homelessness. Nothing mattered: she +could have gone to sleep. But he woke her. + +“Look here: what have I done?” + +“How--?” said she, quite inadequate. + +“You _know_. But why are you--why must we--?” + +“Gerald--oh, do be--sssh!” + +A couple sheered off from them. + +“I didn’t think you’d be cruel,” he said to her hair, almost +confidentially. + +“But it’s you who’ve been cutting me.” + +“But how? When? You’ve never once looked--Lois, you’re lovely, but +you’re so--” + +“Look here, we can’t talk and dance.” + +“Which does that mean you _don’t_ want to do?” + +She looked at a button of his mess coat. “Talk,” she said after a +little contented interval. He slid his hand up her wrist, they danced +on. The D.I.’s niece trailed past them, laughing at Daventry: they +had a pool of space to themselves on the crowded floor. The pink room +melted round, beatific and syrupy. He was closer than ever under the +lovely compulsion of movement. + +“You do dance divinely.” + +“What?” he said, like the ghost of Daventry. Some one stopped the +gramophone, they looked at each other, shocked. Something had made him +absurdly unhappy: she would have liked to have comforted him. + +“Let’s go out.” + +“Won’t it be cold for you?” + +“Gerald,” said she, discouraged, “don’t be an aunt.” + +The wind whipped round the edge of the hut, ran through her hair at the +roots and stung her ears--a sinister energy in this fixed and angular +world, for one could not see anything moving. Gerald walked, unknown, +beside her, up in the dark. “At one time,” said Lois, wrapping her wild +skirts round her, “a girl would have died of this.” + +“Cigarette?” + +“Oh--will it light here?” + +“I can light one most places.” So she bent over his hands, a cup of +fire. There were two bright specks in his eyes.--Then the match whirled +off and died on the dark. “I can’t think what you think has gone +wrong,” she said. + +“You were so queer that Thursday. You’d been like part of me, the night +before; then everything seemed--wrong. I dare say I was a brute; I +oughtn’t to have--though as a matter of fact I’ll never be sorry.... If +you’d been just angry or anything ... But you seemed to go right away: +I didn’t know where I was. All lunch you were like a girl at a tennis +club. Then you left me down there with them all to talk rot and went +off with that beastly gramophone.” + +“_That_ was not my fault--did you want me to listen to you talking +rot?--Gerald, I didn’t realize you were resentful; I didn’t think you +could be.... I was waiting for you to write.” + +“I began so many letters, I used half a box of note-paper. I couldn’t +think what to say.” + +“Still, you might have written.” + +“But how?” he said candidly. + +She could not remember, though she had read so many books, _who_ spoke +first after a kiss had been, not exchanged but--administered. The two +reactions, outrage, capitulation, had not been her own. “You were +hoping I would write?” she said, seeing light suddenly. + +“You see, you had always been so understanding.” + +“But, Gerald, I should have thought you’d have been shocked if I’d--” + +“Oh?... Perhaps I would. But I wanted something to make things natural. +I shall never forget what I felt in that armoured car. You will always +be connected up in my mind with the smell of oil--Lois, do you think I +am terribly introspective?” + +“You know, you were tired.” + +“Perhaps it was that,” he said, puzzled. “But bumping along back to +barracks, and you going in again with that girl to that topping house +...” + +“Do you think it’s a topping house?” + +“It seems so to me.” + +This new version of the changeable afternoon was a shock to her. It +had gone on for him, too; doors that she had not thought of shutting +and windows opening, the drone in the drawing-room, rain with a +different importance. Might she perhaps have thought more about Gerald +and wondered less? Splashing along the brown road to Clonmore she could +now see the armoured car diminish--with Gerald its only nerve. But she +thought of the empty spare room and how it avenged him. + +“Marda’s gone, you know.” + +“But she had just come to lunch, surely?” + +“_Gerald!_... Can’t you feel any difference between some one to lunch +and somebody staying?” + +“She hadn’t a hat,” said Gerald after consideration. + +“She went two days ago: she’s in Kent now.” + +“I’m sorry,” said Gerald civilly. Feeling a strained, fierce pause, he +added: “She seemed awfully nice, I thought.” + +“Don’t you wonder at all if I miss her?” + +“I expect you must. I always miss visitors, though they’re a bother +beforehand.” + +“She hadn’t any beforehand--that seems so odd now.” + +“Lois ... you aren’t angry, then?” + +“Oh?” Recollecting herself, she looked round the darkness vaguely. A +couple were coming towards them; she put a hand on his sleeve to make +him be quiet, his other hand came over it. They heard Daventry’s angry +laugh, his partner’s feet ran stickily on the duckboards. Gerald and +Daventry passed in the dark with, it seemed, a queer silent interchange. + +“Mr. Daventry seems old to be a subaltern.” + +“It’s absurd that he should be--all this peacetime bother. He had +a company in France in 1916, later on he was acting major. He’s a +splendid fellow, I’m sorry you haven’t seen more of him. He won’t go +about much, outside barracks. The fact is,” he added apologetic, “he’s +sick at being over here. It doesn’t seem to agree with him.” + +“Do _you_ really like it?” + +“Oh, well, it’s a job. Though I rather see Daventry’s point--it doesn’t +seem natural.” + +They had come to the end of the huts--the foot of the steep slope a +wall, the top heavily wired. Under the wall a sentry inhumanly paced +like a pendulum. The country bore in it strong menace. Gerald looked +out at it, his face blinking in and out of the dark, faintly red with +the pulse of his cigarette. She nursed her bare elbows, unconsciously +shivering. He seemed at once close and remote, known and un-personal; +she understood why, up to now, she had searched for him vainly in what +he said. He had nothing to do with expression. She put out a hand +to where he was, shadowy and palpable. He threw his cigarette away, +turned--and said nothing. The sentry passed. + +They went back the way they had come, between the huts. + +“Gerald, I _wasn’t_ angry ... at what you did....” + +“No, you were wonderful all the time.” + +“Don’t you understand?” she said sharply--“_Gerald?_” + +“Understand?... _Lois!_” + +While they kissed, she heard, in the silence of their footsteps, some +one moving about in a hut up the lines. The sound was a long way off, +at the other side of a stillness. + +“Your arms are so cold.” + +“I’ve been so lonely.” + +“They’re so _cold_.” He kissed them, inside the elbows. Later: “I like +the back of your head,” she said with exploring finger-tips. + +“I never thought you looked at me.” + +“Gerald, I’ve been so ... vacant.” + +“I never thought you wanted me.” + +“I--” she began. The soft sound of her dress in the wind became, by +some connection of mood, painfully inexplicable to her--the pain was +its own, from not being understood. “Gerald, your buttons hurt rather.” + +“My darling--” He let her go, but still, above consciousness, held +one of her hands, solemnly. “Shall you really be able to marry me?” + +“I don’t know till you’ve asked me.” + +“Don’t laugh--” he cried. + +“Can’t you _hear_ I’m not laughing?” + +“Lois--” Something more was coming; she waited, hearing him draw a +breath. “Let’s go back and dance,” he said almost religiously--“shall +we?” + +The hut was compact with movement: she stood back in alarm, as before a +revolving door in destructive motion. Now it was gone, she remembered +sharply the smell of earth.... David Armstrong leaned from his partner +wildly and struck Gerald over the head with a red balloon. + +Mrs. Rolfe had had an idea that the dance might well finish up with a +cotillion. She was vague about cotillions, but towards this end she +had distributed balloons, whistles that ran out long tongues when +you blew them, and streamers from striped cardboard batons with which +dancers might hit one another over the head. Mrs. Vermont thought these +things went better with fancy dress, but Denise said a rag was a rag +at any time. Girls ducked and shrieked and waved their streamers over +their partners’ shoulders. Denise, radiant in black with a trail of +nasturtiums, was waltzing--affair of prolonged “hesitations”--with +Betty’s husband. She bit off a streamer, spat out a mouthful of paper +and said, with a shiver of happiness: “Isn’t it marvellous, Timmy? I +can hardly believe I’m awake!” + +“Ra-_ther!_” replied Captain Vermont, with blurred enthusiasm. He was +being buffeted by Mr. Simcox and somebody’s sister. + +“Betty’s been just too marvellous,” went on Denise--“Oh, Timmy, do have +a shot at Reggie Daventry--there, with the girl in scarlet. He looks +just too refined!” + +But Timmy failed to find Daventry. “Betty’s _tons_ the prettiest here,” +cried Denise, ecstatic. + +“Oh, come!” expostulated Captain Vermont, squeezing her waist. It gave +him a warm, tender feeling to think how fond she and Betty were of each +other. + +“Tell me,” said Denise, as nearly as possible snuggling, “are we +terribly reckless? Would this annoy the Irish?” + +“They won’t know.” + +“They have heaps of spies.” + +“I say, _sssh_, Denise, there are heaps of them here to-night.” + +“Spies?” + +“Irish--the Raltes and Co.” + +“They’re different.” + +“Still, they’ve got feelings.” + +Denise sighed. “I could go on like this for ever.” But Captain Vermont +rather thought he would like a drink. A balloon exploded. “Glory!” +cried Mrs. Fogarty. So they burst four more to keep her amused. + +“Is this like a bombardment?” asked Moira Ralte. + +“No,” said Mr. Simcox. + +If they were not careful, they would knock over the gramophone. Mr. +Daventry thought it was time they did. It was time something happened. +He danced the D.I.’s niece down the passage and kissed her with her +head pressed back in the coats. She struggled, futile, slippery as a +weasel. As he kissed again her face went stiff and she shut her eyes. +When these opened, they were as shrewd as ever: still he did not know +what she thought. The drums in his temples were now insistent; he could +not forget them even while he was dancing. She had dabbed herself over +with White Rose. Her frizzy hair tickled his mouth as he bent close to +her. + +“Do you get kissed a lot?” + +“Englishmen never could keep their mouths to themselves.” + +“You won’t know yourself when we’re gone!” + +“You should get back home while you can, the lot of you.” + +“What would become of Uncle?” + +“Did you like your whisky?” She put a hand up rudely to shield herself +from his breath. This reminded Daventry, who let go of the common +little hell-cat abruptly and walked away to the kitchenette, where he +heard a siphon. Lois stood in the door, waiting while David got her +some soda-water. But wouldn’t she try a little something? Just a little +something to dance on--no? Daventry, standing back and tilting his +drink about in his glass, stared at her feet with owlish ferocity. + +“Sorry about your silver shoes, Miss Farquar.” + +“There are some beautiful walks round here,” said David, grinning. + +“Miss Farquar should float, not walk; she looks like a water-lily,” +said Daventry, looking over her green frock with his discomforting +eyes. “Come on and dance,” said David, taking her empty glass. Lois +began to say she was keeping the next for Gerald. But: “Miss Farquar +and I are hungry, we are going to find a sandwich,” said Daventry. + +In the box of a dining-room plates of dishevelled sandwiches sat in +unmasked electric light. There was no one there. Mr. Daventry, looking +hard at her, put the palm of his hand to his left temple with a +curious, listening air, as though to see if a watch had stopped. + +“Chicken and ham,” he said, “tongue and turkey; they’re all cat, they +say.” (“What shall I say?” thought Lois.) He looked at a chair with +contempt, then sat down on it. “I don’t think I’ve met you before,” he +continued. + +“Perhaps you didn’t notice.” + +“Dear me,” said Mr. Daventry, looking into a sandwich. “No, I don’t +think it could have been that.” + +“Then it can’t be explained,” said Lois, and (she felt) glittered +excitedly. He suggested the army of Wellington; buckskins. Looking +up thoughtfully, he directed upon the wall just over her head his +strained dark look that was almost a squint. “You live round here?” + +“More or less--” She was startled to meet the dark look on a level. +Hers was, he said, a remarkably beautiful country. + +“I am afraid _you_--” + +He affably shrugged. Did that matter? He stared at her arms, at the +inside of her elbows, with such intensity, she felt Gerald’s kisses +were printed there. Was this a bounder?--She knew she had no criterion. + +“Have a nice walk?” he inquired. + +“Did you?” she countered. + +“I expect so,” said Mr. Daventry, after consideration. “As a matter +of fact, I am not quite at my best.” They looked hard at each other. +“Nothing,” he said, “appeals to me.” She moved her arms nervously on +the silk of her dress. For she saw there was not a man here, hardly +even a person. + +“How do you mean ‘more or less’?” he said suddenly. + +“Well, I don’t live anywhere, really.” + +“I do: I live near Birmingham.” He put the half-eaten sandwich down, +with distaste, on the edge of the cloth and pulled up a plate to cover +it. She felt she was quite finished with. Suppose, she thought, they +were all like this! Should she go? She made a movement, he did not see; +she was disappointed. He put the hand to his temple, again listening. + +“Tired?” + +“Oh no,” he said, with irony. + +“I’m going back now.” + +“Such a pity. Anyone so charming ...” + +“Well, I’m bored,” she said. + +“It’s a pity you don’t know about my head, it’s a most curious head, +it would interest you.... How shall I keep you? Look here, seriously, +about Lesworth--” + +“Oh?” she inquired, suddenly cold inside. + +“About our young friend--” He pulled up his chair close; she had a +feeling like gates shutting. “Tell me this--” + +But the roar of merriment, solid and swerving evenly as a waterfall +past the door, splintered off in a crash. Silence came, with hard +impact. “Thank God, _they’ve upset the gramophone!_” Daventry smacked +his knee, remotely, as though rehearsing the gesture. His look +decomposed in laughter. “Done in,” he said, drawing life from the +thought. Simultaneously, a universal shriek went up: it was smashed, +finished. “Really,” she thought, “you laugh like Satan!” + +“Well, well,” said Daventry, tilting his drink about, “it’s been a +pleasant evening.” Here they all came--a stampede in the passage. She +was glad of them, for under the storm of his mirth that swept their +island, disarranging the interlude, she had sat cold and desolate. A +gramophone passing, a gramophone less in the world, it was not funny. +But between bursts of laughter she had felt him look at her lips, +at her arms, at her dress, like a ghost, with nostalgia and cold +curiosity. About their young friend?--she wasn’t to know. + +Mrs. Vermont seemed broken also, she leaned on the adjutant. “Stay her +with sandwiches,” called out somebody, “comfort her with--with--more +sandwiches!” Moira mopped her eyes with a trail of her dress, but +nobody noticed. They jostled about the table. Plates rang, shunted in +all directions. “Sitting in here?” cried Gerald, exalted, “splendid!” +Somebody waved a mouth-organ: could one dance to that? More and more +squeezed in at the door: the room would burst. The cracks of the +walls that had been straight a minute ago like bars now seemed to +bulge out visibly: light glared down on the resolution of backs and +pink, reaching arms. “_Our_ young friend, our _young_ friend, our +young _friend_,” thought Lois, and watched Gerald. Though she watched +wherever he went, she could not see him. There was nothing, in fact, +to which to attach her look except his smoothness and roundness of +head, which seemed for the first time remarkable. She looked for his +mouth--which had kissed her--but found it no different from mouths of +other young men who had also been strolling and pausing between the +huts in the dark. The page of the evening was asterisked over with +fervent imaginary kisses. And one single kiss in the wind, in the +dark was no longer particularized: she could not remember herself, or +remember him. + +As he came up, she looked quickly away. She looked at an empty plate +down on the floor, at a thin disk of cucumber flaccid against its rim. +“What have I done?” she thought: she looked at the plate with dread. +And: “Oh, sandwich?” said Gerald, turning to bring up some more. “... +Or perhaps it will seem natural to-morrow?” Nothing could keep her from +having to eat a sandwich. “Darling ...” he whispered, brushing against +her shoulder. + +“Tired?” asked Mr. Simcox, seeing her face. + +“Oh no,” she said, with Mr. Daventry’s best irony. + + + + + XIX + + +MR. and Mrs. Montmorency were sitting on the steps as Lois drove up the +avenue. Francie waved, Hugo looked warily round the _Spectator_. “Well +...?” cried Francie, as Lois came into ear-shot. Above, twenty dark +windows stared over the fields aloofly out of the light grey face of +the house. The trees had rims of light round them; everything seemed a +long way away. With a sigh, Hugo put down the _Spectator_ and came to +lift Lois’s suitcase out of the trap. + +“Well ...?” + +“Oh, marvellous.... But what _do_ you think: we broke the gramophone!” + +“Oh, the poor gramophone!” + +“It was the Gunners’ gramophone.... Where are the others?” + +“We have no idea.” + +The Montmorencys now felt certain it must be a tiring day: even Lois +looked pale. They had been having an intimate conversation about the +future, both with a sense of courage as from sweeping aside some +decency. Why not, Hugo had said, build a bungalow somewhere? “With no +stairs?” Francie kindled at the idea, slipping a hand under Hugo’s. +“And live there always?” Certainly--why not?--they would un-store the +furniture. And at the thought of their tables and sofas coming again +out of limbo, Hugo’s face was illumined by a look of defiance. + +“But where would we build?” said Francie, wrinkled up with delightful +anxiety. Hugo said they would motor round for a bit and no doubt some +idea would suggest itself. “We could choose the view,” said Francie. +But at this point, for some reason, he had taken up the _Spectator_. + +The man came round for the pony: Lois sat down on the steps and began +to chatter. It was surprising, really, how much had occurred. And +fancy, the Colonel had been furious.... Even Hugo listened with some +attention. “Dear me,” he said when they heard about Mr. Daventry. +Francie expected it must be a great relief for a man in that state of +mind to meet a girl to whom he could really talk. “But he didn’t talk; +he really was most extraordinary. Of course, he was once a major.” +Francie wished she had seen her go off in that green frock--all, how +should she say? like a poppy, only a different colour. Would Lois put +it on for them all to-night? + +“It’s not really a frock one sits in,” said Lois discouragingly. +Francie said it was almost a pity in some ways that Laurence was so +intellectual. “I know, we’ll make Hugo waltz with you, he waltzes +beautifully.” But the thought of Hugo waltzing--as Hugo suspected--made +Lois melancholy. + +Laurence, disturbed by her voice, shut an upstairs window. His +industry nowadays was remarkable. He dragged at his hair and stared +at the trees through a flawed pane, across which Laura Naylor had +scratched her name with a diamond. At his elbows, books were in +toppling stacks; movement produced an avalanche. A wasp hung round him, +tentative, scrawling Z’s on the air. “Go away,” he muttered, “you are +superfluous.” Finally, he was obliged to open the door and shoo the +wasp out of it; it undulated across the landing and in at the half-open +door of Marda’s room, as though it had an appointment. Though he did +not care for the wasp, Laurence went in after it, to see if she had +not left _South Wind_ behind. She had indeed--which was like her. The +wasp dithered above the looking-glass in triumph; he took aim with the +book and almost hit it. An eight-day clock still ticked; it was five to +four, it would soon be tea-time. + +As he came out, Lois appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a +suitcase. + +“Hullo! what have you brought _that_ up for?” + +“Oh yes,” she said, putting it down in surprise. “I meant to have left +it half-way.” + +“Well--?” + +“Really,” she cried, unreasonably, “this house is nothing but +Montmorencys; they are an absolute state of mind.... I only wanted to +see if you were here.” + +“Well, I’m not, practically: I’m working.” + +“Oh--why do you work in the spare room?” + +“I was dealing with a wasp.” + +“Laurence, I had a marvellous dance.” + +“Splendid!” He turned to his door, but she, in tremendous need of his +un-sympathy, brought out, imploringly: “They were all there, every one. +And, my dear, the wind; I thought the hut would be blown away. And we +broke the gramophone. There was a most sinister man called Daventry, +with shell-shock ...” + +“Good,” said Laurence, “and _you_ look sleepy!” + +Lois, lamblike under the force of suggestion, leaned back against the +banisters, yawning. “Livvy kicked all night, she will be a horrible +wife.... Laurence, I wish you would tell me something to read.” + +“I should go to sleep.” + +The idea seemed grateful: she thought of her room with the high +ceiling, the foreign touch to the cheeks of afternoon pillows, +the delicious crime of crossing one’s stockinged ankles over the +rucked-back quilt and the slow recession of fact down a long tunnel +till the windows stretched and faded. But, pulling at her fingers, +she said impatiently: “But I want to begin on something; I do think, +Laurence, you might understand. There must be some way for me to begin. +You keep on looking into rooms where I am with silent contempt--what do +you think I am for?” + +He leaned against the frame of his doorway, looking at her with +surprise and a degree of humanity. To-day four weeks, Term would have +begun again; he did for a moment stretch to an effort of comprehension: +there was nothing for _her_ to go on with. The vacancy, more than +negative to him, which had succeeded Marda made the natural claims of a +life on his young cousin. With that concession to fancy one makes for +the doomed or the very weak, he suggested she should go on with her +German. He gave her two grammars, a dictionary and a novel of Mann’s, +which she took from him doubtfully. When he was back at his table, his +door ajar, she went across stealthily to the door opposite. + +“There’s a wasp in there,” called out Lawrence. + +“Oh, I just thought I’d see if ...” + +But she went downstairs, defeated, forgetting her suitcase. + +She had not seen Gerald again this morning, though all contracted +with apprehension she had waited in Mrs. Fogarty’s drawing-room--the +multiplicity of the photographed young men’s faces, candid and +vigorous, further appalling her. An orderly had come down with a +note from barracks. The crested envelope, handed in with its air of +a claim on her, had austerity, like some limb of an institution. She +lost her last sense of Gerald, she felt committed. Fumbling open the +envelope, asking: “What have I done?” she wondered what had become +of that last lonely disk of cucumber on the plate. After “My darling +darling”--she was reprieved, provisionally; Mrs. Fogarty, coming in +in a wrapper--greatly worn, she said, after last night’s gaiety--had +insisted that if she would not drink port she must drink milk--it was a +long morning--and eat some of this nice sponge cake. + +And: “_I_ know who has been breaking hearts!” said Mrs. Fogarty, +knifing the sponge cake which was moist and eggy and “gave” to the +knife deliciously, like an eiderdown. + +The ante-room chairs, now looking at Lois askance, knew also. What she +had done stretched everywhere, like a net. If she had taken a life, +the simplest objects could not more have been tinged with consequence. +The graded elephants on the bookcases were all fatality. She went into +her room hurriedly. “All the same,” she thought, looking round with +patronage at the virginal wall-paper, “it _is_ something definite.” And +with curiosity, with complicity almost, she looked at herself in the +glass. + +Gerald’s straight, round writing had--to her imagination--a queer +totter, like some one running for life in tight shoes. + +“--I have so much to say to you, though there is all time now there +seems to be no time. Lois, when I am with you you make me awfully dumb +with your darling wide-awake eyes, and when we are apart you seem so +close I feel you must understand, so why try to explain when I am so +stupid? So I won’t try to say what I feel; all that matters is that you +are beautifully beautiful. Sometimes, till now, I have felt you must +think me awfully stupid and introspective and dull; I have wondered so +much what you did think about all the time: it seems unbelievable now +that I am really to know. You seemed so complicated, it was cheek to +associate you with the sort of person that I am, and now you are lovely +and simple and all mine. Last night doesn’t seem like part of my life +at all--I can’t believe it was me who danced and drank whiskies and +tinkered about with the gramophone--and yet it’s the reallest thing +ever. And what I am doing this morning seems so important--although it +keeps me away from you--because I am doing it _for_ you. It is awful +to think of you here in Clonmore and not to be able to get to you, and +yet it is wonderful to think of you waiting, and of who you are waiting +for being me. Lois, your dear cold arms were so lovely, I mustn’t think +of them now. All your life I am going to keep you and wrap you up and +protect you and never let you be cold again. It is awful to think you +have ever been lonely and sad--you are so brave, you know, and I never +guessed--and yet I am almost glad of that, because it makes some reason +for me. Darling, I kiss the thought of you and feel so terribly humble. +I must not write more now. If you can, leave a letter for me at the +Fogartys’. Does she guess? I thought perhaps you might like to confide +in her. But of course I will tell nobody, as you wish. Good-bye, my +most beautiful woman; I cannot write how I love you. + + “Gerald.” + +Folding the sheets again in their order, she thought: “It is you who +are beautiful,” and later: “If this thing is so perfect to anyone, +can one be wrong?” An escape of sunshine, penetrating the pale sky in +the south-west, altered the room like a revelation. Noiselessly, a +sweet-pea moulted its petals on to the writing-table, leaving a bare +pistil. The pink butterfly flowers, transparently balancing, were +shadowed faintly with blue as by an intuition of death. Lois bowed +forward, her forehead against the edge of the table. + +Steps in the ante-room; she slipped the letter under the blotter and +turned round consciously. “I hear you are back,” said Lady Naylor, +entering. “I hear it was such a success that they broke the gramophone. +Now I want to hear all about it.” She sat down. + +“Well, to begin with--” + +“One moment--have you unpacked your frock?” + +“Oh! I left my suitcase.... I went up to Laurence to borrow a German +grammar.” + +“Oh, I shouldn’t go on with German,” said Lady Naylor, “it still +offends so many people; Italian is prettier and more practical. I could +lend you _Il Piccolo Mondo Antico_, or Dante-- However, tell me about +the dance.” + +“Well, first of all--” + +“--By the way, I’ve just heard from Marda. She has arrived quite +safely, I’m glad to say. She says Kent is dull, which I dare say it +would be, but of course she is glad to be with Leslie.” + +“Did she say so?” + +“She naturally would be. You can read it; I’ve got the letter +downstairs.... Who broke the gramophone? I hope you weren’t anywhere +round when it happened: these things are always remembered. Were the +Raltes there? Did they look pretty? I wonder, really, at their mother +allowing them; she professes to have them in such control. However, I +dare say this will be the last of these dances.” + +“Oh, why?” + +“If you had heard what we heard at the Trents’.... There was a man +there from Kerry. He really made us feel quite uncomfortable. Though, +as your uncle said afterwards, one knows what the Trents’ friends +are: everything happens to them. However-- Were the Vermonts there? +_She_ would be quite in her element. And Mr. Armstrong? I have heard +he and Livvy were seen in Cork together at the Imperial, by Mrs. +Foxe-O’Connor. And the young man who was here to lunch, who talked so +much ... in the armoured car ... oh--Lesworth?” + +“Yes, he was there.” + +“I am surprised at them all having time,” said Lady Naylor. “However, +if they danced more and interfered less, I dare say there would be +less trouble in the country. It appears that in Kerry ...” Her voice +became colder with inattention and dwindled away. Lois was certain she +eyed the pink blotter. This zigzag approach to Gerald, this ultimate +vagueness, were sinister. Lady Naylor, after some moments of odd and +oppressive silence, observed that the sweet-peas were dying. “The water +must be unhealthy, it’s going green. In fact, all the flowers need +doing. Perhaps after tea-- How would you like to go to a school of +art?” + +“Marvellous,” said Lois after reflection. + +“Francie was very much struck by your drawings. And Marda said you +certainly needed an interest.” + +“Oh. Was she discussing me?” + +“We were all saying that girls needed interests and I thought she +seemed to agree particularly. _She_ has not made much of her life, so +far--though of course if she marries Leslie--and I’ve always thought +that music or drawing, or writing a little, or organization of some +kind--” + +“Did Marda say what she thought of my drawings?” + +“She seemed to think they were nice.... A quarter to five!” exclaimed +Lady Naylor reproachfully. “The tea will be cold.... You look sleepy, +Lois. Did you hear the Montmorencys are going to build a bungalow?” + +“Here?” + +“Don’t be silly-- Besides, according to that friend of the Trents, +it would be blown up or burnt in a month or two. Certainly,” added Lady +Naylor, looking out at the sky, “I call this a tiring day.” She got up +with a sigh. + +Later that evening Lois, half-way up to the garden with scissors +and basket, overtook Mr. Montmorency walking all by himself up the +shrubbery path. Pulling leaves from the laurels he shredded them +carefully. + +“I hear,” he said, as she came up alongside, “you are taking up German?” + +“Unless Italian might be more practical.... I hear you are going to +build a bungalow?” + +“Oh, I don’t know; that is chiefly Francie’s idea.” They walked in +silence, she dragging her basket against the laurels. They had not been +alone since the drive from Mount Isabel. She remembered how once she +had hoped so much, and how he had been infinitely disobliging. Now she +had a tenderness for him, devoid of attraction, as though they had been +a couple of widows. + +“No stairs would be nice.” + +“But it would be certain to have other disadvantages.” + +“Apparently,” she said with effrontery, “Marda arrived quite safely.” + +“It should be a surprise to us all,” said Hugo, sarcastic, “that she +has not fallen out of the train. Even she cannot think of anything +better to say to a hostess. And the information, I always feel certain, +leaves hostesses cold. Once one is clear of their gates, interest ends +with responsibility.” + +“And she says Kent is dull.” + +“I cannot believe _she_ finds it so.” + +“She is frightfully philosophic. Perhaps she was dull here.” (She +thought: “Even now, shall we never be natural?”) + +“Have you seen her letter?” + +“No ... have you?” + +“No, your aunt has lost it.” + +He pushed open the door, then followed her into the garden which, deep +in its walls, seemed impossibly large, for one could not see to the end +of it: it was crossed by espaliers and crowded with apple-trees. Down +the borders, the September yellow and scarlets were metallic in unsunny +light. Dahlias, orange and wine-coloured, blazed and gloomed. He turned +down one path, she kept to the other; they silently parted. Here she +had come with Marda--never with Gerald--they had sat on the green seat, +pressed blisters out of the paint and spat out their plum-stones into +the box border opposite. Entered to-day, the usual breath of the garden +was cold to her face. The branches were quiet as though in anxiety, +the flowers appeared to be clamouring vainly, forgotten. Coming to +the hedge of sweet-peas she began at the purple end, diligently. +“Though myself,” she could not help saying, “I do not care for purple +sweet-peas.” + +When she reached up to the top of the hedge her sleeves fell back from +her arms and she thought of Gerald. She felt him looking at her through +the thinning stems. The sweet-peas were practically over, and indeed +she was glad, she thought, snipping and tugging with blunt garden +scissors. In yesterday’s dusk the Square with its flitter of leaves +had been all autumnal; smoke was blue in the air and, later, the dark +where they kissed had a sharp intimation of autumn. She loved in +autumn a stronger, more shadowy keen spring, sweet shocks of good-bye, +transition. Summer meanwhile stayed on inside these walls, forgotten. + +The fact was, that though one determined to-night to sit under the +lamp and learn verbs, her Italian or German would not dispose of last +night, which remained, like the tear in her green tulle dress, to be +dealt with practically. After an anxious glance at the possible, a pain +so sharp that it seemed her own forbade recantation. It was inevitable +that she should marry Gerald. Mrs. Montmorency at least--she thought +with relief as she came to the red sweet-peas--would be infinitely +sympathetic and pleased. The unbelievable future became fixed as the +past under the flutter and settling down of a flock of comments, which, +as she turned in imagination back to the house and steps and saw lips +forming themselves in unconscious readiness, seemed already uttered. +And as Mr. Montmorency came up a path at an angle, with the two garden +kittens toppling after him, she was surprised he did not repeat: “Well, +I hope of course that you may be happy. And decision of any kind is an +excellent thing in your mother’s daughter.” + +Instead, he came to the other side of the hedge and, picking off some +bleaching tendrils, observed that the sweet-peas would soon be over. +The house flowers must keep her busy, he added. And taking out his +pocket-knife he cut three sweet-peas, with precision. Having made this +gesture of sympathy, he continued to move with her down his side of the +hedge. + +“It is extraordinary,” said Lois. “I feel as if I had been away for a +week.” + +“Yet you find us going on much the same?” He looked at her through +the stems ironically but without intelligence. And she could not try +to explain the magnetism they all exercised by their being static. +Or how, after every return--or awakening, even, from sleep or +preoccupation--she and those home surroundings still further penetrated +each other mutually in the discovery of a lack. + + + + + XX + + +LADY NAYLOR, who wished for a clear steady light these lengthening +evenings, saw to the lamps personally. In big yellow gloves she +accurately trimmed the wicks, between the morning’s head-lines and a +thorough talk with the cook. But the smell of oil was repugnant to her +and now she said with some sharpness: + +“You have no conception of love-- You are in my light.” + +Lois moved from the lamp-room window. “I really have,” she said, +“really.” + +“Nonsense,” her aunt said, looking round for a rag. Lois began to slide +a matchbox about, and her aunt, taking the matches away mechanically, +thought how hard it was that a woman like this, who could bring the +matter on to an intellectual plane at once, should have to do lamps at +all. Anna Partridge, whose brain was all shreddy with rabbit-combing +and raffia, had had electric light for years, just from living in +England; even the Trents talked of harnessing their waterfall. + +“When I was your age I never thought of marriage at all. I didn’t +intend to marry. I remember, when I was nineteen I was reading +Schiller.” + +“I don’t think about marriage, I ...” + +“Then you can have no conception ...” + +“I read,” said Lois, with dignity. + +“Girls nowadays do nothing but lend each other these biological books. +I was intensely interested in art.” + +“But, Aunt Myra, young men are quite usual.” + +“It all comes of dancing and all this excitement.” + +“But Gerald is not excitable; he was in love with me the other day +before lunch.” + +“He was half asleep,” said Lady Naylor. “At the best of times he has +not much conversation. Of course, I rate brains so highly; perhaps I am +wrong. But remember, you cannot hope to be always in love, and then ...” + +“But you said I had no conception ...” + +“There you are, in my light again.” + +Lois moved further away from the window. She wished she had not started +this explanation. She had felt, somehow, that it should be less +embarrassing in the lamp-room. She thought of Gerald’s unquestioning +shoulder, where she would lean her head. “But I can’t explain,” she +said; “I never heard of a girl being asked to explain. I always thought +...” + +“Real feeling explains itself,” said Lady Naylor and polished some oil +off the base of a lamp triumphantly. + +“But if he comes to tea ...” + +“Oh, we cannot help that, of course.” + +“But if he spoke to Uncle Richard ...” + +“Your uncle would be very much worried. Really, Lois, I do think you +might be more sensible and considerate.” + +Lois saw this point of view only too perfectly. She wrinkled her +forehead. She did not want to be hard on her Uncle Richard and she +could not help sympathizing with Aunt Myra, who had so much to organize +as it was. Feeling did seem to her out of proportion with life, and +that this disproportion should be so evident generally, that her aunt +should think she was making an irrelevant fuss, strongly discouraged +her. But she reassembled herself; she had been led to understand that +love ... + +“But surely love ...” + +“You have no conception of love,” repeated Lady Naylor, and thought +again of electric light in Bedfordshire. + +“But shall I never do anything?” + +“Go to a school of art.” + +“Where?” + +“It could be arranged.” + +“But I don’t think I really draw well.” + +“That is no reason why you should marry.” + +It was, of course, no reason; acknowledging this, and seeing light from +the barred window fall so coldly on the oilcloth top of the lamp-table, +Lois felt quite at a standstill. + +“However ...” said Lady Naylor. She looked with her brilliant eyes +dubiously, almost shyly, at the door behind Lois’s head. She swept the +rags and the lamp scissors into a drawer, shut the drawer on their +malodour, and pulled off her gloves, sighing. She saw life, perhaps, as +a shuffle of setting to partners, then a drawn-out, coupled but somehow +solitary curtsying, to him, the other, the rest of the eight. “However +...” she said. And the qualification committed herself and her niece, a +shade alarmingly. Lois knew that Gerald might come to tea. + +“You do see,” said Lois, and stared at her aunt’s ringed hands which +reappeared from the gloves, “that I didn’t want to be clandestine?” + +“Oh, of course you were quite right,” said Lady Naylor without +enthusiasm. She went down to talk to the cook. + +Kathleen, the cook, who resembled her mistress in personality so +closely that their relation was an affair of balance, who had more +penetration than Lady Naylor and was equally dominant, inferred much +of the situation from her mistress’s manner. Herself, she had felt +this was bound to occur. For an hour or so, they had countered each +other amiably in the lime-washed gloom of the kitchen, over a basin +of green-pea soup. Lady Naylor announced with unusual deprecation, +there would be an officer coming over to tea. Kathleen, refolding her +hands royally, asked, would she slap up a sally-lunn? On the whole, +Lady Naylor thought drop-cakes. Kathleen immediately placed the +officer. Strolling down the yard in the course of the afternoon to +execute a couple of chickens, she watched dispassionately from under +the chestnuts Gerald crouch on his motor-bicycle up the avenue. Lois, +standing about with the dogs, went down to meet him. For tea, Kathleen +sent up an unaccountable iced cake, ironically festive. + +Francie was glad Mr. Lesworth was coming to tea. For the day strained +with ominousness, as though it were going to burst. Hugo, pacing about +on the avenues with _The Conquest of Mexico_ under his arm, disparaged +repose. “By the way,” he said once, coming up, “if you should be +happening to write to Marda Norton ...” + +“Oh, but I shan’t be; not till I send her our little present. Besides, +I have nothing to say.” + +“She might write to you about the eau-de-Cologne.” + +“Oh no, she thanked me.” + +“There was a point I wanted to clear, about Metternich--you remember +that argument? I’ve just come on a book--I suppose I had better write +myself.” + +“But no one knows her address; Myra lost the letter.” + +“Ah yes, of course.... That settles it.” He smiled--one would have +said with relief. Francie, looking down in despair at her blouse as he +walked away, saw that the jabot was crumpled. She could not understand +how a woman who travelled with suitcases could look as _smooth_ as +Marda. But then, she was all outlines: detail seemed to collect and +obtrude in the middle of Francie. She went up to change, glad that +Gerald was coming, sounding with some attention the silence under the +avenue trees. For the fact was, life attenuated to the snapping-point; +in Gerald’s continuity, in Lois’s, she must invest her own. + +Gerald propped up his motor-bicycle, looked up carefully at the closed +windows--in one, from behind a blot of light, Francie was nodding--and +said that he should not really have come. Troops had been fired on +coming back into Clonmore, near that level-crossing. The situation was +tightening; there was a lot to do. + +“Oh. Then it is a pity you came,” said Lois. + +Gerald said nothing; his ears faintly coloured. + +“_Clonmore!_” said Lois with indignation, and thought of the little +friendly town with its tennis club. + +“So it happened,” said Gerald, looking at her. “It might have been +anywhere else.” He whistled and greeted the dogs, her dogs. + +“Then ... it was dangerous coming?” + +“Oh no, not to speak of.” + +The house so loomed, and stared so darkly and oddly that he showed a +disposition--respectful rather than timorous--to move away from the +front of it. They walked to the tennis courts and round one court in a +circle. “_Lois_ ...” She veered off quickly, Laurence was working up +there in his window. Gerald waved, but had no response. “Doesn’t he +concentrate!” he said wistfully. + +“I suppose so.... Does Laurence matter?” + +“You know _you_ ...” + +“Gerald, you are the frightfully concentrated person, really.” + +“But I can’t read.... Where can I ... where could we--?” + +“--Here comes Mr. Montmorency.” + +Hugo, coming up to shake hands with Gerald, said it seemed a long time +since they had met. The young man, by his way of standing and looking +clearly and being positive, strongly connected himself with Marda. With +an unexpected and crooked stab of nostalgia, Hugo thought of the trees, +the morning mountains, the tinkling and knocking stream. Of all of her +he had kept and had never had and must try to regain appeared most +sharply the moment of that encounter: irrelevant moment, when, outside +something, he had watched light run down her hair as she stooped for +Gerald to light her cigarette. The quality of their silence, their +separation after Gerald had left them--pressing on up to the house to +look for Lois--now seemed the very ground of his closest approach. But +he knew how the scene was perishable, how having drawn up into itself +for life, like a plant, any reality that there was in him, it would +die of his barrenness. Until finally, by even the same conjunction of +mountains and light and trees, it would not be evoked again. + +“No shaving under a hedge this morning?” he said genially. + +“Oh no,” said Gerald, surprised. Why should there be? + +Lois, encouraged to find that by some growth of womanhood in herself +her attitude was already a wife’s, at once proud and deprecating, +stood there watching Gerald, most grateful for the repose of this +interposition and willing that Mr. Montmorency should be detained. +She knew, from a glance they both gave her, that she must have been +startled by some sort of consciousness into beauty, and a particular +placidness, a sense of being located, warmed her surroundings, the +smooth lawn and heavy trees. Balancing, foot behind foot, on a line +of the court faint from rain, she constructed a life in China--most +regimental, alert and pleasantly surfaced--from Japanese prints she +had ignored in shops, an idea of odd, angular archways and some strips +of vertical writing. He must no doubt some day be a captain, and +“captain’s lady” had a ballad-like cadence. She almost took Gerald’s +arm. + +“You find us diminished,” said Hugo, “and a good deal quieter. Miss +Norton has gone.” + +“Oh?” + +“_Marda_,” she hastily prompted. + +“She was awfully nice and amusing,” said Gerald, beaming out like the +sun from behind a moment’s perplexity. “I’d have loved to have met her +again.” + +She explained to him afterwards, taking him off through the +shrubberies, how things were at present with Mr. Montmorency: he was +a ruined man. Gerald went rigid, something shut like a door on his +sensibilities--the thing reeked of adultery. He produced an appalled +silence. But about Lois’s mother, he brought out finally, hadn’t one +heard he had once been ...? + +“But a thing _can’t_ be final,” said Lois. “Not while one’s alive.” + +Was this what she read? “But there’s _Mrs._ Montmorency....” It seemed +fixed here, the Montmorencys’ conjointness, among the stately furniture +and long mild meals--earth to Lois’s roots. + +“But one can’t arrange oneself; one doesn’t altogether live from +inside: Marda just happened.” + +“And did _she_ ...?” cried Gerald, appalled. Above this extraordinary +undercurrent, it seemed to him his Lois was poised too perfectly. + +Lois, in pink linen, perfectly sophisticated and cool, said: “No. She +was just regretful. Also, she is engaged, you see.” + +“_Is_ she? I should never have thought ...” + +“... Her engaged? Well, how ought she to look? Like a kind of hen bird, +all dim?” + +“She was all herself. Doesn’t love kind of finish people off ... with +something that isn’t them, in a way you can feel?” + +She understood him, but did not know how to agree. What must one then +be for him? She was shy of his uncomprehension of a particular notion +of living she seemed only now to have formed. Did she give out an +untrue ring to his touch? Where was the flaw? Or was Gerald, sublimely, +the instrument of some large imposture? + +“Complete--you mean finished?... Perhaps she is not really in love.” + +“But surely she isn’t that sort ... she wouldn’t just marry?” + +“I don’t think what Marda does matters; she simply _is_.” + +He looked desperate suddenly, as though she were behind bars. “Look +here, no one matters. Don’t let’s talk ... I mean ... don’t let’s talk. +Lois, there’s so little time now, I’m desperate. I don’t see when I am +going to see you, ever. Lois, this miserable waiting; even happiness +never lets one alone. When shall we be quiet?” + +“But, Gerald, we’re quite young.” + +“I want nothing to happen but you. You are everything. I want so much +of you.” + +She stood, perplexed, at the edge of the path; he kissed her with +frightened violence. The laurels creaked as, in his arms, she bent back +into them. His singleness bore, confusing, upon her panic of thoughts, +her physical apprehension of him was confused by the slipping, cold +leaves. Her little sighs elated then alarmed him. + +“What’s the matter?” he said, his lips close to her face. + +“I don’t like the smell of the laurels. Let’s come out of here.” They +went back, she put up anxious hands and asked him about her hair. “Is +it twiggy and awful?” “Lovely.” She wished that he were a woman. As +they approached the steps where her aunt and uncle and Francie composed +an abstracted group, she told him: “Aunt Myra wants me to go to a +school of art.” + +“Oh ... Can you draw?” + +“_Gerald_ ...!” + +“Darling, I’ve never seen them. How could I know?” + +Lady Naylor exclaimed how delightful it was that Gerald had come over. +Now they would hear some real, _real_ news, she said: they always +relied on Gerald. Sir Richard, taking his pince-nez off in amazement, +could hardly believe it was Gerald again; he still thought subalterns +came in rotation. Surely, he said candidly, it was yesterday they had +had that interesting talk about the Militia? Gerald was given a chair +of such voluptuous depth that his chin came barely above the edge of +the tea-table. They congratulated him on the Rolfes’ dance. In fact, +they united to carry off the situation with such brilliance that Gerald +might well have been a dun or a tax-collector. Then, at a moment when +talk seemed precarious and Marda obtrusively absent and Lady Naylor sat +eyeing Lois’s hair, the Trents arrived unexpectedly. They brought over +another friend, this time from County Clare, to whom still more had +happened. Gerald went into joyous eclipse; the Danielstown party sat +breathless--hardly a chair creaked--the Trents looked at their friend +complacently while the Trents’ friend curdled the tea in one’s mouth +with tales of assault and cattle-driving. + +“Well, I suppose _we’ve_ a certain amount to be thankful for,” smiled +Mrs. Archie Trent as their friend, having been put through his hoops, +settled down to tea. And she told Lois that she was looking remarkably +well, and they hoped they would see her out with the Ballymoyles this +winter. And meanwhile, what about cubbing? + +“Lois is going to a school of art,” said Lady Naylor. + +“That seems a pity,” said Mrs. Trent. + +The friend, finishing his tea, said all the Irish art schools ought to +be searched. He wouldn’t say for certain, but he had a pretty shrewd +suspicion what you would find there. If it came to that, he said, casts +were hollow and you could keep a good deal inside the Venus of Milo. +Sir Richard looked vaguely offended. + +“I should go to the Slade,” said Lois. + +“Oh,” said Mrs. Archie Trent, “not Rome, I suppose? Well I shouldn’t do +anything of that sort in a hurry.” + +“Art is long,” said Laurence, who liked conversation of this sort. +The Trents’ friend asked him how he liked Cambridge; he himself had a +nephew who hoped soon to be going up. Laurence said he had heard that +Cambridge was very nice. + +The Trents’ friend took Gerald aside after tea, to explain to him where +the Army was going wrong. Mrs. Trent at once drew closer up to the +teapot and said, in a loud voice of confidence, she had heard Livvy +Thompson was really engaged to that young Armstrong. “Nonsense,” said +Lady Naylor. + +“But they were seen in Cork having tea, and the aunt denies it too +vigorously. After all, it would be something for the Thompsons.” + +Lois, who was unfortunate, blushed; both ladies looked hard at her. +“To begin with,” declared Lady Naylor, “these young men are not at all +marriageable. Besides, to tell you the truth ...” + +“But I don’t see what else the girls are to do. I mean, look at the +Hartigans.” + +“There’s a future for girls nowadays outside marriage,” said Lady +Naylor inspiringly. “Careers--how _I_ should have loved one. One reads +so much about ...” She was an advanced woman: Mrs. Trent, who did not +read, paused in respect but preserved an honest, bright-pink expression +of incredulity. She pictured those indoor women with clutched little +bags getting hurriedly into the Dublin trams. It was no life. Her +friend seemed, moreover, unwisely persistent in encouraging art for +Lois: this, for young girls, often resulted in worse than spinsterhood. +“All the same,” she said, returning, “Livvy seems set on the young man. +And she has a great deal of character.” + +“Well, if I were her aunt and her father, I’d never hear of it.” + +“Dear me,” cried Mrs. Trent, kicking the table cheerfully, “we’ve made +Lois blush at the very idea.” + +“Lois knows better,” said Lady Naylor. And she gave Lois one of her +rarest, most charming, direct and personal glances. + +And indeed what a friend, thought Lois, going out to the steps to +escape them all, if one had only just met, might Aunt Myra be. + + + + + XXI + + +A CLOUD slid over the sun; the stream went opaque as tortoise-shell. +Then, startling Hugo, the water suddenly flushed with light as the +cloud moved east. Minnows, disturbed like thoughts, darted shadowy over +the clear yellow stare of the stones. He dipped his stick in the water, +then, drawing it out, thoughtfully looked at the shining end. At this +point: eighteen inches; the stream, divided in two deep channels by the +island of turf where he stood, went hurrying to the Darra. In its fold +of the Darra valley, the high white mill would remain sardonic. He was +swept by an irresistible anger back to that affair of the pistol. For +Marda had written: her hand had healed; no one had asked any questions +or wondered, she said. + +She had written to Lois, sending Hugo this message. It had pleased both +the girls to underline his exclusion. She wrote also, Leslie had given +her a dog--a correct dog, Lois expected, like all that was best in +English country house life. Marda could not think what to do with the +dog till she married; she would have to leave it in Kent.... And what +else did Marda say, Francie had wanted to know. But Lois, who seemed +to have swallowed the letter, postmark and all, could not remember. +Later, she did seek out Hugo and offer to show him.... But he had put +up surprise. “Oh? Was there any particular--?” No, he did not think +on the whole he would trouble her.... Would the child see, he wondered, +that the little oblique snub was not intended to stop at _her_, but +to go past? His look now fell empty, reflective, on the tawny glass +sliding water. + +The child, having seen, went upstairs to describe his behaviour to +Marda. Her unreticence was immoderate, though she was sensitive for +him. She wrote scrupulously, with an affect of hardness. + +“He is terrible, and, as the end of everything, they are to build a +bungalow. _She_ has it all her own way now; I don’t know if he still +even brushes her hair. Since you went, it has been the same time all +day: three o’clock, after a long lunch. We all talk about my future (by +common consent I am about nine now, very distracting and sunny; they +like to have me about). It is to be a school of art, certainly.--Why +did you never tell them I couldn’t draw?--But we can’t decide where. +London, in view of my age, is supposed to be too large. In Dublin, +a man who came to tea yesterday said there might be high explosives +inside all the casts with capacious figures. In Cork I might pick up +an accent, and Paris they will not hear of--my wretched virtue. But as +a matter of fact, I have no future, in their sense. I have promised to +marry Gerald.” + +Here she paused, for from now on it was all obscure ahead of her. +Reading back, she was surprised at the woman she was. She took this +merciless penetration for maturity’s. But when she looked for Gerald +there seemed too much of him. He was a wood in which she counted from +tree to tree--all hers--and knew the boundary wall right round. But how +to measure this unaccountable darkness between the trees, this living +silence? So she turned back to Mr. Montmorency, adding a paragraph. He +had, this morning, snubbed her. + +She would have been surprised to have seen him, at this same moment, +step across to the island and stand there rootedly. And he, his +whereabouts even so much as guessed at, would have been quite at +her mercy. For to have followed the stream to this loneliest reach, +beyond the plantation wall, where the meadow’s hedge trailed unknown +blackberries over the water, was not to have walked, to have strolled +even, but to have betrayed oneself in an emotional kind of straying. +Further down, stepping-stones had been displaced by last winter’s +flood, there was a ruined cottage; nobody came here. Even Lois had +given up, since her eighteenth birthday, coming to lie on her stomach +along the bank, weep out a bottomless despair at nothing and look at +herself in the stream. And this wildness within the demesne boundaries, +within sound of the farmyard bell, had a particular desolation. + +Hugo was pleased with the place; here he seemed to have stepped +through into some kind of nonexistence. And here, divorced equally +from fact and from probability, he set up a stage for himself: the +hall’s half-light. Marda’s hand is on the wide scrolled curve of +the baluster rail: he touches her still and electric hand with the +deliberation of certainty, all the senses running into his touch. She +stares recognition fixedly, darkly back.... For though in actuality +she had had only one mood for him--cool and equivocal--he, now frantic +with this power disconnected from life, could command her whole range +imaginatively: her very features became his actors. And if this were +not love ... + +He was pleased with the place. They must all, he expected, be looking +for him: it produced the faintest vibration behind the solitude. This +morning, Myra was driving into Clonmore to lunch with the Boatleys; +she had asked him to come, he had said he would see. He had intended +by this “Good God, no,” and if she were fool enough to interpret it +otherwise there was a rightness about her delay in starting. Francie +would certainly go; she was painfully fascinated by military society. +She would now be standing out on the steps, grey net veil strained +elegantly over the tip of her nose, looking at her gloves in despair, +persisting: “He must be _somewhere!_” + +“How many of us do they really expect?” said Francie at last, getting +into the car disconsolate. + +Lady Naylor had not the slightest idea. “But they are accustomed to +Ireland. She was a Vere Scott. And they know that I usually fill the +car.” + +“You’re not taking Lois?” + +“Lois goes into Clonmore quite enough,” replied Lady Naylor. + +For Lady Naylor had further reasons for going into Clonmore. She had +an assignation with Gerald at half-past three, in Mrs. Fogarty’s +drawing-room. Fridays were Club days, Mrs. Fogarty would be “up at the +tennis,” and her drawing-room, disembarrassed for once of her large +personality, remained at the disposition of friends. Lady Naylor, +though she deplored Mrs. Fogarty’s taste in beads, her husband, her +stays--which stuck out half-way up her back in a frill--and her too +overflowing maternity, had fallen into the general habit of using +her house as a kind of Ladies’ Club, dropping in there at all times +to leave parcels, wash her hands or meet friends. And she had the +impression, always, that the maid who admitted her ran upstairs at +once to put Mr. Fogarty under lock and key. Still, one knew that one’s +coming gave pleasure and gratification: she would enter the little +drawing-room, even when empty, with her queenliness at its full. + +Gerald, questioning but elated, turned up a little before time, much +braced in and polished about the belt. He had never been given an +assignation so directly. For she had said (this now divinely probable +aunt of his): “I may be at the Fogartys, resting, about half-past +three. If you should be passing--though of course you may not be and +I do not want to keep you away from the tennis--you might look in and +have a chat. For it has been too bad to-day, I have hardly seen you. I +have missed our usual talk. There is still so much ... But I dare say +you won’t be passing.” Her look, a special point to its wide-pupilled +eagerness, transposed this to the imperative. The vigorous arch of +her eyebrows insisted strongly. He, feeling himself ordered like +a taxi--better still, like a nephew--had flushed with pleasure. +_Rath_-er; he’d make a point--(would she then call him Gerald?). “Of +course, I may not be there; we may not even come in; it is all quite +uncertain,” said Lady Naylor. + +Riding home, the intoxication of Gerald had mounted. He guessed that +she never rested, rarely leaned back in a chair, never pushed up her +hat with a sigh or stretched tender feet out, unbuttoning shoes. She +would remain imperious, even in Oxford Street. So she was contriving +for him; a special tribute. + +Lady Naylor, coming in to the Fogartys’ soon after four, was annoyed +to find Gerald before her. She had now, instead of being discovered, +to manœuvre more or less openly for position. Disregarding the chair +Gerald trundled up with its load of cushions, she placed herself +(unaccountably, it would have to appear) on the narrow window-seat. +Thus, she conceded no more to the room than an imposing silhouette +of hat and boa, while Gerald, glancing round pessimistically at +the chairs, remaining with elbow planted among photo-frames on the +mantelpiece, was exposed to her full in the strained green light coming +over the bushes. + +“Such a day,” she sighed briskly. “We have lunched with the Boatleys. +What a delightful Colonel he must be! _She_, you know, is Irish; a Vere +Scott. We must seem ridiculous to you, over here, the way we are all +related.” + +“Topping, I think,” said Gerald. + +“Oh, I don’t know! Now you lucky people seem to have no relations at +all; that must feel so independent.” + +“I have dozens.” + +“Indeed? All in Surrey?” + +“Scattered about.” + +“That sounds to _me_, of course,” remarked Lady Naylor, pulling her +gloves off brightly, “exceedingly restless. But you all _came_ from +Surrey, didn’t you?” + +“More or less,” said Gerald, who was not sure. The Boatleys had +not been sure where he came from, either; her day so far had been +unsatisfactory. + +“Now I do hope I’m not keeping you from smoking?” + +She was. He smiled and lighted a cigarette. “You don’t ...?” + +“Oh dear me, no, I am quite old-fashioned. Now tell me--you know how +I hate all this gossip in a garrison neighbourhood, but there is +something I must set right. What is this nonsense I hear about Livvy +Thompson? You know she’s a friend of my niece’s and comes a good deal +to our house, and I do feel I ought to refute these stories about her.” + +“Oh?” said Gerald, alarmed. “I had no idea.” + +“Hadn’t you,” said Lady Naylor. “Well, you are a friend of the young +man Mr. Armstrong’s, so I felt I’d come straight to you. It appears +they were seen in Cork having tea rather intimately and in consequence +there are all sorts of rumours. Now it doesn’t seem fair to a young +girl, at the beginning of life, having her name coupled.” + +“I should have thought,” said Gerald rather stiffly, “anyone could see +Miss Thompson was entirely straight. And as for Armstrong-- They are +engaged, as a matter of fact.” + +“Oh, nonsense,” said Lady Naylor pleasantly. + +“Oh yes,” he nodded, then with his rather engaging childishness looked +at her under his lashes. “But they don’t want--” + +“To begin with, the Thompsons would never hear of it. And they would be +quite right. Of course, poor Livvy is motherless--” + +“But many people are,” said Gerald, faintly aggressive. “Lois is.” + +“Oh, naturally we should never consider a marriage like that for Lois. +The point would not even arise. But even for Livvy-- And then think +of the young man’s career: these early marriages ruin careers, and +engagements are nearly as bad. I know Colonel Boatley feels-- No, +what you should do, I think, is: have a straight sensible talk with +your friend Mr. Armstrong. I know how much you young men will take from +each other. I think as a friend you should say to him--” + +“But look here--” began Gerald, and paused. “Look here, Lady +Naylor--” He stopped dead and looked round the room, which was +darker since she had come in: the afternoon was clouding over. He was +disengaging himself with some anguish of illusions which he had brought +here and which during the first minute or so of their talk had been +fortified. When they came to Surrey, he had thought she was hoping to +meet his mother. Crossing his legs, he rubbed the side of one shoe on +the other with a slight creak at which she, betraying her tensity, +started. Standing with lowered eyes, with an air of heaviness and +confusion, he noted this movement, a tremor of light round the edge of +her boa. With unusual calmness and virility he said: + +“As a matter of fact, I love Lois.” + +“Oh yes. But I’m afraid, you know, that she doesn’t love you,” said the +aunt equably. + +He overruled this without comment, simply by maintaining his attitude. +For all his physical lightness and vigour, there was a quality in him +she would describe as stodginess. “Then I gather she’s told you we--” + +“Oh, she’s naturally pleased that you like her. And at her age, with +her temperament, of course it is nice to love anyone.” + +“But you’ve just said she doesn’t--” + +“Not as I understand love.” + +“But so long,” said Gerald, with the particular urbanity of an approach +to rudeness, “so long as she and I both mean the same thing.” + +“But you don’t,” said his friend in her kind, social voice. “That is +what I am trying to make you see. With her temperament--” + +“_I_ haven’t noticed her temperament,” said Gerald loyally, as if a +temperament were a hump. + +“Now that alone,” exclaimed Lady Naylor, waving her gloves in a rapid +gesticulation, “would make a marriage quite fatal.... Mr. Lesworth, I +don’t want to have to imagine you miserable. I have no sons of my own, +you know, and Laurence being so intellectual-- And there is another +thing ...” She paused, and with unusual nervousness, with a movement +almost of Francie’s, touched her boa, her jabot, two carnations pinned +in the lace. She had now to tilt straight at indecency. There was this +question of money--a subject the English made free with, as free with +as what was below their diaphragms, but from which her whole modesty +shrank. “You may think me dreadful,” she said, “but there are things +in life one must face. After all, I am Lois’s aunt....” + +Gerald, blushing, stood agonized to attention. + +“There is money,” she brought out at last. “I mean, you haven’t any, +have you? Of course, I don’t see why you should have. But two people +must live, though it’s all rather sordid. However, this need not arise. +But I just want to show you--” + +“I know she’s got a beautiful home,” he said glumly. + +“However ... You see, it’s impossible every way. But first and last, +she does not love you.” + +He was forced into the position which he would have described to a +friend as bloody, of asserting she _did_. “Though I cannot think why.” + +“Oh, but so many girls would!” she cried earnestly. “But for Lois I +do think--we all think--a school of art. She cares for her drawing +intensely.” + +“She never speaks of it.” + +“Ah, that just shows ... Lack of sympathy!” said the aunt with mournful +complacency. “And it isn’t simply your age; it would be the same thing +if you were a captain or even a major. Now I do think you ought to be +sensible. It can all pass off so quietly. Nobody knows except me. Now +what I suggest--” + +“--She might have told me she’d told you!” He stared round the changed +room bitterly. + +“That was just what I didn’t encourage, to tell you the truth. Oh, the +child was most honest. But I thought you and I should approach this +quite fresh and unprejudiced.” + +“Did we have to?” + +“Oh, Mr. Lesworth!” she cried, disconcerted. She resumed, firmly but +with inspiration, something between a hospital nurse and a prophetess: +“The less talk, the less indirect discussion round and about things, +the better, I always think.” + +While she considered her gloves and with gathering satisfaction +prepared to put one of them on, he stood half-turned away from her, +stubborn but indecisive. An unusual pendulum swung in him, he was +ruined--resolute--ruined. He was dark with perplexed anger, from which +his invincible “niceness” stood, in deprecation, aside. She blasphemed, +and yet he had to admire her four-square propriety, her sound sense, +the price she set on his Lois. And love, meanwhile, did not so much +lie bleeding as sit back stunned, bruised, a little craven from shock. +Gerald drew in his chin, swallowed, put a finger inside his collar as +though to loosen it. + +“Then I understand you don’t like this: you’re going to stop it?” + +“--Now, my dear Mr. Lesworth, do think: would I ever ‘stop’ anything?” + +“--You’re going to stop it because I’m too young and too poor and not +‘county’ enough--or whatever I ought to be?” + +“You have entirely misunderstood me,” cried Lady Naylor, hurt. + +“You don’t have to tell me I’m not good enough: that’s what I’ve +battered my head against ever since--” + +“We all think you’re charming--the Montmorencys, every one! You know +we’re delighted to see you--” + +“Oh, I’m all right for tennis,” said Gerald without rancour. + +“There is no one I’d rather--as far as that goes--” began Lady Naylor +warmly. + +“You feel it’s up to you to stop it,” he summed up. “And I can see +that from your point of view you’re quite right. But there are some +things you can’t stop. God knows, I’ve got little enough for Lois, and +she ought to have everything, straight off, now. But I swear I’ll see +that she gets it. I’ll give up the Army, anything. I _know_ I’m going +to work things out. If it were only what _I_ want-- But she loves +me--I dare say she’s pretty mad--but she does love me; I’ve looked at +her eyes, I know. If she hadn’t seemed--if I hadn’t felt--if it hadn’t +been just the only thing for us both, I’d never have said a word--I +swear--I’d have died sooner.” + +“But she agrees with every one,” said Lady Naylor, taking off the glove +again in despair. “She is extremely keen to go to this school of art.” + +“Where?” he said violently. + +“Some good school.” + +“Do you expect me not to trust her?” + +“I should have a straightforward, sensible talk.” + +“You’re not going to stop me seeing her?” + +“I don’t know what sort of girls’ mothers and aunts you’re accustomed +to,” she said, nettled, “but how could you expect me to do such a +preposterous thing? It would be not only unkind but exceedingly +foolish. To begin with, she is not my own niece at all. It would be +for her uncle to decide. But Sir Richard is very easily worried: I +particularly do not wish-- You know we are always delighted to see +you at any time ...” + +She paused. “It’s most awfully kind of you,” said he, by reflex action. + +“In these days of frank unsentimental friendship between young people, +I do not see why you two should not have a perfectly friendly, sensible +talk. Of course there must be _no_ ... I mean, I know I can trust you +... I mean, you do quite understand you are not engaged, and not being +engaged there can be no question of--?” + +“I promise I won’t kiss her.” + +Lady Naylor was much embarrassed. She laughed impersonally and arranged +her boa. She expressed some envy of this generation, its frank +friendships. + +“I don’t think I am very modern,” said Gerald flatly. + +“Now Laurence is too modern: he does not seem to care about girls at +all.... For the present, I’d leave love out of the question--” + +“But I thought that _was_ the question!” + +A shadow went past the window. “Here comes Mrs. Montmorency,” said +Gerald. And he touched his moustache and blinked and looked round, +wondering which chair to offer. + +“That is too bad! I sent her up to the Rectory.” + +“Perhaps they were out.” + +“I told her to wait; there would be plenty to read in the +drawing-room-- Well, you do understand, don’t you?” + +“I’m afraid I--” + +Francie was shown in. “Oh!” she cried, “what a lot of cushions! +Kittens! Fancy sitting on them, I should feel like a cannibal. No, I +don’t mean-- Mr. Lesworth! Isn’t this nice! Are those photographs +of your regiment? I had no idea there were so many officers.... Myra, +I remembered a little something I had to get at the chemist’s, so I +thought I’d call in here and save you that climb up the hill. They were +all out.” + +“Well, that was very sweet of you, Francie,” said Lady Naylor. + +“Oh, how patriotic!” cried Francie, knocking two cushions covered +with Union Jacks off the sofa. “She’s a Catholic, isn’t she? Oh, Mr. +Lesworth, don’t bother; I’m so clumsy.... I had no idea we were going +to meet you. Isn’t it a pity now that we didn’t bring Lois? Myra, isn’t +it too bad Lois didn’t come too.” + +“Yes, it does seem a pity,” said Lady Naylor. Still faintly regretful +she got up, looked at herself in a mirror, arranged her boa and pulled +down the brim of her hat. Then she shook hands with Gerald warmly, +saying how much she had enjoyed their talk. + + + + + XXII + + +“I SHALL never forget,” continued Francie, through the open +dressing-room door, “the way he picked up those cushions.” + +“Which?” said Hugo, searching irritably among his collars. The feudal +system was weak at some points, he reflected--this Danielstown laundry. +The laundress’s father had helped to defend the house in the troubled +’sixties. Nostalgic, he thought of these neat democratic blue vans +labelled “hygienic” that called on Mondays. “Well really,” said he, “I +may just as well go to bed. I haven’t a collar left fit to dine in.... +Which cushions?” + +“Oh, horrors. But then they say the Fogartys are so kind.--Never mind, +Hugo; Richard’s and Laurence’s collars are just the same.--You know how +alive he is generally: well, that was all gone. It was like seeing a +waterfall stand still. You know, Hugo, it may be horrid, but I don’t +trust Myra sometimes. She says things aren’t, and then she turns and +makes these curious little dabs at them. She dislikes the Clonmore +rectory people, she says they are breath-y, she knows I don’t know them +and yet she insisted on my going up. And when I came down again she was +charming; I knew I must have annoyed her.” + +“My dear Francie, life is too short for all this.” (Though that was +not the matter with life, really: life was too long.) Hugo frowned, +chin up in front of his glass. “It’s a good thing the evenings are +drawing in,” he said, with reference to his collar. + +“Now what I should have said ...” resumed Francie, “though ideally, +really, I shouldn’t have said anything....” + +“Talking of evenings,” said Hugo, “where do we go next? We’ve got to +fit in the Fitzgeralds before October. Oughtn’t you to be writing to +somebody? And oh, Francie, you might post some of these collars to the +Terenure laundry, if you can get the parcel out of the house quietly.” + +“I shall miss here,” sighed Francie, looking out at the trees. + +“You miss everywhere.” They both thought of the bungalow which, an +eternal present for them, would be never able to shine in retrospect. +Throughout dinner, Francie was distraite. She was making out in her +mind a little letter to Gerald. But, of course, that would never do. + +“Hullo!” said Laurence, earlier, looking at the letters put out for +next morning’s post on the hall table. “Lois has written to Marda. I +thought no one knew her address.” + +“She heard from Marda this morning,” explained his uncle, bending to +study the envelope with melancholy interest. “I understand that it was +about a dog. I shall be relieved when Marda is married. I wonder will +the young man be able to look after luggage.” + +“I ran into Mr. Lesworth this afternoon,” Lady Naylor told Lois. “He +came into the Fogartys’ while I was resting there. Really, she keeps +quite a home for those young men--though nothing would ever take the +gloss off those cushions. He seemed very cheerful, he was on his way up +to the tennis.” + +“He never goes to the tennis on Club days.” + +“Oh, well, he seemed to be on his way up to the tennis. He told me of +that young Armstrong’s engagement to Livvy Thompson. It seems quite a +_fait accompli_, though secret, of course. How things do get round in a +garrison town! You knew, I suppose?” + +“Well, Livvy did tell me.” + +“What a bother for you!” said Lady Naylor. “It is a comfort to have +outgrown one’s friends’ engagements. I suppose _you_ couldn’t very well +tell her it was preposterous?” + +“Well, I ...” + +“Mr. Lesworth thought it a pity, in view of the young man’s future. He +expects Mr. Armstrong will not stand well over this with their Colonel +at all. I think he can’t understand his friends not being keener on his +career. I suppose it will end by their just going out to one of those +coffee or orange places in Africa. But, of course, Livvy is used to a +dull life.” + +“But I don’t see ...” + +“And there isn’t much else for her. I can’t see poor Livvy at a school +of art, though she might typewrite.” + +“She would do for a model,” said Laurence, who had been listening with +interest to this conversation from his side of the table. “They should +be either voluminous or very spiky.” + +At this point, the candles were brought in--Lady Naylor had been +delayed in Clonmore, they were dining late. The sharp flames shivered, +every one blinked; the dahlias became theatrical. + +“Autumn,” pronounced Sir Richard. “There should be less of this +ambushing and skirmishing and hey-fidaddling now that the days are +drawing in.” + +“But as an English friend of mine pointed out,” said Hugo, “this Irish +fighting is not cricket.” + +Laurence maintained that this way of fighting was consistent, efficient +and very natural. Why, he asked, be high-toned about a war? + +“Oh dear,” said Francie, “you sound just like a pacifist!” + +“What else did Gerald say?” Lois wanted to know. + +“I really cannot remember,” said Lady Naylor; “he was as pleasant as +ever, but, of course, not original. He seemed in a hurry to be getting +up to the tennis.” + +Lois, dissatisfied, blinked gloomily in the candlelight. + +About half-past ten, Francie--having been taken up to her room by +Myra, with a suggestion of having been put away for the night--crept +out again to the ante-room, listening. Her candlestick, wobbling with +indecision, brushed the ceiling with shadows. Wires twanged where some +cattle rubbed on a fence in the damp darkness. Francie went across and +tapped on Lois’s door. + +Lois turned in alarm from the dark window where she stood holding her +elbows, not quite thinking. Her heart thumped as the crack of the door +widened, letting in foreign light. “Damn,” she thought with annoyance. +She had been up here for more than an hour and had not begun to +undress. To look more natural she undid her frock and stepped quickly +out of it. + +Mrs. Montmorency, yellow under the chin, appeared deprecatingly. +She had just thought, she said, of a little chat. She looked round +hopelessly, she could not think where to put down her candle. This +decided--a little table presented itself--her difficulties seemed to be +over. She said at once: “The young man, Lois, seems so unhappy.” + +“But we’re engaged,” said Lois, tying her dressing-gown firmly round +her hips. + +“Oh ... Are you certain? Because ...” + +“What did he say?” said Lois, at once defensive. + +“My dear, I was up at the rectory. I am sure your aunt meant everything +for the best.” + +Lois went to the glass and took down her hair distractedly. Shaking it +over her face she said, muffled: “You mean she has interfered?” + +“Well, I wouldn’t say she’d done _that_. But it seems a pity ...” + +“Really,” cried Lois, glad of the hair because her anger did sound to +herself faintly academic, “she is as designing as ... a cardinal.” + +“As I said to Hugo, you have enough sense, you are so modern ... and +after all you will only be young once.” + +“Oh. Were you all there?” + +“My dear, I tell you, I was up at the rectory. But from the way he +picked up the cushions ... I can’t bear lives to go wrong.” + +This came out so vehemently, with such an effect of passion that Lois, +surprised, said: “Neither can I, really.” And looking round, she +found the shadows exaggerated with solemnity; the thin candle-flames +stretched up anxiously: a predicament must have become noticeable, even +to the room. Impressed by strangeness, by this pressure of emergency, +Lois plaited her hair in two plaits instead of one and felt herself a +different woman. + +“What they never see,” she said rapidly, “is, that I must do something.” + +“I should write at once,” said Francie, “I’m not sure that I shouldn’t +even telegraph, if it were not for the post-mistress. I should say ... +Well, I don’t know really: I do wish Marda were here!” + +“If I learn German they say, why not Italian? And when I learn Italian +they take no interest.” + +Francie picked up the evening dress that Lois had just stepped out +of, stared, and remarked to it, almost with incredulity: “Love is +everything!” + +“At least Gerald is definite. He, I ...” + +“I _know_ love is so important.” + +“At least it may get one somewhere.” + +Francie, raising her voice to a scared note, as though she must make +quite certain what they were really talking about, cried: “There are +such mistakes!” + +“I wouldn’t mind being properly tragic....” + +“If one’s not quite certain, one never knows where one is.” + +“--It’s just that I feel so humiliated the whole time.” + +“But the young man ...” persisted Francie. They looked at each other, +or at where the other had been. Francie, deserted at once by the +conspiratorial courage that brought her in, dolefully put a finger over +her lips, as though betrayed irrevocably by what had come out of them. +She visibly shrank with misgiving. + +“You seem very intellectual, Lois. Do--do you not love him?” + +“I _must_,” said Lois. She put her hands up to the back of her neck, +fumbling open the clasp of her corals. She could feel the bright girl +she had been for Mrs. Montmorency disintegrate: much that even she had +taken to be herself went with the illusion. + +“I just thought I might have helped,” said Francie, in a spent, remote +little voice, as though they were both coming back from a funeral to an +imposingly vacant house. + +“Oh, you have indeed,” said Lois. And she stood there vacantly and, she +felt, rather gruesomely smiling, weighing her coral beads up and down +in a hand, trying to remember what they had both said, what they had +meant, what it had been about. + +Francie took up her heavy candlestick and looked about for the door. +She sighed and said it had been a tiring day. She could not bear to +feel she was not missed out after all, had not been passed by because +there was nothing to pass her. It was late at night for so fundamental +a disappointment. There seemed some difficulty about getting her back +to her room, though they both desired this. Lois opened the door; they +heard Sir Richard and Hugo arguing up the stairs. Francie shielded her +candle-flame with her hand and wavered out round the door like a shadow. + +Lois, hot with retrospective embarrassment, slipped from her clothes +and blew out the candles quickly. The dark was gratefully positive. She +lay on her side with knees drawn up to her chin, blankness snowing down +on her till, quite snowed up in blankness, she was asleep. + +Next day, mist lay on the fields like a blanket, muffling sound so +that the postman arrived unexpectedly. He brought a letter from Gerald: +“For God’s sake see me.” She meant to go out to meet Gerald, bright and +matter of fact, but this miscarried: when he came, in the evening, she +was half-way down from the garden, fighting with Laurence over a snail. +He had walked on the snail on purpose. + +“Ough--you fool ... you beast, Laurence!” + +“Well, I didn’t mean to be kind to it.” + +“Just because it had no mentality.” + +“Not at all.” + +“Ough, it’s all over the path.” + +“It’s scrunched ... I dare say,” said Laurence, pleased, “I am +pathological.” + +“Great fat feet!” + +As a matter of fact, he was sorry about the snail; he had thought it +was just a shell, but he wasn’t going to say so. “Little mother,” he +said unpleasantly. + +“Laurence, you’re insane. Ough, you’re wiping it off everywhere. I +shall be sick!” + +“Do.” + +“Well, I won’t then.” + +“I had no idea you were so fond of animals,” he said as offensively +as possible. But he was not feeling up to much this evening and could +not think what else to say to her. He turned and walked briskly away +towards the avenue, conscious of having no objective. An unusual +evening, however, awaited him. In a boreen in the Castle Trent +direction he met three armed men coming out of a gate. They made him +put up his hands and march smartly down the boreen ahead of them. +He discovered that under these conditions the mind works fast but +unfruitfully; he noted details sharply and then forgot. When they came +to the wall of the graveyard he was embarrassed, but they only asked +for his shoes and the loan of his wrist-watch. Placing him with his +face close up to the wall they advised him for life’s sake not to look +round or stir for twenty minutes. “How shall I know?” said Laurence, +“you’ve got my watch.” But they did not care and went away with his +shoes. Laurence remained with his forehead against the stone for fifty +minutes, horse-flies biting him through the socks. Then he limped home +to dinner and an audience, considerably cheered. Three days after, the +watch was posted back to his Uncle Richard: it was in excellent order +and ticked as it was taken out of the package. “Which just shows,” said +Sir Richard, holding the watch to his ear with satisfaction. But that +was a day of confusion; nobody listened. + +As Lois ran down from the garden, swollen about the personality with +annoyance, she saw Gerald waiting at a turn of the path by a holly +tree. He looked intently at her advancing, without comprehension, as +though she had been a picture. Though they were alone, he did not put +out a hand or move towards her. He stood there with the vigour, grief +and indifference of a tree that cannot help growing. + +“Gerald?” + +“What’s the matter?” he said, impassive. + +“Oh, Laurence walked on a _snail!_” + +“Bad luck!” + +“My dear, he liked it.” + +“Queer,” said Gerald, finding the word with difficulty. + +“Where shall we go?” she asked, while something in her stopped like +a clock with foreboding. The encounter, uncoloured by surprise or +passion, left her quite at a loss. Unkissed, her mouth and cheeks felt +a touch of ice. + +“It seems now,” said Gerald, impersonally, as though delivering a +message, “that we can’t ever be married.” + +“Why? When?” she cried angrily. + +Gerald looked at her under level eyelids. She remembered saying: “I +wish you wouldn’t keep looking so pleased the whole time.” Now his look +and silence were cold with a doomed expectancy: she nearly hated him. +Dumbly, in happy-seeming physical agreement like a pair of animals, +they wheeled off down the path together, crossed the yard rapidly and +came into the plantation ribbed with shadow and lanced across with +light about the eye-level. He told her her aunt agreed he was not good +enough, it would never do at all, her aunt had said. Looking angrily +up the tree-trunks, she exclaimed that her aunt was mad. She repeated +this with vehemence and confusion, pulling at her fingers. He listened +to her in silence, wounded, wounded. She wished they had not come +down--overruling possibly in each other some desire for space--to +the plantation where, constricted by firs, thought and movement were +difficult and upright shadows emphasized his severity. “She advised +me,” Gerald concluded, “to have a frank talk with you.” + +“Is this the frank talk now?” + +“She was certain you didn’t love me.” + +“_Gerald_--why weren’t you furious?” + +“I ... I don’t know,” he said, surprised by the question. She saw him +standing confused, like a foreigner with whom by some failure in her +vocabulary all communication was interrupted. Her mind halted and she +wanted to run away. “Gerald, come back. I’m wretched. Why do we have to +talk?” + +“I thought you liked that....” Outside himself with passion he cried: +“I’d rather be dead than not understand!” + +“But don’t you _know_ I ...? Gerald?” + +If he did not know, it would be quite over. She watched with agony what +seemed to be his indifference. They were each waiting for the other. +_He_ watched her hand, on a tree-trunk, pick like a bird at the scaly +bark. Her hand, which immediately centred her consciousness of him, +paused and became quite rigid, fingers spread out. When he saw her hand +so quiet, he would have to be certain. And he immediately said with his +usual little resigned inflection: “You see, you are everything.” + +“I know,” she said, impersonal. + +“I suppose you are what I mean by life.... Do you understand at all?” + +“You sometimes make me.” She wanted to add: “Touch me now:” it was the +only way across. In her impotence, her desolation--among the severe +trees--at not being compelled, she made a beseeching movement which +he--remote in a rather sublime perplexity that transcended pain--either +ignored or rejected. From the stables, the six o’clock bell sent out +relief in a jerky, metallic passage of sound through the plantation. +She wanted something to look at, to follow: a train curving past in a +rush. With an exaggerated movement, she put up her hands to her ears. +Gerald’s face, in a band of light, remained impassible. + +“Gerald, you’re making us lose each other!” she shouted above the bell. + +“But I mean to say: what would _you_ lose?” + +“Everything.” + +“Do you _mean_ that?” A light ran almost visibly up inside him. She saw +now where they were and why he had come. + +She thought of going, hesitating with delight, to the edge of an +unknown high-up terrace, of Marda, of getting into a train. “No,” she +cried, terrified, “why should I?” + +“Then we don’t mean the same thing.” + +“Why don’t you make me ... like you?” + +“I thought I could. I know I can--when I’m not with you.” + +“Damn, damn,” said Lois. “I do want you!” Gerald said piteously: “Then +why can’t it all be simple?” + +“But it’s our being so young,” she said, too eagerly, “and then, money. +I mean, we have got to be practical.” + +He explained to her, wide-eyed: “It isn’t anything practical that makes +all this--like death. What _she_ said was; that if you loved me ...” + +“It’s like a nightmare that even you should begin to talk. I thought +you were a rock: I was safe with you. Gerald, really, this is all like +a net; little twists of conversation knotted together. One can’t move, +one doesn’t know where one is. I really can’t live at all if it has +all got to be arranged. I tell you, even what I think isn’t my own, +and Mrs. Montmorency comes bursting into my room at nights. Even +Marda--nothing we said to each other mattered, it hasn’t stayed, she +goes off to get married in a mechanical sort of way. She thinks herself +so damned funny--it’s cheap, really. All that matters is what _you_ +believe--Gerald, you’ll kill me, just standing there. You don’t know +what it’s like for a snail, being walked on....” + +“I don’t understand you,” he cried in agony. “Who is a snail?” + +“I didn’t ask you to understand me: I was so happy, I was so safe.” + +Gerald noticed a change somewhere; the light was gone from his face, +moving down the trees it had disappeared. He looked at his wrist-watch. +They had been a short time together, almost twenty minutes. “When were +you happy?” he said accurately. He would have liked to be sure of this, +and of several other matters: she was not collected enough to explain. +He eyed the incredible wood, the path, her unchanged figure in the +cheerful blue woollen dress. Something struggled free in his brain and +said, quite apart from his numbed self: “My darling, don’t, don’t rack +yourself. You know this will be always the same for me. Whatever’s +impossible, you will always be perfect. I know we’re different about +things: if that didn’t hurt you it would never matter to me. I mean, +don’t let’s be disappointed. You know I’m not giving you up, I could +never have done _that_. But it’s just that, you see, you never ... I +suppose things can’t come out what one wants.... I suppose it would +hardly do....” + +“But, Gerald, where are we?” + +He said, “Don’t worry.” They were both, he knew, entirely lost. + +“But what have I _done?_ What have I _not_ done?” After a minute, +during which she heard him finger his belt--his fingers slipped on the +leather--she shut her eyes and said, “So you’re certain I don’t love +you?” + +No answer. “Oh, leave that belt alone, Gerald!” + +Still no answer, as though he were asleep. And indeed he felt, as at +the approach of sleep, an immense indifference. She, tortured by the +loneliness of insomnia, had to cry out: “Won’t you even just try--won’t +you just kiss me?” + +“I don’t think ...” + +“All right.” + +“Look, I must go now.” Vaguely, he saluted and began to go up the path, +towards the beech walk, towards the house. + +“Good-bye?” she said. + +He only half paused. “No, don’t let’s ...” “Where did you leave your +bicycle?” + +He was well up the path; he called back: “Against the hedge. You know, +under the tennis courts.” + +She knew; she remembered him pulling leaves from the privet hedge, +scattering them on the grass and throwing them over her. She remembered +that Mrs. Boatley was a Christian Scientist. It seemed a good thing +summer was practically over; there might not be more tennis parties. +But at this the incomprehensible glare of summer blinded her, bringing +tears to her eyes. “Gerald!” she called. + +But by this time he seemed to be out of ear-shot. + + + + + XXIII + + +ANOTHER thing Lady Naylor had noticed about the English was, a +disposition they had to be socially visible before midday. Soon after +ten, she had heard, Mrs. Vermont and her friends were to be seen about +the streets of Clonmore--from behind the still decently somnolent +blinds of inhabitants--with gloves buttoned tight at the wrists, +swinging coloured baskets. Before eleven, they would be seated behind +the confectioner’s window, deploring the coffee. Mrs. Rolfe had once +had Moriarty’s shutters taken down for her specially--and she wishful, +Moriarty said, to purchase the one pair of stockings only. A Mrs. +Peake, of the Gunners, demanded attention at the hairdresser’s before +ten. These unnatural practices were a strain in the town’s normality; +the streets had a haggard look, ready for anything. Really, as Lady +Naylor said, almost English. She thought of the south of England as a +kind of extension of Brighton, the north serrated by factory chimneys, +the middle a blank space occupied by Anna Partridge. Only Danielstown’s +being out of dropping- or popping-in distance from Clonmore +deprived her, as it transpired, of matutinal visits from Mrs. Vermont +and her friends. + +Mrs. Vermont, however, overcame difficulties, hired a Ford and had +herself driven over one morning about eleven o’clock. She brought +her great friend Mrs. Rolfe; they were on their way to lunch at the +Thompsons’. This she explained before they were out of the car; _she_ +knew what Mondays were, she did not want to alarm Lady Naylor--being +so much with Mother had made her considerate in these matters. Lady +Naylor, as a matter of fact, would have minded them less at lunch-time; +one didn’t notice people so much at meals, she discovered. When news of +the dropping in came down to the kitchen, she groaned: “My morning!” +Nothing could have been worse. + +Francie was lying down with “a head”; Hugo was talking over old times +with the coachman, who had been pensioned off and brooded all day in +the harness-room, much at a loss. Lois, indirectly responsible for the +outrage, was not to be found. She had not been herself at all, these +last few days. Her aunt, after Gerald’s departure, had made a point +of saying: “Well, I hope, of course, you have not made a mistake. But +we all have to settle these things for ourselves, you know.” Francie +never failed to inquire if she were getting on nicely with the Italian; +her uncle agreed it was high time she went to that school of art. This +morning she seemed to be nowhere; shouting did not produce her. + +Laurence, always unfortunate, was surprised on the steps with Locke. +“Oh God,” he said as the Ford came round the bend of the lower avenue. +He turned, too late, to escape; the girl wives were already shouting +and waving. + +Betty said: “Denise, this is Mr. -- (Oh dear, how awful!) This is +Mrs. Rolfe of the Gunners; my great friend, you know.” + +“Good,” said Laurence. Denise glanced up, apprehensive, at all the +windows. Laurence stood looking at them with resignation; he forgot to +open the door of the car though they brimmed out over it. + +“_May_ we get out?” asked Betty, tittering up at him in the friendliest +way from a perfect swirl of furs and red crêpe de Chine. On their +knees, two little pairs of hands curled like loose chrysanthemums over +their kid pochettes. He let them out and they ran up the steps shaking +out their dresses. “_Oh_, what a brainy book!” cried Betty, pouncing. +“--My dear, just look what he’s reading--oh, you have got a brain! I +mean, fancy reading ...” + +“You’re at college, aren’t you?” said Denise, fluttered. + +“Sometimes,” said Laurence accurately. Opening his mouth very wide he +shouted for Lois. They shrieked and covered their ears. “I expect,” he +said finally, “I had better go in and look for--” + +“Don’t go! I’m sure they will all come out.... I did want Denise to see +a lovely old Irish home.” + +“Yes, we are quaint, really,” said Laurence, considering. “And you +oughtn’t to miss the Trents; has she seen the Trents?” + +“Well, I hardly know the Trents. Here, we always feel that Gerald is +such a link.” + +“Missing or otherwise,” Denise added. + +“Exactly.” Betty smiled at him sidelong, but all the same, it did +seem a pity it should be Laurence that they had dropped in on with +unintended accuracy. _This_ was not at all what she had led Denise +to expect. Laurence’s not quite rudeness was, in fact, rather +international--she supposed, Oxford. She said: “I have a boy cousin +at Reading University. That’s quite near Oxford, isn’t it?” Denise, +plaintive, said that a wasp was bothering; she wanted to go indoors and +see the reputed ancestors. Betty flapped with her pochette and the end +of her fur. “She’s _terrified_ of wasps!” + +“So am I,” said Laurence, backing, “absolutely _terrified_. I think I’d +better go and--better get a--” He disappeared through the glass door, +shutting it. + +Denise said: “Well, I do think people are extraordinary.” They both sat +down and yawned. All these trees; it was quite extraordinary. “Is that +Lois’s cousin?” + +“More or less.” + +“Well, I always did think she was an odd girl.” + +“Ssh, there’s Sir Richard writing in the library--Denise, _just_ look +through, sideways. He’s such a type.” + +“O-oh ... yes. Is he a knight or a baronet?” + +“Well, I don’t see how he could have been knighted.” + +“My dear, ssssh!” + +“He’s deaf. Oh, darling, look at those little teeny black cows. Those +are Kerry cows. They farm, you know; they have heaps of cattle.” + +“I always meant to ask you: _are_ there Kilkenny cats?” + +“Really,” said Mrs. Vermont, annoyed, as her friend yawned again and +she felt her own jaw quiver, “when one thinks these are the people we +are defending! I wonder if they’ll offer us any coffee. What I think +about Irish hospitality: either they almost knock you down or they +don’t look at you. Or I tell you what, we might go out to the garden +and get some plums. Only I would like you to see the drawing-room. I +wish these were Livvy’s people; the boys say her house smells--I hope +you aren’t bored, darling?--I mean, what I mean about Livvy; she does +grow on you. I can’t think what Gerald sees in this family, I must say. +It isn’t even as if Lois--” + +“Of course, I always did think she was an odd girl.” + +At this point Sir Richard, who was not deaf, came out in despair. He +said this was too bad; he couldn’t think what could have become of +Lois. “We might shout,” he said helplessly. + +“Your nephew has been shouting.” + +“Still,” said Sir Richard, and shouted again. “How are you all getting +on?” he said kindly, when he had recovered his breath. + +Betty said with dignity: “There may be going to be an offensive.” + +“_Sssh_,” whispered Denise, pinching her elbow. + +“Though I ought not really to tell you.” + +“Never mind,” said Sir Richard, “I don’t suppose it will come to +anything. Besides, now the days are drawing in-- But this is too bad +really, most unfortunate that my wife should not be here to receive +you. She will be most distressed.” + +“Oh, but we just dropped in. As I said to Denise, what is the good of +being in Ireland if one isn’t a bit unconventional?” + +“She will be most distressed.” + +“Don’t bother! We’ve been admiring your darling cows.” + +“I’ll just go in and inquire,” said Sir Richard firmly and disappeared, +shutting the glass door. + +Denise said she would get the giggles: a seizure did seem to be +imminent. “Well, I must say, Gerald is well out of this family.” + +“But, my dear, _is_ he?” + +“Something’s happened. He’s _black_--even Timmy noticed. I said to +Timmy: ‘You _must_ find out’--’Cause I think, don’t you, that when men +get together ... You see, _I_ can’t--though I can’t bear to see the boy +suffer.” + +“But I thought you said you--” + +“Well, I’ve seen him in the distance and he didn’t look like himself at +all. But he hasn’t been near us, or to the Club, or into the Fogartys’. +And as I was saying to Mrs. Fogarty--” + +“It seems to me he’s been treated rottenly. If it were one of our boys, +my dear, I should be fur-rious.” + +“All the same, I do want to _see_ Lois....” + +“What he sees in her, I cannot imagine. She’s what I should call rather +affected--” + +“Sssh--Oh, hullo, Lois!” they cried in unison. + +Lois, unbecomingly bright, came up from the beech walk. + +“Oh, hullo,” she said, “splendid!” + +“We’ve just been talking about you.” + +“O-oh. _Can’t_ you stay to lunch?” + +“No can do; we’re off to the Thompsons. My dear, aren’t you thrilled +about Livvy and David! Isn’t it marvellous?” + +“Thrilled, it’s absolutely marvellous. _Do_ stay to lunch--I mean,” +she said agitatedly, “do come back to tea? Oh no, we shall all be +out. Oh, how rotten. Or come to tennis--no, I believe there won’t +be any more tennis; Laurence is going back to Oxford and the rain’s +washed all the marking off the court. Perhaps we could have a dance or +something--” + +The two young wives eyed her lightly and curiously; their looks ran +over her form like spiders. They were so womanly, she could have turned +and fled back down the beech walk. “Donne ch’avete intelletto d’amore,” +she thought to herself wildly. And the pause, the suspicion of some +deformity that these ladies produced in her became so acute that she +smiled more widely. She buttoned her cardigan up to the top, then +unbuttoned it. + +“Oh, but don’t go _now_,” she said, but looked at their Ford, longingly. + +“Oh, we must, we have been here hours, watching your darling cows.” + +“I’m afraid they’re very much in the distance. Does Aunt Myra--?” + +“Oh, we’d hate to disturb her. Unless we might all run round the +garden--?” + +“It’s locked and I’ve lost the key. I feel quite an outcast. That’s +what has been the matter the whole morning. Do have something to +eat--have some biscuits?” + +“Unless we just come into the drawing-room for one moment?” + +“I always think drawing-rooms in the morning are so depressing.” + +Denise said she did not see how the same room could be much different, +but it was no good; Lois seemed determined to keep them out. From the +way she shifted her feet and stared round, you would have said she was +expecting bad news momentarily: she talked so much that they hadn’t a +chance to express themselves. She went in for a tin of _petit beurres_ +and offered it with an odd air, rather propitiatory. Lady Naylor called +from an upstairs window that this was too bad, that she was so much +distressed, she would be down immediately. “She spends whole mornings +with the cook,” said Lois. “I cannot think what they do. I believe they +fence verbally. More biscuits?” + +“No, we shall spoil our din-dins. Denise, we _must_ come. I hear old +Mr. Thompson is a terrible ogre. Any messages in Clonmore, Lois? Any +messages to Gerald?” + +Lois thought she must blush, but did not; even her blood stood still. + +“_I_ should ask him,” said Denise, “why he didn’t send _you_ a message. +_I_ think it was odd of him; I should be fur-rious.” Lois saw, with +interest, a ripple of light down their dresses; they nudged each other. +There must be something odd about her, really, if they had noticed; she +must clearly be outside life. + +“How is the gramophone?” she said enthusiastically. + +“Don’t _ask!_ Gerald is going to Cork to bring back a new one. We +thought we might all go too, it would be a rag.” + +“Marvellous!” + +“Look, I’ll just run Denise in to have a look at the drawing-room.” + +“I shouldn’t, really. I haven’t done the flowers.” + +“Gerald says all your looking-glasses make him feel sleepy. He’s a +funny boy, in a way,” said Betty innocently. “You don’t think we ought +to wait till we’ve seen your aunt? She won’t be offended?” + +“I shouldn’t really; she’s probably been delayed.” Lady Naylor did, in +fact, arrive on the steps in time to utter exclamations of despair as +they drove away. “Too bad, _too_ bad!” she called, waving after them. +“You must come again soon!... Really, Lois, you might have found them +some fruit or something. Fancy puffing them out with biscuits at this +hour.” + +“I tell you what I think it is about Lois,” said Betty cosily, nestling +down in the car as the trees rushed over them. “I think he’s left her.” + +Denise agreed. “A boy needs keeping, if you know what I mean.” Betty +also told her what she thought about the Naylor family: they were going +down in the world. “I should not be surprised if they never used that +drawing-room,” she said viciously. “It smells of damp. Myself, I do +like a house to be bright and homey.” + + * * * * * + +The world did not stand still, though the household at Danielstown and +the Thompsons’ lunch party took no account of it. The shocking news +reached Clonmore that night, about eight o’clock. It crashed upon the +unknowingness of the town like a wave that for two hours, since the +event, had been rising and toppling, imminent. The news crept down +streets from door to door like a dull wind, fingering the nerves, +pausing. In the hotel bars, heads went this way and that way, quick +with suspicion. The Fogartys’ Eileen, called by a friend while she was +clearing away the supper, cried “God help him!” and stumbled up to Mr. +Fogarty’s door, blubbered. Mr. Fogarty dropped his glass and stood bent +some time like an animal, chin on the mantelpiece. Philosophy did not +help; in his thickening brain actuality turned like a mill-wheel. His +wife, magnificent in her disbelief, ran out, wisps blowing, round the +square and through the vindictively silent town. + +Barracks were closed, she could not get past the guards; for once she +was at a loss, among strangers. She thought mechanically “His mother,” +and pressed her hands up under her vast and useless bosom. Trees in the +square, uneasy, shifted dulled leaves that should already have fallen +under the darkness. The shocking news, brought in at the barrack gates +officially, produced an abashed silence, hard repercussions, darkness +of thought and a loud glare of electricity. In Gerald’s room some new +music for the jazz band, caught in a draught, flopped over and over. An +orderly put it away, shocked. All night some windows let out, over the +sandbags, a squeamish, defiant yellow. + +Mrs. Vermont heard when Timmy had just gone out; he was to be out +all night with a patrol. She was to sleep alone, she could not bear +it. Past fear, she ran to the Rolfes’ hut. She spent the night +there, sobbing, tearing off with her teeth the lace right round her +handkerchief. Captain Rolfe kept bringing her hot whisky. “I can’t, +I can’t, not whisky; it’s so awful.” They all felt naked and were +ashamed of each other, as though they had been wrecked. From the hut +floor--where they had danced--the wicker furniture seemed to rise and +waver. + +“Percy, where did he--how was he--?” + +“Through the head.” + +“Then it didn’t--?” + +“Oh no. Probably instantaneous.” + +“Oh, _don’t!_ Oh, Percy, how can you!” + +Denise repeated: “I can’t believe it.” And while the others sickly, +furtively stared, she tried to press from her hair the waves she had +had put in that morning. “You know, I _can’t_ believe it. Can you, +Betty? It’s so ... extraordinary.” + +“Why can’t we all go home? Why did we stay here? Why don’t we all go +home? That’s what I can’t understand.” + +“Percy, can _you_ believe it? I mean, I remember him coming in and +standing against this table--” + +“Oh, don’t!--Percy, what became of _them?_ Where did they go? Those +devils!” + +“Oh, got right away.” + +“Didn’t anyone hear anything, any firing? I mean, didn’t it make a +noise?... Couldn’t they be tortured--why should they just be hanged or +shot? Oh, I do think, I mean I do think when you think--” + +“Well, we’ve got to get ’em, haven’t we? Look, just try--” + +“Oh, I _can’t_, I tell you-- Why can’t we all go home!” + +“Percy, leave her _alone!_ Oh God, my head; I shall cut my hair off. I +mean, he came in and stood there against that table. Why did they get +just Gerald?--Oh yes, I know there was the sergeant--but _he_ won’t +die; I know he won’t die.... I can’t believe it! Percy, _can_ you +believe it? Percy, say something.” + +Betty sobbed: “I should like to--oh, I should like to-- Those beasts, +those beasts!” + +“Look, you two girls go to bed.” + +“Oh, how can we!” + +“Oh, why isn’t Timmy here? I mean, when I think of Timmy, and out +all night--_I_ can’t understand the King, I can’t understand the +Government: _I_ think it’s awful!” + +But they went to bed--Percy spent the night on two chairs--and lay in +what seemed to both an unnatural contiguity, re-clasping each other’s +fingers, talking of “Him,” of “you know who” and “that boy” in the +eager voices, low-pitched and breaking, kept as a rule to discuss the +intimacies of their marriages. In the same moment they fell, dimly +shocked at each other, asleep. Then Denise saw Lois clearly, standing +affectedly on the Danielstown steps with a tin of biscuits, a room full +of mirrors behind her. And Betty woke with surprise to hear herself +say: “What I mean is, it seems so odd that he shouldn’t really have +meant anything.” + +They heard an early bugle shivering in the rain. + + + + + XXIV + + +MR. DAVENTRY arrived before the postman. He had not paid an unofficial +visit since he had been in Ireland; it seemed to him odd there should +be nothing to search for, nobody to interrogate. It was early, wet +tarnished branches came cheerfully through the mist. He had come to +the gate with a convoy on its way over to Ballyhinch; two lorries +had ground into silence and waited for him at the gate, alarming the +cottagers. He walked up the avenue lightly and rapidly: nothing, at +the stage things had reached for him, mattered. And superciliously he +returned the stare of the house. + +He rang and made his demand. Lois came out slowly, dumb with all she +must begin to say--for who could an anxious waiting officer be but +Gerald? “Really ...” Lady Naylor had said, with a glance at the clock, +advising her to put down her table napkin. And Francie, smiling, had +covered up her egg for her. + +“You?” she now said while everything, the importance of everything, +faintly altered. “Come and have breakfast.” + +He told her that there had been a catastrophe yesterday, west of +Clonmore: a patrol with an officer and an N.C.O. had been ambushed, +fired on at a cross-roads. The officer--Lesworth--was instantly +killed, the N.C.O. shot in the stomach. The enemy made off across +country, they did not care for sustained fire, in spite of the hedges. +The men did what they could for the sergeant. + +“Will he die?” + +“Probably.” + +“And Gerald was killed.” + +“Yes. Would you--?” + +“I’m all right, thank you.” + +“Right you are.” He turned round and stood with his back to her. She +asked what time it had happened; he said about six o’clock. She thought +how accurate Gerald was and how anxious, last time, he had been to +establish just _when_ she had been happy because of him, on what day, +for how long. “They’d been out all the afternoon?” They both saw the +amazed white road and dust, displaced by the fall, slowly settling. “As +a matter of fact,” said Daventry, “we were mostly ready for things. I +don’t suppose--if he knew at all--it mattered.” “No, I don’t suppose, +to oneself, it ever would matter much.” But she thought of Gerald in +the surprise of death. He gave himself up to surprise with peculiar +candour. + +“Thank you for coming.” + +“I was passing this way anyhow.” + +“But still, there was no reason why you should take the trouble.” + +Daventry glanced at her, then at the gravel under his feet, without +speculation. Cold and ironical, he was a stay; he was not expecting +anything of her. He finally said: “It seemed practical. Would you like +me to--shall I just let the others know?” She nodded, wondering where +to go, how long to stay there, how to come back. Her mind flooded +with trivialities. She wondered who would go up to the tennis this +afternoon, if there would be anyone left who did not know, who would +expect him; she wondered what would become of the Jazz band. She saw +for days ahead she must not deny humanity, she would have no privacy. +“As a matter of fact, they are expecting me back to breakfast.” + +But at the thought of Francie’s tender and proud smile, covering up +her egg, she was enlightened and steadied by grief, as at the touch of +finger-tips. She went into the house and up to the top to meet what was +waiting. Life, seen whole for a moment, was one act of apprehension, +the apprehension of death. Daventry, staring at her in memory--she was, +after all, a woman--went into the hall. Here, it pleased him to think +of Gerald socially circumspect under the portraits. + +He waited. The dining-room door swung open on a continued argument; +they came out one by one, each on the threshold, balanced momentarily +like a ball on a fountain by the shock of seeing him. “Lady Naylor?” +he said to Francie. “Oh _no!_” she seemed appalled at the supposition. +“Isn’t ... Mr. Lesworth here?” “Not to-day.” Lady Naylor came last and +stared hardest: really, the Army seemed to be inexhaustible. He told +her. “Oh, no!” she said quickly, as though to prevent something. He +told her the circumstances. “Oh--_no_,” she repeated, and turned in +appeal to her husband. “That is ... that is too bad,” said Sir Richard +and in despairing confusion touched her shoulder. He looked back into +the dining-room at the chairs and plates and table, incredible in +their survival. + +The fact was, they did not at all care for the look of Mr. Daventry. +They felt instinctively that he had come here to search the house. +Lady Naylor, still statuesque from the shock, made, even, a little +disdainful gesture, a kind of: “Here’s everything.” He, unconscious of +her impression of being brought to book, remained staring darkly and +piercingly past her. Behind her, across the dark dining-room, he saw +through a window the lawn striped with mist and sunshine. In Clonmore +it had rained that morning: they seemed to have escaped that too. She +said sharply: “Where’s Lois?” + +“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he replied, indifferent. + +“She--you have--?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +Her defensive dropped; she said with heartbroken eyes on his face: “You +know, we knew him so well. He came out here so often to tennis. It +seems queer that one can’t--that one never-- He was so--” + +“Yes he was, wasn’t he?” + +“His mother, he used to tell me about his mother. Who will write? I +should like to write to her. Yes, I want very much to write to her. I +think she might like--we did know him so well, you see-- Richard, +don’t you think I--?” + +But Sir Richard had slipped away quietly; he was an old man, really, +outside all this, and did not know what to do. He was wondering, also, +about the Connors. Peter Connor’s friends--they knew everything, they +were persistent: it did not do to imagine.... + +Mr. Daventry said that was all, he thought; he must go now. He took +leave with unfriendly courtesy and went off abruptly, with an air that +obliterated them, as though he had never been into their house at +all. Then she exclaimed, recollecting herself: “_He_ must be unhappy; +I ought to have said something.” There was so much to do now, more +than would fit into a morning; she had some idea of postponing lunch. +And hearing the postman, she half thought, terrified by a sense of +exposure: “Suppose there should be a--suppose he should have--” + +But there was no letter for Lois from Gerald. + +No one was on the steps to hear the news from the postman; he went +away disappointed. Lady Naylor thought firmly: “Now I must go and find +Lois.” But she did not go; things seemed to delay her. She looked into +the drawing-room to see whether something--she wasn’t certain what--was +there. Francie, red-eyed, looked guiltily over the back of the sofa. +They did not say anything. The room became so sharply painful that Lady +Naylor almost exclaimed: “Lois has not done the flowers!” + +It was Laurence who, walking about the grounds unguardedly, was exposed +to what they all dreaded. He came on Lois, standing beside a holly +tree. She could have moved away, but seemed not so much rooted as +indifferent. + +“It’s all right,” she explained, and added: “I’m just thinking.” + +His look became almost personal, as though he had recognized her. He +said: “I think I should. I expect--I don’t know--one probably gets past +things.” + +“But look here, there are things that one can’t--” (She meant: “He +loved me, he believed in the British Empire.”) “At least, I don’t want +to.” + +“Perhaps you are right,” he said, studying, with an effort of sight and +of comprehension, some unfamiliar landscape. + +“Well, don’t stop, Laurence. You’re going somewhere, aren’t you?” + +“Nowhere particular. Not if you--” + +“No, I don’t specially. Though if it has to be anyone, you.” + +Taking this for what it was worth, he went on, brushing awkwardly past +her against the laurels. + + * * * * * + +A fortnight later, Mrs. Trent drove over, the very evening of her +return from the North. She had been inexpressibly bored up there and +wished to complain. Lady Naylor, delighted, came out to meet her; it +was like old times again. + +“The house feels empty. They’ve gone, you know.” + +“Yes, dear me. I was sorry not to have seen the last of Hugo and poor +little Francie. What about their bungalow?” + +“Oh, that was just an idea; they are quite off it. Bungalows inland +seem so pointless, cliffs are so windy and one cannot live on a flat +coast. No, they think now of going to Madeira.” + +“Then they won’t un-store the furniture?” + +“I don’t think so; they never cared for it much.” + +“It’s a pity he never did go to Canada.” Mrs. Trent looked round at the +pleasant fields and lawns, the trees massive and tarnished, the windows +that from their now settled emptiness seemed to have gained composure. +Her sense of home-coming extended even to Danielstown. She went on: +“How’s Richard? And listen: are you getting in your apples?--we haven’t +begun. They never get anything done when I’m away. And tell me: how’s +Lois?” + +“Oh, gone, you know.” + +“_Gone?_ Oh, the school of art!” + +“Oh no,” said Lady Naylor, surprised. “Tours. For her French, you know. +And to such an interesting, cultivated family; she is really fortunate. +I never have been happy about her French. As I said to her, there will +be plenty of time for Italian.” + +“Oh, that’s splendid,” Mrs. Trent said vaguely but warmly. “Then of +course you must feel quiet. Did she and Laurence travel over together?” + +“She seemed so offended at being thought incompetent and he was +worried at the idea of looking after her luggage, so we sent them over +separately; he crossed Wednesday, she Friday. Both nights, I hear, +it was rough.... Yes, it’s been sad here, lately; we’ve been so much +shocked and distressed about that unfortunate young Lesworth. I think +I felt it particularly; he had been out here so much and seemed so +glad to talk, and had come, in a way, to depend on one. Though it was +a shock, too, for Lois. You see they had really played tennis so often +and were beginning to be quite friends. She did not take it as hard +as I feared, girls of her generation seem less sensitive, really.... +I don’t know; perhaps that is all for the best. And of course she has +so many interests. But it was terrible, wasn’t it; I still think: how +terrible. But he did have a happy life. I wrote that to his mother; +I said, it must always be some consolation to think how happy his +life had been. He quite beamed, really; he was the life and soul of +everything. And she wrote back--I did not think tactfully, but of +course she would be distracted--that it was _her_ first consolation to +think he died in so noble a cause.” + +Mrs. Trent had for a moment an uneasy, exposed look. She said: “It was +heroic,” and glanced down awkwardly at her gloves. She missed a dog, +she felt unstayed, there was no dog. + +“Heroic,” said Lady Naylor, and scanned the skies with eager +big-pupilled eyes that reflected the calm light. “Although,” she added, +half in surprise, “he could not help it.... But come in now and tell +Richard about the North, he will be amused, though sorry that you were +dull. To tell you the truth, we both rather feared you might be. Ah, +don’t mind the time, I’m sure it’s early; come in, come in!” + +But Mrs. Trent could not, she was a punctilious person and wore a +wrist-watch. She had not even sent round her dog-cart to the back; a +man was walking the cob up and down the avenue. “A flying visit,” said +Lady Naylor mournfully, having prolonged the conversation by half an +hour. Then Mrs. Trent climbed briskly into the dog-cart and gathered +the reins up; they sighed at each other their resignation to parting. + +“Then we see you on Tuesday. Be sure and come early, before the +Hartigans.” To the domestic landscape, Mrs. Trent nodded an approving +farewell. “Every autumn, it strikes me this place looks really its +best.” + +“To tell you the truth, I really believe it does. There is something in +autumn,” said Lady Naylor. She remained on the steps looking after the +trap, her hands restlessly, lightly folded. Some leaves spun down from +the gate with a home-coming air. + +The two did not, however, again see Danielstown at such a moment, such +a particular happy point of decline in the short curve of the day, the +long curve of the season. Here, there were no more autumns, except for +the trees. By next year light had possessed itself of the vacancy, +still with surprise. Next year, the chestnuts and acorns pattered +unheard on the avenues, that, filmed over with green already, should +have been dull to the footsteps--but there were no footsteps. Leaves, +tottering down the slope on the wind’s hesitation, banked formless, +frightened, against the too clear form of the ruin. + +For in February, before those leaves had visibly budded, the +death--execution, rather--of the three houses, Danielstown, Castle +Trent, Mount Isabel, occurred in the same night. A fearful scarlet +ate up the hard spring darkness; indeed, it seemed that an extra day, +unreckoned, had come to abortive birth that these things might happen. +It seemed, looking from east to west at the sky tall with scarlet, +that the country itself was burning; while to the north the neck of +mountains before Mount Isabel was frightfully outlined. The roads in +unnatural dusk ran dark with movement, secretive or terrified; not a +tree, brushed pale by wind from the flames, not a cabin pressed in +despair to the bosom of night, not a gate too starkly visible but had +its place in the design of order and panic. At Danielstown, half-way +up the avenue under the beeches, the thin iron gate twanged (missed +its latch, remained swinging aghast) as the last unlit car slid out +with the executioners bland from accomplished duty. The sound of the +last car widened, gave itself to the open and empty country and was +demolished. Then the first wave of a silence that was to be ultimate +flowed back, confident, to the steps. Above the steps, the door stood +open hospitably upon a furnace. + +Sir Richard and Lady Naylor, not saying anything, did not look at each +other, for in the light from the sky they saw too distinctly. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79073 *** diff --git a/79073-h/79073-h.htm b/79073-h/79073-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f2a39f --- /dev/null +++ b/79073-h/79073-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12740 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + The Last September | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 7%; + margin-right: 7%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h3 { + page-break-after: avoid; + font-size: 1.5em; + } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +a {text-decoration: none;} +a:hover {text-decoration: underline;} + +p { + text-indent: 1.3em; + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +p.noindent { + text-indent: 0; +} + +hr.chap { + border: none; + position: relative; + text-align: center; + margin: 3em 0; + page-break-after: avoid + } +hr.chap::before { + content: "ꕥ"; + position: relative; + padding: 0 1em; + background: white; + color: #777; + z-index: 1 + } +hr.chap::after { + content: ""; + position: absolute; + top: 50%; + left: 0; + width: 100%; + border-top: 2px solid #ddd; + z-index: 0 + } +hr.front { + width: 10%; + margin: 2.5em 45%; + border: 0; + border-top: 1px solid #777; + page-break-after: avoid + } + +hr.tb { + border: none; + text-align: center; + margin: 2em 0; + page-break-after: avoid +} + +hr.tb::before { + content: "❧"; + color: #777; + font-size: 1.2em; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +table td { padding: 0.5em; } +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { + right: 1%; + font-size: x-small; + color: #333; + text-indent: 0; + text-align: right; + position: absolute; +} + +blockquote { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Poetry */ + +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +.xlarge {font-size:x-large;} + +blockquote.constrain { + margin: auto; + max-width: 20em + } + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;} + + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79073 ***</div> + + +<main> +<h1> +THE<br> +LAST SEPTEMBER +</h1> + +<p class="center"> +by<br> +<span class="xlarge">ELIZABETH BOWEN</span><br> +<br><br><br> +CONSTABLE & CO LTD<br> +LONDON +</p> + +<hr class="front"> + +<p class="center"> +PUBLISHED BY<br> +<i>Constable & Company Limited</i><br> +<i>London W.C. 2</i><br> +<br> +BOMBAY<br> +CALCUTTA MADRAS<br> +LEIPZIG<br> +<i>Oxford University Press</i><br> +<br> +TORONTO<br> +<i>The Macmillan Company</i><br> +<br> +<i>First published 1929</i><br> +<br> +Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London +</p> + +<hr class="front"> + +<p class="center"> +TO<br> +JOAN GRACE REED +</p> + +<hr class="front"> + +<blockquote class="constrain"> +<p class="noindent">“<span lang="fr">Ils ont les chagrins qu’ont les +vierges et les paresseux....</span>”</p> + +<p class="right"><i lang="fr" class="right">Le Temps Retrouvé.</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<nav> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<table> + <tr><td>THE ARRIVAL OF MR. AND MRS. MONTMORENCY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> + <tr><td>THE VISIT OF MISS NORTON</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td></tr> + <tr><td>THE DEPARTURE OF GERALD</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr> +</table> +</nav> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span></p> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_ARRIVAL_OF_MR_AND"> + THE ARRIVAL OF MR. AND + MRS. MONTMORENCY + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>ABOUT six o’clock the sound of a motor, collected +out of the wide country and narrowed +under the trees of the avenue, +brought the household out in excitement on to the +steps. Up among the beeches, a thin iron gate +twanged; the car slid out from a net of shadow, down +the slope to the house. Behind the flashing windscreen +Mr. and Mrs. Montmorency produced—arms +waving and a wild escape to the wind of her mauve +motor-veil—an agitation of greeting. They were +long-promised visitors. They exclaimed, Sir Richard +and Lady Naylor exclaimed and signalled: no one +spoke yet. It was a moment of happiness, of +perfection.</p> + +<p>In those days, girls wore crisp white skirts and +transparent blouses clotted with white flowers; +ribbons, threaded through with a view to appearance, +appeared over their shoulders. So that Lois +stood at the top of the steps looking cool and fresh; +she knew how fresh she must look, like other young +girls, and clasping her elbows tightly behind her +back, tried hard to conceal her embarrassment. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span>The dogs came pattering out from the hall and +stood beside her; above, the vast façade of the house +stared coldly over its mounting lawns. She wished +she could freeze the moment and keep it always. +But as the car approached, as it stopped, she stooped +down and patted one of the dogs.</p> + +<p>As the car drew up the Montmorencys unwound +from their rugs. They stood shaking hands and +laughing in the yellow theatrical sunshine. They +had motored over from Carlow. Two toppling +waves of excitement crashed and mingled; for +moments everybody was inaudible. Mrs. Montmorency +looked up the steps. “And this is the +niece!” she exclaimed with delight. “Aren’t we +dusty!” she added, as Lois said nothing. “Aren’t +we too terribly dusty!” And a tired look came +down at the back of her eyes at the thought of how +dusty she was.</p> + +<p>“She’s left school now,” said Sir Richard +proudly.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think I should have known you,” said +Mr. Montmorency, who had not seen Lois since +she was ten and evidently preferred children.</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>I</em> think she’s the image of Laura⁠—”</p> + +<p>“—But we have tea waiting. Are you really +sure, now, you’ve had tea?”</p> + +<p>“Danielstown’s looking lovely, lovely. One sees +more from the upper avenue—didn’t you clear some +trees?”</p> + +<p>“The wind had three of the ashes—you came +quite safe? No trouble? Nobody at the cross-roads? +Nobody stopped you?”</p> + +<p>“And are you sure now about tea?” continued +Lady Naylor. “After all that—look, it’s coming +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span>up now. No, Francie, don’t be ridiculous; come +in now, both of you.”</p> + +<p>They swept in; their exclamations, constricted +suddenly, filling the hall. There was so much to +say after twelve years: they all seemed powerless. +Lois hesitated, went in after them and, as nobody +noticed, came out again. The car with the luggage +turned and went round to the back, deeply scoring +the gravel. She yawned and looked out over the +sweep to the lawn beyond, where little tufts of +shadow pricked like reeds from water out of the +flat gold light. Beyond the sunk fence, six Kerry +cows followed each other across with wading steps +and stood under a lime tree. All the way up +the house the windows were open; light came diagonally +from window to window through corner rooms. +Two stories up, she could have heard a curtain +rustle, but the mansion piled itself up in silence +over the Montmorencys’ voices.</p> + +<p>She yawned with reaction. It was simply the +Montmorencys who had come; whom all day one +had been expecting. Yet she had been unable +to read, had scattered unfinished letters over her +table, done the flowers atrociously. Sweet-peas had +spun and quivered between her fingers from their +very importance.... “I apologize for the mauve +sweet-peas,” she would have liked to be able to +say to Mr. Montmorency. “I don’t care for +mauve myself. I can’t think why I ever picked +them; there were plenty of others. But, as a +matter of fact, I was nervous.” And—“Nervous?” +she would wish Mr. Montmorency to ask +her searchingly, “why?” But she had her reserves, +even in imagination; she would never tell him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span></p> + +<p>But she had seen at once that Mr. Montmorency, +who must be really so subtle, would not take the +trouble to understand her.</p> + +<p>Her cousin Laurence had gone upstairs with a +book when he heard the motor. Now she could +hear him knocking out his pipe on a window sill. +He leaned out further and asked, pointing down, +in a cautious whisper: “Are they all in?”</p> + +<p>She signalled a warning, nodding.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing?” he said.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. What are you doing?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing particular.”</p> + +<p>“I thought I’d take the dogs down the beech +walk.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I just thought ...”</p> + +<p>“Come up and tell me about the Montmorencys.”</p> + +<p>She signalled another warning: the Montmorencys +were in the hall. To avoid the hall she had +to go right round to a side door and up the back +stairs. These smelt of scrubbed wood, limewash, +and the ducks already roasting for the Montmorencys’ +dinner. Pushing open a door at the top +she let a gust of this through with her.</p> + +<p>“Duck,” said Laurence, sniffing gratefully. It +still surprised her that Laurence, who looked +ethereal, should spend so much time when he was +not being intellectual in talking and apparently +thinking about food. She supposed that this was +because he had, as he had once said, no emotional +life. “I live,” he used to say, “from meal to meal.” +When she said, “Why?” he put up his hands +and his eyebrows and made a gesture. When he +did this in front of Gerald she felt uncomfortable. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>Soldiers did not talk about food, they ate it. They +ate, in fact, rather more than Laurence, but always +with a deprecating, absent look.</p> + +<p>Laurence had been reading in the ante-room, in +one of the circle of not very comfortable shell-shaped +chairs that no one took seriously. His room +was a floor higher; it had not seemed worth while +to go up. He had brought the wrong book and +dared not go down for another; otherwise he would +not have felt in need of her conversation. Personally, +she liked the ante-room, though it wasn’t +the ideal place to read or talk. Four rooms opened +off it; at any moment a door might be opened, +or blow open, sending a draught down one’s neck. +People passed through it continually, so that one +kept having to look up and smile. Yet Lois always +seemed to be talking there, standing with a knee +on a chair because it was not worth while to sit +down, and her life was very much complicated by +not knowing how much of what she said had been +overheard, or by whom, or how far it would go.</p> + +<p>The high windows were curtainless; tasselled +fringes frayed the light at the top. The white sills, +the shutters folded back in their frames were blistered, +as though the house had spent a day in the +tropics. Exhausted by sunshine, the backs of the +crimson chairs were a thin light orange; a smell of +camphor and animals drawn from skins on the +floor by the glare of morning still hung like dust +on the evening chill. Going through to her room +at nights Lois often tripped with her toe in the jaws +of a tiger; a false step at any time sent some great +claw skidding over the polish. Pale regimental +groups, reunions a generation ago of the family or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>the neighbourhood gave out from the walls a vague +depression. There were two locked bookcases of +which the keys had been lost, and a troop of ebony +elephants brought back from India by some one +she did not remember paraded along the tops of +the bookcases.</p> + +<p>“Whow—whow—whow!” said Laurence, imitating +her panting. “Why do you hurry like that?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it’s a habit,” said Lois, confused.</p> + +<p>“What did you want?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I came to tell you about the Montmorencys.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, all right; go on. Where are they?”</p> + +<p>“Having more tea; Aunt Myra made them.... +Well, they arrived, as you probably heard, and it +was all rather devastating. There was a good deal +of emotion. And she would do nothing but say +she was dusty, and of course she <em>was</em> dusty, so there +was nothing for me to say.”</p> + +<p>“So what did you say?”</p> + +<p>“And he said he would never have known me.”</p> + +<p>“Honest, bluff sort of chap?”</p> + +<p>“Oh <em>no</em>,” said Lois and flushed, for really Laurence +was too insulting. She laughed and glanced +at her finger-nails—the only part of one’s person, +she had observed, of which it was possible to be +conscious socially. “Haven’t you met him?”</p> + +<p>“I think I did once. I think I thought he was +rather fatuous. But I was very young at the time—I +mayn’t have met him at all.”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t it extraordinary,” said Lois confidentially, +“the way one’s nails grow—I mean, when one +comes to think: yards and yards of inexhaustible +nail coming out of one. As a matter of fact,” she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>added, “I once rather had illusions about Mr. +Montmorency—since I was ten. He came to stay +with my mother and me when we were at Leamington. +After dinner—I was allowed to sit up—Mother +walked out of the house and left us. We +were trying chickens at that time and I dare say +she went out to shut them up and then simply +stayed in the garden. Mr. Montmorency and I +talked for some time, then he got solemn and went +to sleep all in a moment. I sat and watched him +in absolute fascination. You know the way men +go to sleep after dinner? Well, that wasn’t at all +the way he did.... Then my mother came, very +much refreshed at having been away from us, and +said I was a rather bad hostess, and woke Mr. +Montmorency up. I have thought since, anyone +might have said she was a rather bad hostess. +But everything she did seemed so natural.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she was lovely,” said Laurence, indifferent.</p> + +<p>“So you see he is really not bluff, or he wouldn’t +have gone to sleep in that perfectly simple, exposed +way. He was melancholy and exhausted and wise, +which I did appreciate as a child, when most visitors +were so noisy at one.”</p> + +<p>“Extraordinary,” said Laurence, looking out of +the window.</p> + +<p>Laurence was comfortable to talk to because of +his indifference to every shade of her personality. +With him, she felt committed by speech itself to a +display of such unfathomable silliness that she might +just as well come out—and did—with assertions +surprising even to herself. When he yawned, took +a book up, said he was hungry or simply went +away, she was not discountenanced. It was those +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>tender, those receptive listeners to whom one felt +afterwards sold and committed. It is true that +when first she had met Laurence again she had +wished to impress him as an intellectual girl. But +an evening of signal failure when he had told her +she should read less and more thoroughly and, +on the whole he thought, talk less, had involved +a certain re-arrangement of attitude. She had reattained +confidence, expanding under his disapproval.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t occur to you,” he said with an air +of sinister triumph, “that the Montmorencys may +have come up the front stairs while you came up +the back stairs and be both in their room, listening?”</p> + +<p>Unthinkable, but the very sound of the thing +was a shock. Crimson, she ran to the door of the +spare room: struggling with unreason, knocked +defiantly, rattled the handle. She went in, finally, +with a sense of impertinence, for the new arrivals +were spiritually in possession.</p> + +<p>The Blue Room was of course empty; with no +one to listen. The trunks had been carried up and +set down, unstrapped, at the foot of the wide bed. +The room smelt of bleaching cretonnes and ten +days’ emptiness; curtains in a draught from the +door made a pale movement. Lois had put a vase +of geraniums on the dressing-table; now she admired +their cubes in delicate balance, spraying against the +light. And there was the festival air of those +candles, virgin, with long white wicks. Two arm-chairs +faced round intently into the empty grate +with its paper fan—in them Mr. and Mrs. Montmorency +would sit, perhaps, to discuss the experiences +of the day. More probably, they would talk +in bed. One of the things Lois chiefly wanted to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>know about marriage was—how long it took one, +sleeping with the same person every night, to outlive +the temptation to talk well into the morning? +There would be nothing illicit about nocturnal talking, +as there had been at school; no one would be +entitled to open a door sharply with: “Now go to +sleep now, you two; that’s enough for to-night,” +as had so often happened during her visits to friends. +Would conversation, in the absence of these prohibitions, +cease to interest? Lois had heard of +couples who disturbed each other by breathing +and preferred to occupy different rooms: no allowance +was made for such couples at Danielstown. +The Blue Room dressing-room furniture was marble-topped +to allow for spills or breakages of a gentleman’s +bottles, and there was a virile boot-rack for +every possible kind of boot. Lois, doubtfully, had +put moss roses on Mr. Montmorency’s table.</p> + +<p>“Didn’t it occur to you,” said Laurence, “that +they couldn’t possibly have gone through without +my seeing them?”</p> + +<p>Lois came out and shut the door of the spare +room. “But panic,” she said, “is beyond one. +Things like that are so awful. I shall never forget +discussing a Miss Elliot—a very musical woman—with +Livvy or some one, out here, and, my dear, +<em>she</em> was in there the whole time and being English +and honourable began to rattle her chest of drawers. +I could hardly look at her straight for the rest of +the visit. However, she also covered herself with +confusion, because she put all her vases of flowers +outside her door at night, and Brigid fell over +them bringing the morning tea. Aunt Myra was +terribly irritated and talked about nursing-homes.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t expect there will be anything so +very hygienic about Mrs. Montmorency.”</p> + +<p>“Damn,” said Lois, looking disproportionately +worried and moving off towards her own room +suddenly. “I have got letters to finish.” Speaking +of Brigid had reminded her that there were +letters on regimental note-paper lying about all +over her room and that Brigid, who took an interest, +would be likely to see them when she came up with +the hot water. Not that they mattered really, but +at the thought of some letters people wrote her she +did feel rather a fool.</p> + +<p>Laurence had pale blue, rather prominent eyes +that moved slowly, though the rest of his movements +were jerky. Looking up at her now with a +not unaware kind of blandness, he said: “Do tell +me, what do you write about?”</p> + +<p>“Life in general.”</p> + +<p>“You amaze me—now if I did write letters no +one would read them if they were not intelligent. +You must have the golden touch.”</p> + +<p>“Naturally one is expected to be amusing.”</p> + +<p>“And how many subalterns do you write to?”</p> + +<p>This was disconcerting, also, she felt strongly, +irrelevant. If these young men wrote to her, they +were unimportant; besides, she only answered every +third letter. These young men, concrete, blocking +her mental view by their extreme closeness, +moved shadowless in a kind of social glare numbing +to the imagination. Whereas Mr. Montmorency +came out distinct from the rather rare gloom with +which she invested her childhood; her feeling for +him provided agreeable matter for introspection. +However much he might loom and darken up to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>the close-up view, he would never be out of +focus.</p> + +<p>“How many?” said Laurence again, picking up +his book but still looking at her inexorably. The +unkindest thing he had called her friend Livvy +Thompson was—a rather probable channel for the +life-force; and really when he asked questions of +this kind she did not know what he must think.</p> + +<p>But it was reticence as to a lack rather than as +to a superabundance that produced her embarrassment.</p> + +<p>“Three—no, two,” she said coldly, “because one +of them is a captain.”</p> + +<p>Going into her room she shut the door. Laurence +got up and walked round the ante-room. For the +hundredth time he looked disparagingly along the +backs of the books in the locked bookcases. Then +he heard his aunt and Mrs. Montmorency beginning +to come upstairs.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="II"> + II + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>THE Naylors and the Montmorencys had +always known each other; it was an affair +of generations. Hugo had stayed at +Danielstown as a boy for months together, and +knew the place as well as his own house, he told +Francie, and certainly liked it better. He had expressed +this preference, which had come as a shock +to her, when they were first engaged. She was +pained as by an expression of irreligion. She consoled +herself, and rehabilitated him secretly, by +remembering he had had a stepfather and could +never have known the meaning of family life—she +had a delicate woman’s strong feeling for “naturalness.” +She intended to make up to him for the +deficiencies of his childhood, but, almost immediately +after their marriage, Hugo sold Rockriver. +Now she would always blame herself for not having +dissuaded him, but he had been so set at the time +on an idea of going to Canada and she so foolishly +anxious to compensate him for what she was not +by going there with him and thriving. So when +the idea of Canada failed, they had no house, and +she, after all, no vocation. As for Hugo, he had +expected little of life.</p> + +<p>Francie had heard all her life of the Naylors of +Danielstown, her cousins and theirs had married; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>but Ireland is large and she had not met them till +she came to Danielstown on a bridal visit. Then, +of course, they had known each other always; there +had been no beginning. She knew she had never +in all her life been so happy as on that first visit; +time, loose-textured, had had a shining undertone, +happiness glittered between the moments. She had +had, too, very strongly a sense of return, of having +been awaited. Rooms, doorways had framed a +kind of expectancy of her; some trees in the distance, +the stairs, a part of the garden seemed always +to have been lying secretly at the back of her +mind.</p> + +<p>It was, also, on that first and only other visit, +that she had made friends with Myra—that in itself +was memorable. Myra was “interesting,” cultivated, +sketched beautifully, knew about books and +music. She had been to Germany, Italy, everywhere +that one visits acquisitively. It had been a +bond to discover that Francie and Myra must have +been in Germany at the same time, the summer of +’92, though without meeting. Myra was the same +age as Francie—they had been presented the same +year, though not at the same Drawing-room—and +thought of Hugo as quite a boy: she could not +help showing it. Sometimes, guessing what she +had shown, she would laugh and say something +clever and quite irrelevant to cover the awkwardness. +For Hugo was ten years younger than both +of them, Francie’s husband.</p> + +<p>Francie and Myra had had long remarkable talks +about almost everything, confidential if not alarmingly +intimate—walking, driving, on the seat by +the caroline allspice tree, and at the head of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>stairs at night—while their candle-flames stooped +from their vehemence.</p> + +<p>When at the end of that visit the Montmorencys +left Danielstown this had seemed to Francie more +of a pause than a break in the continuity. “Next +spring,” they all four promised each other, shaking +hands and kissing at the foot of the steps—it was +then autumn, the bronze trees were sifted through +by the wind and shivered along the outlines—“Next +summer, Hugo,” Myra exclaimed, “<em>at latest!</em>” and +the last view they had of her was as standing bright +and imperative. Only as they drove away did the +trees run, watery, into the sky and Francie’s lids +prick: she slipped her hand into Hugo’s under the +rug. And, pressing it, he had alone to continue +the business of turning, yearning and waving back +till a bend in the avenue.</p> + +<p>She had felt, perhaps, a chilly breath from the +future. Between their smart turning out, with a +roll of carriage wheels, through the gates with their +clipped laurels, and their swerving in with a grind +of motor brakes twelve years afterwards, nothing +large was to intervene. Their life, through which +they went forward uncertainly, without the compulsion +of tragedy, was a net of small complications. +There was the drag of his indecisions, the +fine snapping now and then of her minor relinquishments. +Her health, his temperament, their +varying poverty—they were delayed, deflected. +She was ordered abroad for successive winters, to +places he could not expect to endure. He came +and went without her; going for consolation, of +course, to Danielstown. The Naylors sent her out +wails, injunctions and declarations. They would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>never, <em>never</em> be happy till she was with them +also.</p> + +<p>So at last Hugo and Francie returned together. +And to-day something—that break in the trees on +the avenue, something unremembered about the +face of the house, some intensification of the silence +surrounding it, or perhaps simply Lois’ figure standing +there on the steps—made the place different.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor and Mrs. Montmorency now went +upstairs together. Francie looked down at the top +step to see if the marks were still there—becoming +much excited in the course of an argument about +Robert Hugh Benson she had waved her candle +and scattered a rain of hot grease. But there was +a new stair-carpet. Myra looked down also, but +in surprise; she did not remember. She had argued +with so many people in twelve years—nowadays she +argued about Galsworthy.</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, lowering +her voice as they approached the ante-room, “if +we found Laurence up here—my nephew. He +is with us a good deal, between Oxford. Though +I expect it is dull for him. He is not out of doors +very much; he is very intellectual. Though, of +course, he plays tennis.”</p> + +<p>Francie was much relieved, on entering the ante-room, +to find that Laurence had gone. “It’s so +nice,” she said, “the way you have the house full of +young people.” She turned to the right instinctively, +to her old door.</p> + +<p>“No, this way, Francie, the Blue Room. The +rooks on that side of the house disturbed so many +people; we’ve changed the rooms round and put +Lois in there; she prefers them.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span></p> + +<p>As they came into the Blue Room, Francie saw +their two faces reflected in the tall dressing-table +glass, the door swinging behind. “Myra’s aged!” +she thought with a shock. Her own face never +seemed to have changed at all.</p> + +<p>She said: “You look wonderful, you know. I +couldn’t think when I was ever to see you again, +or Richard either.”</p> + +<p>Myra kissed her—a compact, sudden pursing +and placing of the lips. It was as though they were +meeting again only now. The door swung to with +a rush. “It’s been too bad, too bad—not even as +if you had been in Canada!”</p> + +<p>The linen of Myra’s sleeve was cool to the touch +of the dusty Francie. Myra wore a grey linen +dress with embroidered panels, a lace scarf twice +round the throat and a green hat dipping in front +and trimmed with clover. Her bright grey eyes, +with very black, urgent pupils, continued in a deep +crease at each outside corner. High on the curve +of her cheeks, like petals, bright mauve-pink colour +became, within kissing distance, a net of fine delicate +veins. Her eyebrows, drawn in a pointed arch, +suggested tragic surprise till one saw the arch never +flattened, the face beneath never changed from its +placid eagerness, its happy dissatisfaction. “<em>Has</em> +she aged?” Francie thought, glancing closely and +shyly again as they parted. Yes, she felt something +set now in Myra; she was happier, harder.</p> + +<p>Myra receded now that the kiss was over. There +was life to go on with, the duty of love and pleasure +fully discharged. She moved round the Blue +Room, nodded out of a window to some one distant +coming out from some trees—she could never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>learn how one vanishes in the dark of a house. +She glanced intently along the books in the book-trough. +“Lois has not changed the books!” she +exclaimed. “You know how I like them to be +appropriate. Here’s a technical book on rubber a +man left behind last summer—it looks ridiculous. +She’s a girl who never forgets the same thing twice; +always something different....”</p> + +<p>“She looks sweet, I think. And surely the image +of Laura?”</p> + +<p>“She’s not so much like Laura in character. +There’s a good deal, I sometimes think, of poor +Walter.”</p> + +<p>“Wasn’t it terribly sad about Walter?”</p> + +<p>“To tell you the truth, it was what we always +expected,” said Lady Naylor.</p> + +<p>When Francie was left alone she went to the +window and shook the dust out of her motor veil. +Then—she was so very tired from motoring, everything +seemed to rush past—she sat down on the +sofa and put her hands over her eyes. Her mind +lay back in the silence, but there was a kind of +sentinel in her waiting for Hugo. She did not +know what she should say if he noticed the drive +from Carlow really had been too much for her. +She had said beforehand she was afraid it might +be too much, and he had said: nonsense, that she +was fit for anything nowadays. Flattered by this, +she gave in. She was so tired—just for these few +moments when she let herself go—she could not +bear to realize Danielstown. Her thoughts ached. +When she looked out, there were some intolerable +trees and a strip of gold field hot on the skyline.</p> + +<p>When she heard steps coming she fled to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>washstand. Her skin was dry, her hair felt laden +and limp, it was so dusty. But that was the fine, +the phenomenal weather for which, in this country, +one could not be thankful enough. When Hugo +came through from his dressing-room she was +washing her hands—they turned in the water like +gentle porpoises in a slaver of violet soap.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said, looking round the room.</p> + +<p>“Well, Hugo ... isn’t it lovely?”</p> + +<p>“Richard’s in great form—I thought I’d never +get up at all to you.... Not tired?”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, no.... Doesn’t it all seem the same as +ever?”</p> + +<p>“I tell you one thing: Myra’s ageing. Didn’t +you notice?”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Francie vaguely. She stooped her +face to the basin, the rain-water comforted, creeping +into the pores. “<em>Oh!</em>” She dried her face in +damask, among stiff roses. “But then, we all +are.”</p> + +<p>“She’s got into a terrible habit of shutting doors.”</p> + +<p>“Times have been worse down here. Yes, I +thought, you know, she had rather a strained look. +What does Richard think of the situation?... +Oh, and had you any idea that Lois was so grown +up? I had imagined her quite a schoolgirl. She’s +so pretty, such a ... a frank little face.”</p> + +<p>“She’s self-conscious,” said Hugo, “but I dare +say most girls of that age are.... I should lie +down now for a bit, it will freshen you up—though +you don’t need it. Then would you like me to +brush your hair?”</p> + +<p>Francie got her dressing-gown out of a trunk and +lay down on the sofa. She had just relaxed there +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>when Hugo said that the sofa did not look comfortable +and she had better lie on the bed. He +made a valley for her head between the two pillows—he +did not believe it rested anybody to lie with +their head high—and she lay down on the bed +with her head in the valley. “Oh, but I don’t +think I ought to lie on this lovely quilt,” she soon +protested.</p> + +<p>“They’re not fussy here,” returned Hugo; +“do lie and be still.”</p> + +<p>So she lay and watched him begin to unpack her +two boxes, carry dresses over his arms and lay +them along the shelves of the “gentleman’s wardrobe.” +She wondered: whatever would Richard +and Myra think?—“Uxorious” they would be +bound to declare; Richard who could hardly handle +a jug without dropping it, and Myra who would +not have him otherwise.</p> + +<p>“What a disgusting noise,” said Hugo, pausing +and listening.</p> + +<p>“Somebody playing a gramophone⁠—”</p> + +<p>They might well say she had taken the brilliant +young man he’d once been and taught him to +watch her, to nurse her and shake out her dresses. +And she knew she could, now, never explain to +Myra what she had failed to explain twelve years +ago—when there had been so much less to explain +and to justify—how Hugo was too much for her +altogether. How she had tried, but had not been +able, to keep him—first from marrying her, then +from giving up Canada, leaving his friends when +she had to go to the south of France, or from brushing +her hair in the evenings.</p> + +<p>“Hugo, you might leave that blue dress out; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>I think I’ll wear it.... <em>When</em> was it you were in +love with Laura?”</p> + +<p>“When I was twenty-two—I was in a sort of +way. She was lovely then—though indeed she was +always lovely. But she was never happy at all, +even here. She never knew what she wanted—she +was very vital.”</p> + +<p>He hesitated over two pairs of evening shoes. +“Leave the bronze ones out,” she suggested. +“They go with the blue.” She lay with her eyes +shut a moment, then asked, “But why wouldn’t +she marry you?”</p> + +<p>Francie’s delicacy, her absences from him, her +long queer relapses into silence gave her the right +to ask curious things, as from a death-bed. Hugo, +wandering at the end of the bed, looked at her +feet thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“She wanted her mind made up,” he said at last, +“and I couldn’t do that—why should I? I had +enough to do with my own mind. And she was +Richard’s own sister—talk and talk and you’d +never know where you had her. And if she thought +you had her, she’d start a crying-fit. Then she +went up North and met Farquar, and I imagine +that that was all fixed up before she knew where +she was or had time to get out of it. After that of +course she really <em>had</em> got something to be unhappy +about. Yet I don’t believe things ever really +mattered to Laura. Nothing got close to her: she +was very remote.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder if Lois is remote?”</p> + +<p>“What I think I felt about Laura,” pursued +Hugo, interested, “was, she was never real in the +way I wanted. Nobody was before you, as you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>know.... If you get up now, I can brush your +hair.”</p> + +<p>“It is very dusty,” said Mrs. Montmorency.</p> + +<p>She had met Laura in England and been very +shy of her. Laura was a success in England, and +so quite brilliant—she was too Irish altogether for +her own country. Lois had been at school as usual +and did not come home because Laura had forgotten +which day the Montmorencys were coming. +Six months afterwards, without giving anyone notice +of her intention, Laura had died.</p> + +<p>“It still seems odd,” remarked Mrs. Montmorency, +“that I shouldn’t have met Lois.” Seating +herself in front of the glass she took out the pins +one by one, then shook down her hair round her +face—bright bronze threads went in and out, +crisply, over the light-grey waves—she ran it +through with her finger-tips, shaking her head ruefully. +But the dust seemed to have gone, perhaps +because she was happier, less tired; or perhaps she +had left a drift of it between the two pillows. Her +husband, selecting a brush, knocked over the vase +of geraniums. “The darlings!” she cried out, +mopping with her kimono-sleeve.</p> + +<p>“Confusion,” said Hugo, shaking water out of +the brush, “on all who put vases on dressing-tables!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="III"> + III + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>LOIS, dressed for dinner, was tidying her +writing-table; two stamped letters, her +handiwork, leaned on the clock. She +shook out her pink suède blotter and started to sort +its contents, but had to re-read everything. Gerald, +who had written about a tournament, concluded: +“You have the loveliest soft eyes.” She was perplexed, +thought: “But what can I do?” and snapped +the letter, with others, under a rubber band. Then +she pulled out a drawer called “general” and swept +the rest into it. She had a waste-paper basket, but +only for envelopes. Strokes of the gong, brass +bubbles, came bouncing up from the hall. She +ran to the glass, changed a necklace, had an apprehensive +interchange with her own reflection. What +of the night?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Montmorency and Laurence were in the +drawing-room. They looked anxious, nothing +showed the trend of the conversation. The pale +room rose to a height only mirrors followed above +the level of occupation; this disproportionate zone +of emptiness dwarfed at all times figures and furniture. +The distant ceiling imposed on consciousness +its blank white oblong, and a pellucid silence, +distilled from a hundred and fifty years of conversation, +waited beneath the ceiling. Into this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>silence, voices went up in stately attenuation. +Now there were no voices; Mrs. Montmorency +and Laurence sat looking away from each +other.</p> + +<p>As Lois came in Laurence slapped his pockets +over and saying something about a pipe left the +room quickly, leaving Lois in the grip of a <i lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>. +Mrs. Montmorency, seated in a window, held +by a corner a copy of the <i>Spectator</i>, that had slipped +down against the silk of her dress, as though she +must be sure to retain this constant refuge from +conversation. Vague presence, barely a silhouette, +the west light sifting into her fluffy hair and lace +wrappings so that she half melted, she gave so little +answer to one’s inquiry that one did not know +how to approach. So Lois stood staring, full in +the light.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you do look sweet!” exclaimed the visitor. +“Black is so striking. No, you are not like Laura—I +don’t know who you’re like.”</p> + +<p>“Aunt Myra isn’t sure about black for girls,” +said Lois, sweeping forward for admiration the folds +of her dress. “But a white slip lightens it.”</p> + +<p>“And I expect you are having a wonderful time +now you’re grown up?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well ...” said Lois. She went across to +the fireplace and rose on her tiptoes, leaning her +shoulders against the marble. She tried not to +look conscious. She still felt a distinct pride at +having grown up at all; it seemed an achievement, +like marriage or fame. Having a wonderful time, +she knew, meant being attractive to a number of +young men. If she said, “Yes, I do,” it implied +“Yes, I am, very⁠—” and she was not certain. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>She was not certain, either, how much she enjoyed +herself. “Well, yes, I do,” she said finally.</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” continued Mrs. Montmorency, +“wasn’t that your cousin Laurence?”</p> + +<p>“As a matter of fact I am Uncle Richard’s niece +and he Aunt Myra’s nephew.”</p> + +<p>“And isn’t he very intellectual?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose he is, really.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Montmorency, “I had +no idea how to talk to him. I suppose <em>you</em>’d never +find that difficult. I expect now, Lois, you’re very +modern.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, not really,” said Lois, pleased. Mrs. +Montmorency’s expression, condensing now from +her outline, was of such affection and interest that +Lois was moved to go on: “You could talk to him +really about almost anything except about politics. +He isn’t allowed any here because the ones he +brings over from Oxford are all wrong.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Wrong?</em>” cried the visitor with a startled flush, +putting up a hand to her face as though to press +back the mounting colour. “Wrong—which way? +How do you mean, ‘wrong’?”</p> + +<p>“Inconvenient.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Mrs. Montmorency. And upon a +recurrence of the puzzled silence that had been the +note of Lois’ entrance, Sir Richard came in. Sir +Richard was very much worried by visitors who +came down early for dinner: evidently he had not +expected this of Francie. “Oh!” he exclaimed +reproachfully, “this is too bad; I had no idea you +were down. Myra’s been delayed—you know +yourself how it happens.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, yes,” said Francie warmly. She would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>never have been in time herself if she had had a +home of her own. Only the little blanks and rifts +in her life accounted for her punctuality.</p> + +<p>Sir Richard, touching his tie vaguely, wandered +about the room, displacing with some irritation the +little tables that seemed to spring up in his path, +in the pent-up silence of a powerful talker not yet +in gear.</p> + +<p>“Very fine weather,” he said at last, “warm at +nights—or would you like me to shut that window?” +He was bothered; he could not remember +how well he had once known Francie, or decide +at just what degree of intimacy he was expected +to pick her up again. “Lois has grown up, hasn’t +she?” he continued, pointing out his niece with an +air of inspiration. “She seems to me to have +grown up very fast. Now how long is it since you +saw her over in England?”</p> + +<p>“But I never did see her.”</p> + +<p>“That was extraordinary,” said Sir Richard, +looking from one to the other. “Didn’t you meet +poor Laura?”</p> + +<p>“I did, but Lois was out.”</p> + +<p>“That was too bad.” Sir Richard’s bother +increased, with a suspicion of something somewhere. +He observed rather flatly: “Then it can +hardly be such a surprise to you that she’s grown +up.”</p> + +<p>“Not in the same way.”</p> + +<p>“We can all sit out on the steps to-night,” said +Lois, determined to check the couple in their +career of inanity. She went across to a window +and folded her arms on the sill.</p> + +<p>The screen of trees that reached like an arm from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>behind the house—embracing the lawns, banks and +terraces in mild ascent—had darkened, deepening +into a forest. Like splintered darkness, branches +pierced the faltering dusk of leaves. Evening +drenched the trees; the beeches were soundless +cataracts. Behind the trees, pressing in from the +open and empty country like an invasion, the orange +bright sky crept and smouldered. Firs, bearing +up to pierce, melted against the brightness. Somewhere, +there was a sunset in which the mountains +lay like glass.</p> + +<p>Dark had so gained the trees that Lois, turning +back from the window, was surprised at how light +the room was. Day, still coming in from the fields +by the south windows, was stored in the mirrors, +in the sheen of the wall-paper, so that the room still +shone. Mr. Montmorency had come in and was +standing where she had stood, his shoulders against +the mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>“We can sit out on the steps to-night, can’t we?” +persisted Lois. And because no one answered or +cared and a conversation went on without her, she +felt profoundly lonely, suspecting once more for +herself a particular doom of exclusion. Something +of the trees in their intimacy of shadow was +shared by the husband and wife and their host +in the tree-shadowed room. She thought of love +with its gift of importance. “I must break in on +all this,” she thought as she looked round the +room.</p> + +<p>“Do you still go to sleep after dinner?” she asked +Mr. Montmorency.</p> + +<p>“It’s a thing that I never have done,” he said, +annoyed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span></p> + +<p>“But it’s what I chiefly remember about you.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid,” he said, tolerant, “you are mixing +me up with some one else.”</p> + +<p>“Listen, Richard,” said Francie; “are you sure +we will not be shot at if we sit out late on the steps?”</p> + +<p>Sir Richard laughed and they all shared his +amusement. “We never have yet, not even with +soldiers here and Lois dancing with officers up and +down the avenue. You’re getting very English, +Francie! Isn’t Francie getting very English? Do +you think maybe we ought to put sandbags behind +the shutters when we shut up at nights?”</p> + +<p>“No, but Richard, seriously⁠—” began Francie +then, as they all stared, laughed and had to give +up and go on laughing. Now in County Carlow +they had said things were bad round here, that she +made a grave mistake in coming at all. But then, +as Richard would certainly say, that was County +Carlow all over.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor came in arm-in-arm with Laurence +and said they were all very punctual. “The gong’s +only gone three minutes, also I could be certain I +never heard any of you go down. But I was delayed, +as I told Richard to tell you. Shall we go in?”</p> + +<p>“Francie wants to know,” said Sir Richard, offering +Francie his arm, “if we haven’t got a machine-gun?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, you’re too bad!”</p> + +<p>“<em>Do</em> you dance on the avenue?” said Mr. Montmorency +to Lois.</p> + +<p>“Only once, for a bet. I and a man called Mr. +Lesworth danced to the white gate, and the man that +we had the bet with walked after us carrying the +gramophone. But naturally, I don’t as a rule.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span></p> + +<p>“It would come hard on your shoes, I expect,” +said Mr. Montmorency distantly.</p> + +<p>“And the men we know can’t get over here in +the evening, now.”</p> + +<p>“Still, I expect you have a very gay time,” said +Mr. Montmorency, and turned away.</p> + +<p>In the dining-room, the little party sat down +under the crowd of portraits. Under that constant +interchange from the high-up faces staring +across—now fading each to a wedge of fawn-colour, +and each looking out from a square of darkness +tunnelled into the wall—Sir Richard and Lady +Naylor, their nephew, niece and old friends had a +thin, over-bright look, seemed on the air of the room +unconvincingly painted, startled, transitory. Spaced +out accurately round the enormous table—whereon, +in what was left of the light, damask birds and +roses had an unearthly shimmer—each so enisled +and distant that a remark at random, falling short +of a neighbour, seemed a cry of appeal, the six, in +spite of an emphasis of speech and gesture they +unconsciously heightened, dwindled personally. +While above, the immutable figures, shedding on +to the wash of dusk smiles, frowns, every vestige of +personality, kept only attitude—an outmoded modestness, +a quirk or a flare, hand slipped under a +ruffle or spread airily over the cleft of a bosom—cancelled +time, negatived personality and made +of the lower cheerfulness, dining and talking, the +faintest exterior friction.</p> + +<p>In Laurence’s plate of clear soup six peas floated. +Six accurate spoonfuls, each with a pea in it, finished +the soup. He glanced right in his aunt’s direction, +left in Mrs. Montmorency’s: both were talking. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>Mr. Montmorency, listening to Lady Naylor, +seemed to be looking across at Laurence, but he +sat with his back to the light so that Laurence, +short-sighted, could not be sure—he preferred +uncertainty.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor spoke of the way things were, with +her pointed spoon poised over her plate. She +noticed the others were waiting, and with a last +bright emphatic look in Hugo’s direction bent to +finish her soup. He said at once to Laurence: +“And what do <em>you</em> think of things?”</p> + +<p>“Things? Over here?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—yes.”</p> + +<p>“Seem to be closing in,” said Laurence, crumbling +his bread detachedly; “rolling up rather.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” nodded Mr. Montmorency, in significant +comprehension.</p> + +<p>“Ssh!” exclaimed Lady Naylor, running out a +hand at both of them over the cloth. She frowned, +with a glance at the parlourmaid. “Now you +mustn’t make Laurence exaggerate. All young +men from Oxford exaggerate. All Laurence’s +friends exaggerate: I have met them.”</p> + +<p>“If you have noticed it,” said her nephew, “it is +probably so.”</p> + +<p>Lois, on his other side, leant eagerly to Mr. +Montmorency. “If you are interested, would you +care to come and dig for guns in the plantation? +Or if I dig, will you come as a witness? Three +of the men on the place here swear there are guns +buried in the lower plantation. Michael Keelan +swears he was going through there, late, and saw +men digging. I asked him, ‘What were they +like?’ and he said, ‘The way they would be,’ and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>I said, why didn’t he ask them what they were +doing, and he said, ‘Sure, why would I; didn’t I +see them digging, and they with spades?’ So it +appears he fled back the way he had come.”</p> + +<p>“—Ah, that’s nonsense now!” Sir Richard +exploded. “Michael would see anything: he is +known to have seen a ghost. I will not have the +men talking, and at all accounts I won’t have them +listened to.”</p> + +<p>“All the same,” pursued Lois, “I feel that one +ought to dig. If there is nothing there I can +confound Michael for the good of his soul, and if +there should be guns, Uncle Richard, just think +of finding them! And surely we ought to know.”</p> + +<p>“And why would we want to know? You’ll +have the place full of soldiers, trampling the young +trees. There’s been enough damage in that plantation +with the people coming to sight-see: all +Michael’s friends. Now I won’t have digging at +all: do you understand?” said Sir Richard, flushed.</p> + +<p>Francie felt torn in herself, dividedly sympathetic. +“I expect one can’t be too careful.... +The poor young little trees ... and besides,” she +added to Lois, “one might blow oneself up.”</p> + +<p>“This country,” continued Sir Richard, “is altogether +too full of soldiers, with nothing to do but +dance and poke old women out of their beds to +look for guns. It’s unsettling the people, naturally. +The fact is, the Army’s got into the habit of +fighting and doesn’t know what else to do with +itself, and also the Army isn’t at all what it used to +be. I was held up yesterday for I wouldn’t like +to say how long, driving over to Ballyhinch, by a +thing like a coffee-pot backing in and out of a gate, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>with a little brute of a fellow bobbing in and out +at me from under a lid at the top. I kept my temper, +but I couldn’t help telling him <em>I</em> didn’t know what +the country was coming to—and just when we’d +got the horses accustomed to motors. ‘You’ll do +no good,’ I told him, ‘in this unfortunate country +by running about in a thing like a coffee-pot.’ +And those patrols in lorries run you into a ditch as +soon as look at you. They tell me there’s a great +deal of socialism now in the British Army.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s difficult for them all,” said his wife, +pacific, “and they’re doing their best, I think. +The ones who come over here seem quite pleasant.”</p> + +<p>“What regiment have you now at Clonmore?”</p> + +<p>“The 1st Rutlands.”</p> + +<p>“And there are some Field Gunners and Garrison +Gunners too,” added Lois. “Most people seem +to prefer the Garrison Gunners.”</p> + +<p>“The Garrison Gunners dance better,” said +Laurence to Mrs. Montmorency. “It would be the +greatest pity if we were to become a republic and +all these lovely troops were taken away.”</p> + +<p>“Fool,” said Lois across the flowers. Mr. +Montmorency looked at her in surprise.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor continued: “From all the talk, you +might think almost anything was going to happen, +but we never listen. I have made it a rule not to +talk, either. In fact, if you want rumours, we +must send you over to Castle Trent. And I’m +afraid also the Careys are incorrigible.... Oh +yes, Hugo, it’s all very well to talk of disintegration; +of course there is a great deal of disintegration +in England and on the Continent. But one +does wonder sometimes whether there’s really much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>there to disintegrate.... I dare say there may have +been.... And if you talk to the people they’ll +tell you the whole thing’s nonsense: and after all +what is a country if it isn’t the people? For instance, +I had a long conversation this morning with +Mrs. Pat Gegan, who came down about the apples—you +remember her, Hugo, don’t you, she always +asks after you: she was really delighted to hear you +were coming back—‘It is the way the young ones +do be a bit wild,’ she said, and I really agreed with +her. She said young people were always the same, +and wasn’t it the great pity. She is a most interesting +woman: she thinks a great deal. But then +our people do think. Now have you ever noticed +the English? I remember a year ago when I was +staying with Anna Partridge in Bedfordshire—she +is always so full of doing things in the village, +little meetings and so on. Well, I went to one +of her meetings, and really—those village women +sitting round in hats and so obviously despising +her! And not a move on their faces. I said to +her afterwards: ‘I do think you’re splendid, Anna, +the way you throw yourself into things—but really +what you can do with people with so little brain⁠—’ +She seemed quite annoyed and said that at least +they were loyal. I said they hadn’t got any alternative, +and if they had an alternative I didn’t suppose +they’d see it. She said they had hearts of +gold if they didn’t wear them on their sleeves, and +I said I thought it was a pity they didn’t—it would +have brightened them up a bit. She said that at +least one knew where one was with them, and I +said I wouldn’t live among people who weren’t +human. Then I thought it seemed a shame to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>unsettle her, if she really likes living in England.... +Oh, and I said to Mrs. Gegan this morning: +‘Some of your friends would like us to go, you +know,’ and she got so indignant she nearly wept. +And the Trents were telling me⁠— Oh, Hugo, +the Trents are coming over to tennis to-morrow, +specially for you and Francie. And the Thompsons +are coming, and I believe the Hartigans. +The Hartigan girls are still all there, you’ll be +surprised to hear. Nobody seems to marry them—and +oh, a Colonel and Mrs. Boatley are coming, +and three or four of the Rutlands⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Five,” said Lois.</p> + +<p>“—Anyhow, several Rutlands. Every one’s +so delighted to hear that you and Francie are +back.”</p> + +<p>“The Trents,” said Lois to Mr. Montmorency, +with indignation, “swear that you and they are +related. But you are not, surely? It is a perfect +obsession of theirs.”</p> + +<p>When he said he supposed that he was, through +an aunt’s marriage, she became pensive. It seemed +odd that even the Trents should have a closer +claim than she had. Though it was she who had +been humming with agitation the whole morning. +The sweet-peas in the urn before them bore evidence +to her agitation: they all slanted to the +west like a falling haystack. It was true she now +hoped nothing more of him, but he still was in +shadow, faintly, from the kindly monolith of her +childhood. What he might have been, what he +persisted in being, met in her mind with a jar, +with a grate of disparity. The face she had watched +sleeping—wiped clear of complexity, quiet but so +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>communicative in stillness that, watching, she +seemed to have shared in some kind of suspense, +stayed—like the bright blur from looking too long +at a lamp—over the face now turned to her, intelligent, +dulled, with its sub-acid smile. She was +likely to think of him now as a limitation, Mrs. +Montmorency’s limitation; something about Mrs. +Montmorency that was a pity. The Trents could +have him.</p> + +<p>“I expect,” she said slightingly, “you are related +to every one.”</p> + +<p>“The longer one lives in this country,” he all +too agreeably said, “the more likely that seems.”</p> + +<p>Yet she had been certain she felt him looking at +her while she argued with Uncle Richard about the +guns. Seeking a likeness, perhaps. It was this +consciousness that had lent her particular fervour—though +she was interested in the guns. Though +when she turned round his profile was turned +away—in, it seemed, the most scornful repudiation.</p> + +<p>He had, as a matter of fact, been looking at her, +but without intention and with a purely surface +observation of detail. When she turned away, +light from behind her ran a finger round the curve +of her jaw. When she turned his way, light took +the uncertain, dinted cheek-line where, under the +eyes, flesh was patted on delicately over the rise of +the bone. Her eyes, long and soft-coloured, had +the intense brimming wandering look of a puppy’s; +in repose her lips met doubtfully, in a never-determined +line, so that she never seemed to have quite +finished speaking. Her face was long, her nose +modelled down from the bridge then finished off +softly and bluntly as by an upward flick of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>sculptor’s thumb. Her chin had emphasis, seemed +ready for determination. He supposed that unformed, +anxious to make an effect, she would marry +early.</p> + +<p>“Danielstown can’t have been so exciting when +you were here before,” said Lois to Mrs. Montmorency.</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Montmorency, in an absence of mind +amounting to exaltation, had soared over the company. +She could perform at any moment, discomfitingly, +these acts of levitation. She was staring +into one of the portraits.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="IV"> + IV + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>LOIS was sent upstairs for the shawls; it +appeared that a touch of dew on the bare +skin might be fatal to Lady Naylor or Mrs. +Montmorency. On the stairs, her feet found their +evening echoes; she dawdled, listening. When +she came down everybody was on the steps—at the +top, on the wide stone plateau—the parlourmaid +looking for somewhere to put the coffee tray. +Mrs. Montmorency sat in the long chair; her +husband was tucking a carriage rug round her knees. +“If you do that,” Lois could not help saying, “she +won’t be able to walk about, which is the best part +of sitting out.”</p> + +<p>No one took any notice: Mr. Montmorency went +on tucking.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t you got a wrap for yourself?” said +Lady Naylor. Lois took a cushion and sat on the +top step with her arms crossed, stroking her elbows. +“I shouldn’t sit there,” her aunt continued; “at +this time of night stone will strike up through +anything.”</p> + +<p>“If you don’t get rheumatism now,” added +Francie, “you will be storing up rheumatism.”</p> + +<p>“It will be my rheumatism,” said Lois as gently +as possible, but added inwardly: “After you’re both +dead.” A thought that fifty years hence she might +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>well, if she wished, be sitting here on the steps,—with +or without rheumatism—having penetrated +thirty years deeper ahead into Time than they could, +gave her a feeling of mysteriousness and destination. +And she was fitted for this by being twice as complex +as their generation—for she must be: double +as many people having gone to the making of her.</p> + +<p>Laurence, looking resentfully round for somewhere +to sit—she had taken the only cushion—said: +“I suppose you think ants cannot run up your +legs if you cannot see them?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Montmorency surprised her by offering a +cigarette. He had a theory, he said, that ants did +not like cigarette smoke. The air was so quiet +now, the flame ran up his match without a tremble. +“The ants are asleep,” she said, “they disappear +into the cracks of the steps. They don’t bite, +either; but the idea is horrid.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you want a chair?” When she said she +didn’t, he settled back in his own. Creaks ran +through the wicker, discussing him, then all was +quiet. He was not due to leave the ship in which +they were all rushing out into Time till ten years +after the others, though it was to the others that +he belonged. Turning half round, she watched +light breathe at the tips of the cigarettes; it seemed +as though everybody were waiting. Night now +held the trees with a toneless finality. The sky +shone, whiter than glass, fainting down to the +fretted leaf-line, but was being steadily drained +by the dark below, to which the grey of the +lawns, like smoke, as steadily mounted. The house +was highest of all with toppling immanence, like +a cliff.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span></p> + +<p>“I don’t think,” said Francie, “I remember +anything so—so quiet as evenings here.”</p> + +<p>“Trees,” said Laurence, shifting his pipe. His +shirt-front was high above them, he stood by the +door with his foot on the scraper.</p> + +<p>“This time to-morrow,” said Lady Naylor, “we +shall want to be quiet—after the tennis party.” +She let out a sigh that hung in the silence, like breath +in cold air.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, the party! The tennis party ...”</p> + +<p>“Francie, did I tell you who were coming?”</p> + +<p>“You told her,” said Laurence. “I heard +you.”</p> + +<p>“It is the people who don’t play tennis who +make it so tiring.”</p> + +<p>Something about the way, the resigned way, +Francie’s hands lay out on the rug gave her the +look of an invalid. “It is a good thing,” said Sir +Richard, “you two never went out to Canada. I +never liked the idea myself; I was very much against +it at the time, if you remember.”</p> + +<p>“I was divided about it myself,” said Hugo. +“It seemed worth trying, and yet there was so much +against it. I don’t know that I should have done +very much good—I wonder.”</p> + +<p>They wondered with him, with degrees of indifference. +Lois stroked her dress—the feel of the +stuff was like cobwebs, sticky and damp. There +must be dew falling.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” cried Francie. “<em>Listen!</em>”</p> + +<p>She had so given herself to the silence that the +birth of sound, after which the others were still +straining, had shocked her nerves like a blow. +They looked, from the steps, over a bay of fields, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>between the plantations, that gave on a sea of space. +Far east, beyond the demesne: a motor, straining +cautiously out of the silence. A grind, an anguish +of sound as it took the hill.</p> + +<p>“Patrols,” said Laurence.</p> + +<p>Hugo reached out and pressed a hand on to +Francie’s rug. “Patrols,” he told her, translating +the information.</p> + +<p>Sir Richard explained severely: “Out every night—not +always in this direction.”</p> + +<p>“They’re early; it’s half-past nine. Now I +wonder ...”</p> + +<p>The sound paused, for a moment a pale light +showed up the sky in darkness. Then behind the +screen of trees at the skyline, demesne boundary, +the sound moved shakily, stoopingly, like some +one running and crouching behind a hedge. The +jarring echoed down the spines of the listeners. +They heard with a sense of complicity.</p> + +<p>“A furtive lorry is a sinister thing.”</p> + +<p>“Laurence, it isn’t furtive!” said. Lady Naylor. +“Can’t you be ordinary? If it wouldn’t be taken +in some absurd kind of way as a demonstration, I +should ask the poor fellows in to have coffee.”</p> + +<p>“They’re careful enough,” said Hugo impatiently. +It seemed that the lorry took pleasure in +crawling with such a menace along the boundary, +marking the scope of peace of this silly island, +undermining solitude. In the still night sound +had a breathlessness, as of intention.</p> + +<p>“The roads are so rough,” said Lois: she could +see the wary load lurching into the hedges. “I wonder +now,” she added, “who is with the patrol to-night?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span></p> + +<p>“Some one you know?” cried Francie. But Sir +Richard, who did not like his friends to be distracted +from him by lorries any more than by +introspection or headaches or the observation of +nature, bore this down with one of his major +chords:</p> + +<p>“The lower tennis court, Hugo”—waving sideways +into the darkness—“is not what it used to be. +Some cattle got on to it after the rain and destroyed +it. It’s had rolling enough to level a mountain, +but it won’t be the same for a long time. D’you +remember the fours we had on that court that +summer—wasn’t it nineteen-six—you and I and +O’Donnell and poor John Trent?”</p> + +<p>“I do. Now was it James O’Donnell or Peter +that went to Ceylon?”</p> + +<p>“That was a great summer; I never remember a +summer like it. We had the hay in by the end of +June.”</p> + +<p>The lorry ground off east towards Ballyhinch; +silence sifting down on its tracks like sand. Their +world was clear of it and a pressure lightened. +Once more they could have heard a leaf turn in +the trees or a bird shifting along a branch. But +they found it was now very dark. Francie shivered, +and Lady Naylor, rising formally, said she +thought they should go in. “Poor John Trent,” +she added, gathering up her cushions, “never got +over that trouble he had with the Sheehans over the +Madder fishing. It went into court, you know, +and of course he lost. We always told him to keep +it out of court. He was very obstinate.”</p> + +<p>“He was indeed,” said Sir Richard. “He made +an enemy of Sheehan and it’s not a good thing to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>have made an enemy. Though of course he’s dead +nowadays, so it may not matter.”</p> + +<p>“It may to the Archie Trents.... Laurence, +help Uncle Richard in with the long chair, and +remember to bring in your own chair afterwards.”</p> + +<p>“I never had a chair.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, they haven’t lighted the lamp in the hall. +That is too bad! I am lost without Sarah—do +you remember Sarah, Francie? She died, you +know.”</p> + +<p>Lois, sitting still among rising, passing and +vaguely searching figures, cried: “But it’s only just +beginning! You’re missing the whole point. I +shall walk up the avenue.”</p> + +<p>Francie went in, groping; trailing her rug. The +three men, carrying wicker chairs, converged at +the door: the chairs jostled. They all put them +down and apologized. Lois repeated: “<em>I</em> shall +walk up the avenue.” But having arranged an +order of procedure they all passed on into the house, +creaking and bumping. She walked down the +steps alone: she had wanted to be alone, but to be +regretted.</p> + +<p>“Mind you don’t get locked out!” her uncle +shouted after her. The glass doors shut with a +rattle.</p> + +<p>Lois walked alone up the avenue, where she had +danced with Gerald. She thought what a happy +night that had been, and how foolish Mr. Montmorency +now thought them. He had seemed +annoyed at her being young when he wasn’t. She +could not hope to explain that her youth seemed to +her also rather theatrical and that she was only +young in that way because people expected it. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>She had never refused a rôle. She could not forgo +that intensification, that kindling of her personality +at being considered very happy and reckless, +even if she were not. She could not hope +to assure him she was not enjoying anything he +had missed, that she was now unconvinced and +anxious but intended to be quite certain, by the +time she was his age, that she had once been happy. +For to explain this—were explanation possible to +so courteous, ironical and unfriendly a listener—would, +she felt, be disloyal to herself, to Gerald, +to an illusion both were called upon to maintain.</p> + +<p>Just by the lime, in that dancing night, she had +missed a step and sagged on his arm, which tightened. +His hand slid up between her shoulders; +then, as she steadied back to the rhythm, down +again. They had set out laughing, noisy and +conscious, but soon had to save their breath. +Gerald’s cheek, within an inch of her own, was too +near to see. All the way up, he had not missed +a step; he was most dependable. And remembering +how the family had just now gone into the +house—so flatly, so unregrettingly, slamming the +glass doors—she felt <em>that</em> was what she now wanted +most—his eagerness and constancy. She felt, +like a steady look from him, the perfectness of their +being together.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I do want you!”</p> + +<p>But he was very musical, he conducted a jazz +band they had at the barracks: while reaching out +in her thoughts she remembered, the band would +be practising now. She was disappointed. To a +line of tune the thought flung her, she danced on +the avenue.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span></p> + +<p>A shrubbery path was solid with darkness, she +pressed down it. Laurels breathed coldly and +close: on her bare arms the tips of leaves were +timid and dank, like tongues of dead animals. +Her fear of the shrubberies tugged at its chain, +fear behind reason, fear before her birth; fear like +the earliest germ of her life that had stirred in +Laura. She went forward eagerly, daring a snap +of the chain, singing; a hand to the thump of her +heart, dramatic with terror. She thought of herself +as forcing a pass. In her life—deprived as +she saw it—there was no occasion for courage, +which like an unused muscle slackened and slept.</p> + +<p>High up a bird shrieked and stumbled down +through dark, tearing the leaves. Silence healed, +but kept a scar of horror. The shuttered-in +drawing-room, the family sealed in lamplight, secure +and bright like flowers in a paper-weight—were +desirable, worth much of this to regain. Fear +curled back from the carpet-border.... Now, on +the path: grey patches worse than the dark: they +slipped up her dress knee-high. The laurels +deserted her groping arm. She had come to the +holly, where two paths crossed.</p> + +<p>First, she did not hear footsteps coming, and +as she began to notice the displaced darkness +thought what she dreaded was coming, was there +within her—she was indeed clairvoyant, exposed +to horror and going to see a ghost. Then steps, +hard on the smooth earth; branches slipping against +a trench-coat. The trench-coat rustled across the +path ahead, to the swing of a steady walker. She +stood by the holly immovable, blotted out in her +black, and there passed within reach of her hand, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>with the rise and fall of a stride, a resolute profile, +powerful as a thought. In gratitude for its fleshliness, +she felt prompted to make some contact: +not to be known seemed like a doom: extinction.</p> + +<p>“It’s a fine night,” she would have liked to +observe; or, to engage his sympathies: “Up Dublin!” +or even—since it was in her uncle’s demesne +she was straining under a holly—boldly—“What +do you want?”</p> + +<p>It must be because of Ireland he was in such a +hurry; down from the mountains, making a short +cut through their demesne. Here was something +else that she could not share. She could not conceive +of her country emotionally: it was a way of +living, an abstract of several landscapes, or an +oblique frayed island, moored at the north but with +an air of being detached and washed out west from +the British coast.</p> + +<p>Quite still, she let him go past in contemptuous +unawareness. His intentions burnt on the dark +an almost visible trail; he might well have been a +murderer he seemed so inspired. The crowd of +trees, straining up from the passive disputed earth, +each sucking up and exhaling the country’s essence—swallowed +him finally. She thought: “Has he +come for the guns?” A man in a trench-coat had +passed without seeing her: that was what it amounted +to.</p> + +<p>She ran back to tell, in excitement. Below, +the house waited; vast on its west side, with thin +yellow lines round the downstairs shutters. It +had that excluded, sad, irrelevant look outsides of +houses take in the dark. Inside, they would all +be drawing up closer to one another, tricked by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>the half-revelation of lamplight. “Compassed +about,” thought Lois, “by so great a cloud of +witnesses....” Chairs standing round dejectedly; +upstairs, the confidently waiting beds; mirrors +vacant and startling; books read and forgotten, +contributing no more to life; dinner-table certain +of its regular compulsion; the procession of elephants +that throughout uncertain years had not +broken file.</p> + +<p>But as Lois went up the steps breathlessly, her +adventure began to diminish. It held ground for +a moment as she saw the rug dropped in the hall +by Mrs. Montmorency sprawl like a body across +the polish. Then confidence disappeared, in a +waver of shadow, among the furniture. Conceivably, +she had just surprised life at a significant +angle in the shrubbery. But it was impossible to +speak of this. At a touch from Aunt Myra adventure +became literary, to Uncle Richard it suggested +an inconvenience; a glance from Mr. Montmorency +or Laurence would make her encounter sterile.</p> + +<p>But what seemed most probable was that they +would not listen.... She lighted her candle and +went up to bed—uncivilly, without saying good +night to anyone. Her Uncle Richard, she afterwards +heard, was obliged to sit up till twelve +o’clock. He had not been told she was in, so did +not think it right to lock up the house.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="V"> + V + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>GERALD walked across the lawn to the lower +tennis court, swinging his racquet. Once +he put up a hand and touched the back +of his head, but with assurance: it was perfectly +smooth and round. His flannels were gold-white +in the sun; he almost shone. He smiled everywhere. +It was nonsense for him to pretend he did +not care for parties; he went everywhere, he liked +to go out every day.</p> + +<p>Everybody was sitting or standing about where +the green slatted seats were, at the edge of the +shade. No one was playing yet; there were two +courts and eighteen players; they were discussing +who was to play first, their voices sharp with renunciation. +Lois was nowhere; Laurence sat on the +ground smoking and taking no part in the argument. +Lady Naylor talked eagerly to a number of guests +who, holding up parasols very straight in the +unusual sunshine and wearing an air of vague +happiness, were waiting for play to begin before +settling down to conversation. Livvy Thompson +was organizing: as Lois’ friend she felt this devolved +upon her in Lois’ absence; also, she liked organizing. +“You and you,” she said shrilly, stabbing the air +within an inch of each player’s chest with a sharp +forefinger, “and why not <em>you</em> and <em>you?</em>” But before +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>she had ever finished arranging the second four, the +first would become involved again.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Lesworth,” cried Lady Naylor, and +waited for him to approach, “if you really are coming +out, would you bring some more rugs for some +more of the people to sit on?”</p> + +<p>He turned and went back to the house. It seemed +very odd about Lois—now where could she be?</p> + +<p>Livvy Thompson looked after him anxiously. +Had not Mr. Armstrong come also? During this +temporary absence of her attention two fours +arranged themselves and walked hurriedly out to +take possession of the courts.</p> + +<p>The hall, very dark after sunshine, was full of +wraps and racquet presses; shoes had wandered +away from each other under the chairs. The rest +of Gerald’s party—they had all driven out from +Clonmore in a hired motor—were still there, waiting +for Mrs. Vermont. Captain Vermont and +David Armstrong stood holding her things while +she powdered her nose with difficulty before an +antique mirror.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t women awful?” she cried gaily, as Gerald +rejoined them. She knew the subalterns hated +going about without her. “My dears, I do wish +I knew if we really were asked. Lois is so—I +mean, well, you know—vague, isn’t she?”</p> + +<p>“Well, they wouldn’t mind, anyhow,” said +David, and tried not to sound proprietary.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t they hospitable!” Betty Vermont was +not disappointed in Ireland after all. She had +never before been to so many large houses with so +small a sense of her smallness. Of course, they +were all very shabby and not artistic at all. Mrs. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>Vermont used to say she longed to be turned +loose in any one of them with a paint-pot—white—and +a few hundred yards of some really nice +cretonne from Barker’s.</p> + +<p>“Half Ireland is here,” said David, looking out +at the crowd of cars on the gravel-sweep. “I +doubt if we get any tennis.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, well, David, there’s plenty of that at the +club. Now, Gerald, don’t stand there glaring! +You <em>do</em> disapprove of powder, you unkind wretch!”</p> + +<p>“Rather not,” said Gerald, beaming. But all +the same he did like girls to have natural complexions—he +was perfectly certain Lois’s was. He +was carrying all the rugs he could find slung over +his shoulder and looked, she informed him, just +like a Bedouin. This was not a thing she could +have said to every man, because really the East +had become so very suggestive. But he was the +dearest boy, so absolutely nice-minded. They all +went out.</p> + +<p>“There seem to be many more people here than +I thought we’d asked,” Lady Naylor was saying to +Mrs. Carey of Mount Isabel. “Lois asks people +she meets at the Clonmore club, and then forgets. +I have been rather wondering about the raspberries; +I’ve sent her out to the garden to see about getting +in some more. Colonel and Mrs. Boatley are coming—she +was a Vere Scott, a Fermanagh Vere +Scott.... Why is it that the Hartigans never +will talk to men? I never think they give themselves +a chance, do you? Oh, Mr. Lesworth, how +kind to think of bringing the rugs out! And now +there doesn’t seem anyone left to sit on them.... +Look, would you break up that party of girls on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>the bank; I don’t think they seem to be sitting on +anything, and anyhow they look dull and would +like to talk. And I am sure they’d be glad if +you’d smoke—the midges are terrible. Who is +that girl in pale blue who’s just coming out?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Vermont. She—er—I think Miss +Farquar⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, never mind; it’s a pleasant surprise.” +She went over to Mrs. Vermont with enthusiasm. +“I’m so glad you could come; it’s delightful.”</p> + +<p>Gerald looked round everybody again, carefully. +Then he respectfully displaced the Miss Hartigans, +spread out a rug on the bank and sat down between +them. He was at a disadvantage, he could not +remember if he had ever been introduced to them, +whereas they were perfectly certain he had been. +They were pleased at his coming, though on the +other hand they were suffering so terribly from the +midges that what they wanted most at the moment +was to scratch their legs peacefully.</p> + +<p>“I call this a frightfully good party,” said Gerald, +breezily.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it’s most enjoyable,” agreed Norah +Hartigan.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think there’s anything like these tennis +parties you have in Ireland.”</p> + +<p>“We have never been to tennis parties in England,” +replied Doreen.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you must certainly come over.”</p> + +<p>“I dare say we should feel strange,” said Norah +and her sister agreed with her. Gerald smiled +from one to the other so encouragingly that they +told him how a sister of theirs, who was not here +to-day, had once stayed for quite a long time near +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>London, and had been taken by an aunt, who was +rather what they would call a London Society sort +of person, to a very fashionable party—in South +Kensington it had been. But their sister had not +cared for the party, she thought the English unnatural +and said it was extraordinary how their +voices sounded when they were all shut up in the +one room. “But excuse me,” concluded the elder +Miss Hartigan, turning away because she was +afraid the talk was becoming personal and scratching +her ankle as discreetly as possible, “we should +not say this to you.”</p> + +<p>“It was splendid of you to forget I was English. +Well, we shall all be leaving you soon, I dare say; +all we jolly old army of occupation.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, one wouldn’t like to call you <em>that</em>,” said +Miss Hartigan, deprecatingly.</p> + +<p>“—As soon as we’ve lost this jolly old war.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but one wouldn’t call it a <em>war</em>.”</p> + +<p>“If anyone would, we could clean these beggars +out in a week.”</p> + +<p>“We think it would be a great pity to have a +war,” said the Hartigans firmly. “There’s been +enough unpleasantness already, hasn’t there?... +And it would be a shame for you all to go,” added +Doreen warmly, but not too warmly because they +were all men. In fact, it was all rather embarrassing, +they fixed their eyes on the players firmly and +wished that the set would finish. They thought +how daring it was of Mr. Lesworth to come so far +to a party at all, and only hoped he would not be +shot on the way home; though they couldn’t help +thinking how, if he should be, they would both feel +so interesting afterwards. “Poor young fellow,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>they thought with particular tenderness because +he was so good-looking, and neither of them, with +this tenderness in their eyes, dared to look at him.</p> + +<p>Livvy was walking along the top of the bank +with David Armstrong. She smiled, with a small +tooth over her lower lip; the tip of her nose quivered +downward with feminine sensibility. “It is really +a long time since I have seen you, Mr. Armstrong.”</p> + +<p>David was the nicest of all the subalterns; so +agreeable. “Why, yes,” he agreed, “I suppose it +really must be.” He glanced at the brim of her +hat and added: “It has certainly seemed an awful +long time to me.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” cried Livvy; she +blushed to the chin and laughed.</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> don’t see why I shouldn’t,” said David, alarmed +but gratified.</p> + +<p>“Well, I mean, you oughtn’t to say it <em>like</em> that!”</p> + +<p>“But I can’t help saying what I mean.” His +manliness increased with confusion. “I suppose I +am that kind of fellow.”</p> + +<p>“You <em>are</em> awful!” Livvy laughed so much from +the shock of David’s behaviour that people sitting +along the foot of the bank looked up expectantly. +She would not share him, she hurried him off at an +angle and then continued: “Why were you not at +the Mount Isabel bicycle gymkhana? I understood +you to say that you would be. It was the +greatest pity you couldn’t be there, it was a grand +gymkhana, and they had a putting competition too. +And they had sentries armed in the avenue and +made twenty-four pounds for the hospital. And +the priest’s niece from Kilnagowan fell off and cut +her lip; she bled too dreadfully, but Doreen +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>Hartigan has her V.A.D. certificate. And two +hundred people sat down to tea—how was it now +that you couldn’t be there?”</p> + +<p>“On duty,” said David, and took on a mystic +and obstinate look. “I was up with some of the +men and an N.C.O. in those mountains the other +side of the Madder.”</p> + +<p>Livvy felt in her spine, running down it from +under her waistband, a sharp little thrill. She +felt all the soldiers’ woman, and said in a glow: +“Well, I call that too awfully dangerous.” He +told her: “It’s what we are here for.” They +glanced at each other, then both were embarrassed—and +showed it—at what they had seen. She +stooped, and her hat was an elegant mushroom. +From David’s complexion blushes cleared slowly +away—the last having never quite vanished into his +hair before another came after it up from his well-fitting +collar.</p> + +<p>“I can’t think what Lois can be doing.” She +peered through gaps in the shrubbery towards the +gate of the garden. This concern for her friend +she put up and twirled like a parasol between them. +She sighed: the expansion of her thin little frame, +the rise and fall of her two little points of bosom +were clearly visible under her white silk jersey. +Her panama hat turned down and light tufts of hair +came out in fluttering commas against her cheekbones. +From under the brim her eyes looked, +slanting slightly up at the corners, with a veiled +preoccupied kind of inquisitiveness. She was +inquisitive as to so many things her friend Lois +hoped one might not have to bother about. David +watched her watch the shrubbery for her friend and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>thought, with a shock, that this really did seem a +girl he was to be in love with. He had the fatalism +of a recurrent sufferer.</p> + +<p>“It will be too bad,” continued Livvy, “if she +doesn’t come soon. You would think she might +be picking those raspberries herself. You see, all +the people she asked from Clonmore have come +and were not expected. If she doesn’t come soon +I must go—yes, indeed I must, Mr. Armstrong—and +see about the two next fours. You see, her +cousin Laurence is no good for that, he is so intellectual, +and Lady Naylor doesn’t much notice the +tennis so long as the party goes off all right. But +it seems too bad she shouldn’t see Mr. Lesworth. +I expect Mr. Lesworth often speaks to you of her, +doesn’t he, Mr. Armstrong?”</p> + +<p>“Er—I don’t remember, really.”</p> + +<p>“I think it’s wonderful to see a man so much in +love. I must say I often wonder what love feels +like. I always seem to feel so natural about the +men I know. But I suppose that’s because I am +so young—or perhaps I was born platonic. Do +you believe in platonics, Mr. Armstrong?”</p> + +<p>“Plato? Jolly old Grecian—what?”</p> + +<p>“No, but listen—do you?”</p> + +<p>“Well, what I think,” said David, looking carefully +at his racquet and turning it over and over—“of +course it is awfully difficult to express, but +I think the right kind of girl and the right kind of +fellow can be almost anything to each other, if you +know what I mean?”</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> think,” said Livvy, “you put it rather wonderfully.” +She suddenly waved her racquet. “Ah—there’s +Lois!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span></p> + +<p>Lois came down the shrubbery path from the +garden startled, as if at her own great speed, flushed +and visibly breathless. A pink unbuttoned cardigan +slipped away at the shoulders, she had a hand in +both the pockets to keep it on. Her hat flapped +back, it rose above her face in surprise, like a +wave. Behind her the bushes stirred in an almost +visible backwash. Over the laurels, cropped knee-high +at the back of the tennis court, her body rose +and dipped with her long steps.</p> + +<p>“Ah, here she is!” exclaimed several people, and +all looked up the bank uncritically and kindly. +The dark air of the shrubbery glittered with midges; +she jerked her hands from her pockets and waved +her way through. Chinks of sunlight darted up +her like mice and hesitated away like butterflies. +She had been looking down at the party, deployed +in all its promise, with greed and eagerness as at a +box of chocolates; eyes like a thumb and finger +hovering to selection. Now, engaged by its look, +she became all profile; her step flattened, she would +have liked to crawl. She was, as Mr. Montmorency +had noticed, very self-conscious.</p> + +<p>The Hartigans said to Gerald: “Here comes +Lois; isn’t she very sweet-looking!” They smiled +at each other across him.</p> + +<p>He said “Rather!” pocketing their tribute gratefully, +with simplicity, as a small boy pockets a tip. +His directness baffled them, they were shocked—but +he thought how nice they were. In his world +affections were rare and square—four-square—occurring +like houses in a landscape, unrelated and +positive, though with sometimes a large bright +looming—as of the sunned west face of Danielstown +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>over the tennis courts. He did not conceive of +love as a nervous interchange but as something +absolute, out of the scope of thought, beyond himself, +matter for a confident outward rather than +anxious inward looking. He had sought and was +satisfied with a few—he thought final—repositories +for his emotions: his mother, country, dog, school, +a friend or two, now—crowningly—Lois. Of +these he asked only that they should be quiet and +positive, not impinged upon, not breaking boundaries +from their generous allotment. His life was a +succession of practical adjustments, into which the +factor of personality did not enter at all. His +reserve—to which one was apt to accord a too +sensitive reverence—was an affair of convenience +rather than protection. Pressed for a statement, +he could have said, “I love her,” to the Hartigans, +Mrs. Carey, anyone there, without uneasiness, +without a sense of the words’ vibrations or alarm at +a loud impact on something hollow. So he looked up +the bank at Lois, while the Hartigans watched him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Montmorency sat on the ground with his +knees apart, holding his ankles limply. His grey +flannel coat-collar was turned up over his white +shirt, as though a strong wind were blowing. He +was being talked to by ladies who sat above him on +high green chairs, and though he looked up to +answer, it was never higher than their knees. He +had more than ever his waxen blinking look, as +though exposed unnaturally to the sunshine. His +nostrils contracted slightly, as though the smell +drawn up from the roots of the grass in a perpetual +hot shimmer were more offensive than he cared to +explain. He was to play in the next set, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>Laurence looked forward to a melancholy exhibition +of departed proficiency. A wiry tenseness and +setting of teeth there would be, Laurence anticipated, +then balls going straight and cleanly into the +net. He would be the magnificent player of ten +years ago, with little painful grunts as point after +point was given away. Laurence guessed that Mr. +Montmorency hated parties and conversation as +much as he himself did, but being less adept at +evasion or honouring less fiercely the virginity of +his intelligence, could not escape from talking and +being talked to.</p> + +<p>Laurence achieved this escape by sitting always +with a social alert expression between two groups, +when one tried to claim him he could affect to be +engaged by the other.</p> + +<p>A net had been carefully stretched behind the +seats to prevent balls going through to the shrubbery. +But it was full of rents, and these the balls, +driven with force from the further back line, discovered +unerringly. To meet these deficiencies +children up from the lodge were on duty in the +shrubbery; they stared and rambled, pushing among +the laurels. They got their teas, an excellent view +of the party and a halfpenny for every ball they +recovered. Those who did not find any balls and +seemed disappointed were given halfpennies also. +So why, as Lady Naylor said, bother? She hated +to see her guests go round the net, smearing their +nice white flannels.</p> + +<p>But now, as three balls in succession fled through +the leaves, she broke off a conversation and cried: +This was too much! Would some kind person—she +looked at Laurence—go round and help? +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>He rose, reluctant: simultaneously Mr. Montmorency +went gratefully round the net at the other +end. He was followed by an anxious little boy +called Hercules, the only child among the guests and +gravely <i lang="fr">de trop</i>. They all three met in the middle.</p> + +<p>Laurence said—beating the bushes vaguely—“Imagine, +sir, a small resurrection day, an intimate +thing-y one, when the woods should give up their +tennis balls and the bundles of hay their needles: +the beaches all their engagement rings and the +rivers their cigarette cases and some watches. The +sea’s too general, an affair of furniture and large +boilers, it could wait with the graves for the big +day.... Yes, Hercules, that is a tennis ball, but +it is pre-war. Put it back in the rabbit hole for the +children to find; it is worth a halfpenny to them.... +Last term I dropped a cigarette case into the Cher, +from the bridge at Parson’s Pleasure. It was a +gold one, left over from an uncle, flat and thin +and curved, for a not excessive smoker. It was from +the days when they wore opera cloaks and mashed, +and killed ladies. It was very period, very virginal; +I called it Henry James; I loved it. I want +to see it rush up out of the Cher, very pale, with +eyeballs, like in the Tate Gallery. It wants a +woman to be interested in a day like that, to organize; +perhaps the Virgin Mary? Don’t you think, sir?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Montmorency, startled at this address, +replied: “I have never been to the Tate Gallery.”</p> + +<p>“Talking of being virginal, do you ever notice +this country? Doesn’t sex seem irrelevant?”</p> + +<p>“There certainly are a great many unmarried +women,” said Mr. Montmorency, looking doubtfully +through the net at the Miss Hartigans.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span></p> + +<p>“It is: ‘Ah, why would we?’ And indeed why +should they? There is no reason why one should +not, so one never does. It applies to everything. +And children seem in every sense of the word to be +inconceivable.”</p> + +<p>“My mother has five,” said Hercules, “I am the +youngest. Hercules is a family name because I +am the only boy, but when I go to school I shall +be called Richard after my godfather, as everybody +says that Hercules even as an initial would +be such a disadvantage to me, though not nearly +so bad as being afraid of bats.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder you aren’t at school now,” said Mr. +Montmorency.</p> + +<p>“It would be holidays now anyhow, so I should +be bound to be here. That is my eldest sister, +playing tennis. They do not see how I can possibly +go to school till I have got over being afraid of +bats. Besides, I am using up the end of my sisters’ +governess.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody could possibly be sorrier for you than +I am, Hercules,” said Laurence. “This is an +unreal party.”</p> + +<p>“Well, nobody brought you, I suppose,” said +Hercules.</p> + +<p>The strong and dreadful smell of laurels made +them all irritable. Hercules tore off the tips of +bland leaves which kept slapping against his forehead. +Laurence came with a ball on his racquet +to Mr. Montmorency and said: “I am sure this is +one that you lost with Uncle Richard and poor +John Trent and the man who did not go to Ceylon +in the summer of ’06.”</p> + +<p>“Whereas, I did not go to Canada.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span></p> + +<p>“No, you never did, did you?”</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor came and looked at them through +the netting. “If between you you cannot find +any balls,” she said, “Laurence, you had +better please fetch that other box from the back +hall. They are beginning a new set with only +three.”</p> + +<p>“I have two here that seem quite clean, but +they haven’t much bounce,” said Hercules.</p> + +<p>“Oh, that is splendid, you are a good little boy!” +She took the balls from him through a hole. “Here +are a nice lot to go on with,” she called out hopefully, +rolling them to the court. Mr. Montmorency +and Laurence went on searching.</p> + +<p>“Now take Aunt Myra; what does she think she’s +doing?”</p> + +<p>“If it comes to that,” said Mr. Montmorency, +nettled, “what do you think <em>you</em>’re doing? Why +are you here at all if you don’t like it—as Hercules +said? I was happy here at your age, I was full of +the place, I asked nothing better. I ask nothing +better now.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Laurence.</p> + +<p>“However, I have no doubt you are right in +being dissatisfied; I dare say it is progress,” said +Mr. Montmorency angrily. “I dare say it is good +for the race.”</p> + +<p>Laurence, who did not consider that he had +anything to do with the race, replied with some +indignation: “I have no money; where do you +expect me to get any money from? I was to have +gone to Spain this month with a man and last year +I should have gone to Italy with another man, but +what do you expect me to go on? I have to eat +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>somwhere, don’t I, and here it is simply a matter of +family feeling.”</p> + +<p>“This is one of the balls; I shall throw it over.... +I had no idea that you were such a materialist.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t help my stomach. Besides, I like +eating, it is so real. But I should like something +else to happen, some crude intrusion of the actual. +I feel all gassy inside from yawning. I should like +to be here when this house burns.”</p> + +<p>“Quite impossible; quite unthinkable. Why +don’t you fish or something?... Nonsense!” he +added, looking warningly at the house.</p> + +<p>“Of course it will, though. And we shall all +be so careful not to notice.”</p> + +<p>“Are you the undergraduate of to-day?”</p> + +<p>“I should love to be quite, quite abstract.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Montmorency, offended by all this clever +conversation, felt more than ever his isolation, +his homelessness. Life was to him an affair of +discomfort, but that discomfort should be made +articulate seemed to him shocking. The over-fine +machinery of his mind ceaselessly strained and +caught and was agonizingly jerked over details. +His refuge was manly talk: he suspected Laurence. +He said: “You are fortunate. There was never +a time when I had not other people to think about.”</p> + +<p>Laurence, who immediately thought this womanish, +said: “Oh yes, love.” He flicked out and +studied the word indifferently—coin of uncertain +value.</p> + +<p>“Not entirely. One had a certain debt ...”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, yes.”</p> + +<p>Laurence became more formal, very much better +mannered. He recalled that the man was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>married, had given away his integrity, had not +even a bed to himself. The husband, glancing a +last time through and under the bushes, was +negligible, diffused even a certain staleness. Laurence +sheered away mentally, moved further off +through the shrubbery. He had been talking +foolishly, in his vein of the third or fourth quality, +and regretted now having talked still. He felt +there had been something morbid about his intrusion, +as in a visit to a prison.</p> + +<p>“I was to have played in that second set,” said +Mr. Montmorency. “It seems to be nearly over: +perhaps I shall play in the third.”</p> + +<p>“Tea will be coming, never forget tea.” Indeed, +a move was being made to the house already. Tea +was too grave an affair to be carried out; besides, +one wasn’t accustomed to stability in the weather.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Hugo, come out now, dear,” cried Francie, +walking past with Mrs. Hartigan. “I am sure it +doesn’t matter about the balls. And the Trents +have come—don’t you see them? We are just +going back to the house to meet them now.”</p> + +<p>“Archie? Splendid!” He burst from the shrubbery +at the other side, gained the path and hurried +towards the house. At a turn of the path, in an +arch cut under some holly, he saw Gerald and Lois +standing; talking, looking down earnestly at their +racquets. With her head bent, Lois was like her +mother. He stared, then passed them quickly.</p> + +<p>But Lois did not notice him going by. She was +saying: “I feel certain you have illusions about me; +I don’t believe you know what I’m like a bit.” +And while she spoke she counted the crimson +strings in her racquet: three down, six across.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="VI"> + VI + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>MRS. VERMONT ate more hot cakes than +she cared to remember, because they +were so good and nobody seemed to +notice. She went on to chocolate cake, then to +orange layer cake, to which she returned again +and again. An idea she had had, that one should +not eat very much when invited out, languished; +she finished up with a plate of raspberries. She +put all thought of her figure resolutely behind her. +Mother, of course, had filled out terribly, but oneself +mightn’t.</p> + +<p>“Nummy-nummy,” she said, pointing out the +raspberries to David Armstrong who sat beside her. +“David have some!”</p> + +<p>Livvy Thompson, sitting beyond David, deplored +these women who talked baby-talk. She felt that +her own appeal to men was more serious. “Mr. +Armstrong has got to play in the next set,” she said +warningly.</p> + +<p>“Hoity-toity!” thought Betty Vermont (she never +used the expression aloud, as she was not certain +how one pronounced it: it was one of her inner +luxuries). Turning to Mrs. Carey (the Honourable +Mrs. Carey), who sat on her other side, she +said frankly:</p> + +<p>“Your scrumptious Irish teas make a perfect +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>piggy-wig of me. And dining-room tea, of course, +makes me a kiddy again.”</p> + +<p>“Does it really?” said Mrs. Carey, and helped +herself placidly to another slice of the chocolate +cake. She thought of Mrs. Vermont as “a little +person” and feared she detected in her a tendency, +common to most English people, to talk about her +inside. She often wondered if the War had not +made everybody from England a little commoner. +She added pleasantly: “This chocolate cake is a +speciality of Danielstown’s. I believe it’s a charm +that they make it by, not a recipe.”</p> + +<p>“Things do run in families, don’t they? Now +I am sure you’ve all got ghosts.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t think of any,” said Mrs. Carey, accepting +another cup of tea. She smiled and nodded +across the table to Mrs. Archie Trent, who had +just come in. “We have been much more worried +lately by people taking away our car. Of course +it is always brought back again, but one doesn’t +like to think of its being used for nefarious purposes. +That is the worst of a Ford.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vermont opened her mouth to tell Mrs. +Carey the latest Ford story, then checked herself +because in Ireland they seemed to take Fords so +seriously. She observed instead: “All this is terrible +for you all, isn’t it? I do think you’re so +sporting the way you just stay where you are and +keep going on. Who would ever have thought the +Irish would turn out so disloyal—I mean, of course, +the lower classes! I remember Mother saying in +1916—you know, when that dreadful rebellion +broke out—she said: ‘This <em>has</em> been a shock to me, +I never shall feel the same about the Irish again.’ +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>You see, she had brought us all up as kiddies to be +so keen on the Irish, and Irish songs. I still have +a little bog-oak pig she brought me back from an +exhibition. She always said they were the most +humorous people in the world, and with hearts of +gold. Though of course we had none of us ever +been in Ireland.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I hope you are pleased with us now you +have come,” said Mrs. Carey hospitably. “I +expect you have all been enjoying this lovely +weather?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>well</em>—you see, we didn’t come over to +enjoy ourselves, did we? We came to take care of +all of you—and, of course, we are ever so glad to be +able to do it. Not that I don’t like the country; +it’s so picturesque with those darling mountains +and the hens running in and out of the cottages +just the way Mother always said. But, you see, one +can’t help worrying all the time about Timmie—my +husband—and all the boys: out all night sometimes +with the patrols or else off in the mountains.”</p> + +<p>“Terrible. And do you find this a tiring +climate?”</p> + +<p>A word attracted Mrs. Trent’s attention across +the table. “Terrible what?” she said. “Terrible +who?” She was youngish, brusque and dominant; +the high pink colour over her face as from riding +hard in a wind gave her a look of zestfulness alarming +to Mrs. Vermont. “I shouldn’t worry,” she +said to Mrs. Vermont.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vermont replied with a shade of asperity +that it was <em>they</em> who were in a position to worry and +therefore must not. “’Cause <em>we</em>’re here to take +care of you!” The remark, caught in a momentary +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>silence around the table, was received with civility +and attention. “That’s splendid!” said Mrs. Trent +heartily. She got up, having finished her tea +rapidly and went to smoke outside. Her husband +was M.F.H. and really, thought Mrs. Vermont, +they did not seem to worry about anything but wire. +Mrs. Vermont turned for support to David; his +ears were scarlet, he rapidly stirred his tea.</p> + +<p>Five days ago, an R.I.C. barracks at Ballydrum +had been attacked and burnt out after a long defence. +Two of the defenders were burnt inside it, the others +shot coming out. The wires were cut, the roads +blocked; there had been no one to send for help, +so there was no help for them. It was this they +had all been discussing, at tea, between tennis: +“the horrible thing.” No one could quite understand +why Captain Vermont and the subalterns did +not seem more appalled and interested. It was +not apparent how the subject rasped on their sensibilities. +These things happened, were deplored +and accepted, and still no one seemed to look on +David or Gerald, Smith, Carmichael or Mrs. Vermont’s +Timmie as a possible remedy. Here they +all were, playing tennis, and every one seemed +delighted. “If they’d just let us out for a week⁠—” +felt the young men. David could not look up as +he stirred his tea. What was the good of them? +This, he felt, every one should be wondering. But +the party would indeed have been dull without +them, there would have been no young men. +Nobody wished them elsewhere.</p> + +<p>Lois had been worrying chiefly because Gerald +had illusions about her, also, as to whether Aunt +Myra noticed the raspberries still would not go +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>round. The guests for which she was responsible +were not only unexpected but ravenous. And +while she sat watching Aunt Myra, Gerald sat +watching herself as though she were an entirely +different person, not the sort of person one could +describe at all. After tea she played on the upper +court with Captain Vermont, against Gerald and +Nona Carey. She played well, all her strokes came +off; it seemed that worry agreed with her. It +could not agree with Gerald, who played badly. +Then it occurred to her: he was not worried; she +had not the power to worry him. Some idea he +had formed of herself remained inaccessible to her; +she could not affect it.</p> + +<p>By now the upper court was in shadow, they all +flickered against the dark screen of the trees like +figures cut out of light green velvet. Below, where +hot bands of light still blinded the players, there +was a suggestion of strain and violence. Whenever +she looked down, Mr. Montmorency seemed to be +handing balls to his partner in silent anger. She +guessed it must be himself who was playing badly, +so that while she could not resist looking down, +she had to keep looking away from him just as fast.</p> + +<p>“You were splendid,” said Captain Vermont +when their set finished.</p> + +<p>“Oh no, I wasn’t,” said Lois by reflex action, +and wished all the other things to which she was +always replying, “Oh no, I didn’t,” or “Oh no, +I’m not,” were half as true. And she thought +what a pity it was that Mr. Montmorency, instead +of exerting himself so fruitlessly, had not been +sitting there at the edge of the court to watch her.</p> + +<p>She walked down the slope from the court with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>Gerald beside her. Conscious of many people’s +attention, she did not know if she seemed enviable +or foolish. “I wish you wouldn’t keep looking so +pleased the whole time,” she said to Gerald.</p> + +<p>“Oh?... but I am.”</p> + +<p>“What at?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I love coming over here. I think you +have such awfully nice parties.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, the party.... But David enjoys them, +and he hasn’t got the same expression as you have. +In fact, he looks rather sick. What can be the +matter?”</p> + +<p>“Well, we all feel a little rotten about that +barrack.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Don’t!</em> Do you know that while that was going +on, eight miles off, I was cutting a dress out, a +voile that I didn’t even need, and playing the +gramophone?... How is it that in this country +that ought to be full of such violent realness, there +seems nothing for me but clothes and what people +say? I might just as well be in some kind of +cocoon.”</p> + +<p>“But what could you have done? You, you⁠—”</p> + +<p>“I might at least have felt something.”</p> + +<p>“But you do; you’ve got the most wonderful +power of feeling.”</p> + +<p>“But you never take in a word I say. You’re +not interested when I tell you about myself.”</p> + +<p>“You know I could listen all day to you talking.”</p> + +<p>She thought: “As though you could make me +talk all day!” To cover the thought she said +earnestly:</p> + +<p>“You think we don’t all understand your not +being there in time and not doing anything afterwards? +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>We’re not all such idiots. We know it’s +most terribly difficult for you and that you must +obey orders. It’s bad luck the orders are silly. +It’s all this dreadful idea about self-control. When +<em>we</em> do nothing it is out of politeness, but England +is so moral, so dreadfully keen on not losing her +temper, or being for half a moment not a great deal +more noble than anyone else. Can you wonder +this country gets irritated? It’s as bad for it as +being a woman. I never can see why women +shouldn’t be hit, or should be saved from wrecks +when everybody complains they’re superfluous.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t understand: it would be ghastly if +those things went.”</p> + +<p>“Why? I don’t see—and <em>I</em> am a woman.”</p> + +<p>Which was, of course, exactly why it wasn’t to +be expected or desired she <em>should</em> understand. He +smiled, too happy to answer, and tore out a handful +of leaves from the privet hedge. She had this +one limitation, his darling Lois; she couldn’t look +on her own eyes, had no idea what she was, resented +almost his attention being so constantly fixed on +something she wasn’t aware of. A fellow did not +expect to be to a girl what a girl was to a fellow—this +wasn’t modesty, specially, it was an affair of +function—so that the girl must be excused for a +possible failure in harmony, a sometimes discordant +irreverence. When he said: “You will never know +what you mean to me,” he made plain his belief +in her perfection as a woman. She wasn’t made +to know, she was not fit for it. She was his integrity, +of which he might speak to strangers but of +which to her he would never speak.</p> + +<p>He tore out another handful of leaves from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>hedge and scattered them carefully over the grass. +They both laughed.</p> + +<p>She was thinking: “When next I write to Viola, +can I describe him?” Viola flashed off her men in +a phrase, with a sweep of her red quill pen. The +red pen had leaned from the Chinese inkpot, against +the window, like a thin flame, a leaning flamingo +on that day’s sunny mist in the Westminster street. +It remained a picture of their intercourse. They +had said good-bye in December, a slight day, +anxious between the enormous past and future. +The parting was hardly real, they had barely kissed. +They were impatient, nervous, waiting for the curtain +to rise. They had just left school.</p> + +<p>They had left school the day before. Yet the +new life had been impatient for Viola, drawing +her away from Lois in the taxi, appropriating her +with certainty. She had stepped from their taxi +toppling with school trunks with a kind of solemnity, +as on to a carpet stretched for her festal approach +from the kerb to the doors of her home. Next +day, when they said good-bye, her hair was in place +already, woven into her personality. Her pigtail +had been the one loose end there was of her, an +extension of her that had independence, a puppyish +walloping thing with nerves of its own. Now the +hair was woven in bright sleek circles over her ears, +each strand round like an eel’s body. The effect +completed her; Lois knew she had been missing +or else discounting something all these years. +Viola must have played at being a schoolgirl just +as Lois would have to play at being a woman. +Two expensive young men’s photographs had risen +like suns on her mantelpiece; these young men had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>loved since last Easter holidays; their position was +now regularized magically by the putting up of +Viola’s hair. For only little commonalities, she +declared, had affairs while still at school. And +Lois, after that good-bye so distinct and distant, +as at the little end of a telescope, had left her with +the composed, knowing photographs and the red +pen leaning against the sunshine. She had wondered, +going out to a day of shopping and the night +mail to be caught at Euston, whether life was to +hold for her, too, a man’s passion; and if so, when? +And she had bought a dozen pairs of silk stockings +and the black georgette Aunt Myra said was +“old.”</p> + +<p>But a man’s passion was not at all the thing. My +dear, too Dell-ish! Viola went to what she supposed +one would call her first ball; in tulle she went, +smoke blue, with a close gold-leaf round the hair—not +bright gold, dull gold. Various people had +seemed intrigued, were in fact intrigued rather +definitely. There was So-and-so, an absurd person +(flash of the red pen), and the aloof, rather mask-like +So-and-so—who might intrigue Lois. But when +it came to <em>So-and-so</em> (a most brilliant flash of the pen) +Viola would admit to Lois she <em>was</em> affected: it really +had been affecting. But enough of Viola. “Now, +Lois darling, you must tell me about them all: +I must know everybody.”</p> + +<p>And there arose, recurrently, the difficulty in +describing Gerald. Who else had been intrigued, +Lois was not certain. How much was somebody +intrigued when they wished to sit out in a car in the +barrack square for four dances? Might not Viola +consider sitting out in a car at all rather Dell-ish? +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>When some one tried to kiss you with whisky-ish +breath, how much were they intrigued and how +much was whisky? She thought a major proposed +to her, though he seemed rather old, but he was +so much confused and had such a mumbly moustache +she could not be certain. And later on at the +Clonmore Club a lady was pointed out to her as, +she was almost certain, that major’s wife. David +had seemed intrigued, but then he himself intrigued +Livvy so very definitely and did not a young +man under these conditions become slightly sordid? +So Lois became so very general in her references +that Viola was suspicious: she asked, was there really +anyone? Then she began to write in a married-womanish +tone of encouragement, which considering +she <em>could</em> be married at any moment was +really justified. Lois was forced to state, there <em>was</em> +a man in the Rutlands, a Gerald Lesworth, whom +she found affecting. She supposed there was no +question as to his being intrigued; people seemed +to notice. So Viola wrote back, she must hear all +about him, should have heard before: her Lol was +really the final Sphinx. She wanted to know, to +see, to hear him, even to smell him—because all +the nicest men did smell, didn’t they, indefinably +but divinely. One noticed it when one was +dancing or, sometimes, sitting out. So now, please, +everything; by return.</p> + +<p>Viola did not like moustaches, but some men did +qualify their moustaches, surely? Gerald’s lay +like a fine dark shadow, so that his lip seemed +to curl up more than it did. It answered his eyebrows +somehow—that had a way of drawing together +while he spoke—and some soft edgeless +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>darkness about his eyes. If one mentioned his +teeth so white that his smile seemed a long slow +flash in the tanned face, didn’t it make him sound +like Fairbanks? For he was <em>not</em>, at all. He had a +way of looking down while he spoke, as though his +thoughts were under his eyelids. From his look +she had sometimes turned in impatience, never in +discomfort. There was emotion there unclothed in +the demi-decency of thought; nakedness, not a +suggestive deshabille. If he was looking away +and one spoke, his eyes returned with an extraordinary +look of welcome. He had a good chin, +cut sharply away underneath with a strong shadow. +His head was pleasant with bumps, that made +planes of light and shadow over his polished hair. +And she knew she liked something about the back +of his neck: it was a personal neck—not just a +connection, an isthmus—with skin fitting closely +over the muscles.</p> + +<p>As she stood looking at Gerald by the privet +hedge, he emerged from the mist of familiarity, +clear to her mental eye. She saw him as though +for the first time, with a quick response to his beauty; +she saw him as though he were dead, as though she +had lost him, with the pang of an evocation. While +she could hold him thus—before he receded or came +too closely forward—she wanted to run indoors and +write to Viola. Viola would be certain to tell her +she loved him, and by that declaration, to be +expressed with vigour, Lois was too certain to be +affected. She was afraid at the thought of it.</p> + +<p>She would have loved to love him; she felt some +kind of wistfulness, some deprivation. If there +could only be some change, some movement—in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>her, outside of her, somewhere between them—some +incalculable shifting of perspectives that would +bring him wholly into focus, mind and spirit, as +she had been bodily in focus now—she could love +him. Something must be transmuted.... Or +else, possibly, if he would not love her so, could +give her air to grow in, not stifle imagination.</p> + +<p>He said: “What’s the matter? Bothered?”</p> + +<p>“Thinking—about you, in a kind of way.”</p> + +<p>“Good.”</p> + +<p>“I was describing you. How would you describe +me?”</p> + +<p>He was surprised, he needed time to think of +this; he did not know. “I must just go in,” she +said—“do you mind?—and write a letter. It’s +so important. Will you post it for me at Clonmore?”</p> + +<p>But meanwhile, they had been irritating Lady +Naylor, who seeing Lois stand so vaguely down +by the privet hedge, disclaiming implicitly the +party given for her amusement, was goaded to the +point of an interruption. Now she called: “Lois—Lois!”</p> + +<p>Lois sighed and went to her.</p> + +<p>“I want you to take the Trents and Maguires +and Boatleys round the garden,” she said as her +niece approached. “I shall be coming later”—she +murmured: “when some more of the people +have gone. Mrs. Trent wants a cutting of the +allspice and would like to see if there’s anything +else she would like. Tell Donovan.” She murmured +again: “And don’t let Mrs. Boatley get with +Mrs. Maguire, she is a Christian Scientist and +will talk of it, and you know the Maguires’ little +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>nephew died of that. And if the Boatleys like the +peaches give them some; let Donovan pack them.” +She added in a still lower tone of reproach: “Because +I don’t believe there were raspberries for them at +tea.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="VII"> + VII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>FRANCIE was finding Laurence not so difficult +after all, if one just ran on quite naturally. +They sat at the top of the steps together, +after everybody had gone. The fields looked wider, +the sky more gracious and distant seen through the +clearing smoke of social activity. The Trents left +last but one, the Hartigans and their aunt Mrs. +Foxe-O’Connor had just gone jogging away up the +avenue, knee to knee in their little trap. The +gravel at the foot of the steps was all scored up and +flung into spirals by the turning of wheels. Early +to-morrow, there would be a busy sound of gardeners +raking it smooth again. At present, there +was the busy sound of rooks: it heightened Mrs. +Montmorency’s and Laurence’s peaceful lassitude +to reflect that rooks still had to talk, to flock and +mix in intricate sociability. Men and women had, +since seven o’clock, been released from this obligation.</p> + +<p>There was nothing to say, they did not have to +say anything: they exclaimed their thoughts casually, +not answering one another’s, on the retreat +towards silence. All the afternoon they had been +asking questions, and ignoring the answers as far +as possible. Laurence knew he could not be asked +by his aunt to bring the chairs in or see whether +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>Lois had locked up the garden while he sat here, +so apparently entertaining Mrs. Montmorency.</p> + +<p>Francie had not wanted to know how anyone +was; health played too large a part in her life already. +She had not wanted to know if they thought +the garden lovely—the supremacy of Danielstown +garden made opinion irrelevant—whether they preferred +winter to summer because of the hunting, or +summer to winter because of the tennis. Neither +had it seemed to Laurence important whether anyone +wanted more tea or had had really enough, +whether they feared to be driven into the ditch by +Black and Tans on the way home, or whether they +knew Oxford. They both felt themselves coming +to life again slowly, now that the party was over, and +putting off a sort of antagonism. At an upstairs +window they could hear Lady Naylor and Lois discussing +the guests, agreeing that it had been a +successful day.</p> + +<p>Francie said: “I do wonder now whether this +weather will last.” This gold weather had all the +delights of a new perception, it made Danielstown +real as a memory.</p> + +<p>“I suppose they don’t really feel like that inside,” +said Laurence.</p> + +<p>“I wonder at them bringing a child like Hercules. +I found him walking about the house when I went +up for my air-cushion. The poor little fellow ... +I let him blow up my air-cushion and then I took +him and showed him photographs of the Carnival +that I brought back from Nice. We talked quite +a time; he tells me he is afraid of bats. I wonder +now why they called him Hercules.”</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t it be terrible to be in the Army ...”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span></p> + +<p>“Isn’t that young Mr. Lesworth devoted to Lois? +I wonder does she feel it at all?”</p> + +<p>“I always wonder what one does in the Army +when one’s not doing something particular, very +particularly.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder if they would marry?”</p> + +<p>“Marry?” said Laurence, surprised into attention. +“I don’t see why. Though I don’t see why not. +As Lois never does anything or seems to want to, I +suppose she must be expecting to marry some one. +And Lesworth is pleasant, I think, and rather +pretty. He is like a photograph of a man in an +advertisement putting on the right kind of collar. +Doesn’t advertising develop—I sometimes wonder +if one might not think of taking it up.”</p> + +<p>“But doesn’t she draw very nicely?”</p> + +<p>“Well, she could draw people in the Army doing +things, like Lady Butler.”</p> + +<p>“She is so sweet, I think; I love to watch her.”</p> + +<p>“Her consumption of tennis is something enormous. +There’s tennis to-morrow at Castle Trent and +I’ve got to drive her over. I often wonder whether +she really <em>would</em> get assaulted by Black and Tans if +she went alone, or by sinister patriots, or whether she +might not be old enough now to look after herself.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid at <em>her</em> age,” said Francie, blushing; +“her age isn’t any protection.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot imagine wanting to assault anybody. +But then I never can conceive of anybody else’s +mentality—or isn’t that mentality? Why is it so +much worse for a young girl to miss tennis than for +a young man to miss Spain? I suppose it is something +to do with the life force and that one must not +trace the connection.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span></p> + +<p>“I wonder why she’s so fond of that Livvy +Thompson—she seems to me managing.”</p> + +<p>“She’s not fond—it’s contiguity. Why should +they chop up the rather beautiful name of Olivia +into something that sounds like cat’s meat?”</p> + +<p><em>This</em> Francie well understood, she herself did not +care to be called Frances, it sounded formal. She +sighed, and gathered together the folds of her grey-and-blue +“mottledy” foulard. She had been wondering—watching +Hugo so happy with Mrs. Trent, +and now the speculation recurred to her—whether +the woman Hugo had really needed would not have +worn coats and skirts, snapped her fingers at dogs +and recrossed her legs with decision. Mrs. Trent +was an amusing good sort; she so radiated the +quality that Francie, after a minute or two’s conversation, +had felt quite a good sort also. Was she, +though, perfectly understanding? But then did not +Hugo perhaps feel a little smothered in one’s own +understanding, a little reduced by it? For instance: +Francie thought, honestly, Hugo had played magnificently +this afternoon; several people had said to +her: “It’s a delight to see your husband play on these +courts again”; they would not have said that, surely, +if he had not been playing magnificently! But even +so armed, she would not be able to combat Hugo’s +conviction that his tennis was going off, because it +was something he never mentioned and he would be +furious at hearing it put into words. So still she +would have to feel his pride suffer—as though he +were growing old, when there wasn’t a shadow of +age on him. She remembered how he had shown +up to-day, playing, sitting or walking, among the +young men. She liked the young men, but they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>seemed all limbs and faces, not yet related. She +wondered what Hugo had thought of the young +men.</p> + +<p>She thought of their room upstairs with quiet light +in the ceiling; of ghostly roses that still showed +faintly when one drew the curtains over the daylight. +She supposed she ought to be lying down; she got +up, murmuring something, and went indoors. +Laurence stood up, vacillating. He wondered if +they would meet him and make him do things if he +were to venture up for his book.</p> + +<p>Francie, crossing the ante-room, was waylaid by +Lady Naylor coming out of Lois’s room. “Ah, +there you are, Francie, good! Now I’m longing to +know what you thought of them all. To tell you +the truth, I am thankful it’s safely over. I hope +they enjoyed themselves really: they <em>looked</em> all right.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed they must have! It was a great success.” +They sat down on two of the crimson chairs, stepping-stones +over a lake of floor, to discuss the party.</p> + +<p>Francie declared how pleasant she had found Mrs. +Archie Trent, and how nice it had been to see Mrs. +Carey again, and how handsome Nona was growing +up. And what a pity it was, she said, about the +Hartigans; they had been grown-up girls when she +had seen them last, and it did seem hard! “And +oh,” she cried, in a glow of pleasure and sympathy, +“isn’t that young Mr. Lesworth very devoted?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he has charming manners; he comes over +here a good deal. He’s so helpful with chairs and +rugs: I do wish he were Laurence!”</p> + +<p>“But so devoted to Lois—and really one can’t be +surprised. The way he follows her round with his +eyes—and his feet too⁠—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span></p> + +<p>“<em>Sssh!</em>” exclaimed Lady Naylor. “She’s in her +room! I wouldn’t like her to pick up ideas like +Livvy’s. Are you sure, by the way, you’re not +thinking of Mr. Armstrong? There’s a very great +case of devotion there. He follows Lois and Livvy +follows him. I expect in the general confusion, +with so many people, you mixed up the young men. +They are all alike—it’s a pity, I always think. It’s +a pity, too, about Lois and Livvy; it isn’t a friendship +I like. But poor Livvy’s motherless and she’s +always riding over to meals, and of course Lois needs +girls of her own age. She made very nice friends +at her school in England, but it’s so unlucky, they’re +never allowed to come over. Something said in the +English press has apparently given rise to an idea +that this country’s unsafe. It’s unlucky for Lois. +<em>I</em> should never go by the papers about England.... +No, Francie, if you didn’t mix up the young men, I +really don’t know what you mean.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s been very stupid of me,” cried Francie, +flushing with agitation. “Of course I should never +have said if I hadn’t thought—if I hadn’t been led +to think ... No, I see now that I oughtn’t to +have. But I thought from what every one said ...”</p> + +<p>“But I am still quite in the dark, dear,” said Lady +Naylor, flushed also and smiling with irritation. +“I suppose, however, you must have gathered that +as I <em>don’t</em> understand what you <em>do</em> mean, what you +mean cannot really be so.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, of course,” agreed Francie, ruffling the silk +on her lap with light, feathery touches. “All the +same, I do think you ought to know, Myra, that +every one said ...”</p> + +<p>“One cannot help what people say, though it is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>always annoying. Not that I ever do know what +they say: I make a point of not knowing. You +know how I’ve always turned my face against +gossip, especially these days: it’s annoying to hear +of it everywhere, even at one’s own parties. It’s +a very great danger, I think, to the life of this +country.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but really, you couldn’t say this was +political. It seems to me natural that people should +take an interest—they’re all so fond of her. If +young Mr. Lesworth and Lois <em>are</em> really⁠—”</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor was forced into open country. +“Oh, is that it?” she exclaimed in enlightenment. +“But really, my dear Francie, what a fuss about +nothing! No, not you, dear; I never meant you +made the fuss, but really with all these hints: +‘People are saying,’ you might have meant almost +anything. One’s friends do excel themselves, +really! Just because they’ve played tennis together +and danced once or twice! Really, you would think +they wanted one to divide one’s tennis parties up +like a Quaker meeting, and turn ballrooms into that +horrible kind of country dancing they have in +England—Anna Partridge’s people do it—women +hopping one way, waving things, men all hopping +the other way, stamping. ‘Really,’ as I said to Anna +Partridge, ‘if this is what you call getting in touch +with the people, give me what you call feudalism!’”</p> + +<p>“Yes. But really, Myra, is it so very improbable? +They’re both so young, and so⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Why yes, of course; exactly!” Lady Naylor sat +up in her chair with a heightening of colour, an +incisive gesture; her eyes threatened a falcon-swoop +on her friend’s rash flank. “Ex-<em>actly!</em> Which is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>one of the many things that do make it so impossible.”</p> + +<p>“I said ‘Improbable!’” Francie spoke with a +funny zest. She hated arguments as she hated +rain; once caught in the rain she could hear it +crashing on her umbrella, feel it spill on her shoulders +with exhilaration. She knew so little excitement. +She now felt for the first time Myra’s equal +in vigour and personality; she felt this opposition +to Myra must at last increase their confidence in +each other.</p> + +<p>“In the first place,” said Lady Naylor, “he’s a +subaltern. Subalterns can’t marry—not of course +that they’re like priests, but they might just as well +be until they are captains and thirty. Colonel +Boatley feels very strongly ... Of course, he’s a +thoroughly nice boy, so much liked in the Regiment. +But then, what are the Rutlands nowadays? Of +course they did magnificently in the War. But +now they seem to be full of people like that extraordinary +little Mrs. Vermont, who turned up perfectly +pleased with herself this afternoon, in spite of +Lois’s having quite forgotten that she’d asked her. +No, <em>he</em> of course is charming, but he seems to have no +relations. One cannot trace him. His mother, he +says, lives in Surrey, and of course you do know, +don’t you, what Surrey <em>is</em>. It says nothing, absolutely; +part of it is opposite the Thames Embankment. +Practically nobody who lives in Surrey ever +seems to have been heard of, and if one does hear +of them they have never heard of anybody else who +lives in Surrey. Really altogether, I think all +English people very difficult to trace. They are so +pleasant and civil, but I do often wonder if they are +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>not a little shallow: for no reason at all they will +pack up everything and move across six counties.... +Of course, I don’t say Gerald Lesworth’s +people are in <em>trade</em>—I should never say a thing like +that without foundation. Besides, if they were in +trade there would be money, money on English +people shows so much and he quite evidently hasn’t +any. No, I should say they were just villa-ry.”</p> + +<p>“But there are so many villas in England,” said +Francie, “that some of the people who live in them +are bound to be nice. I often think so, looking out +of the train.”</p> + +<p>“Very nice in their way, I am sure—but that’s not +the immediate point, dear. There is <em>no</em> question at +all—you understand?—of anything between Mr. +Lesworth and Lois. And of course naturally <em>they</em> +haven’t thought of it—if they had, don’t you see, +they’d be much more careful to make it appear there +wasn’t. Of course I agree that Lois ought to be +more careful. I was careful at her age; I was careful +by instinct, which is a thing that girls nowadays +seem to lack. There seems nothing to do between +putting ideas in a girl’s head and letting her behave +like an absolute donkey. It is all very difficult, +really. If she were my own niece I should speak to +her—I should certainly speak to Laurence if he were +going on like that—but as she’s Richard’s niece I +don’t very well see that I can. There’s so little to +go on. And I really cannot have Richard bothered, +it makes him so difficult. When he feels he ought +to do something and isn’t sure what, there’s no +saying at all what he may do. One does dislike +awkwardness. And it doesn’t seem kind to ask the +young man his intentions when if he <em>should</em> have any +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>they would have to be quashed immediately.... +No, one must leave it at this. I rely on you, +Francie, to contradict any more of this gossip that +comes your way, and you might ask Hugo to also—if +he has heard any⁠— Perhaps on the whole +better not put the idea into his head; he might forget +and discuss it with Richard.... Meanwhile, I +shall talk to Lois seriously about her future. She +draws very nicely; I often think that she might take +that up. I must tell her to show you and Hugo +some of her drawings.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t know anything about drawing.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, all she needs is a little encouragement.”</p> + +<p>“Just one thing, Myra—I think you’re so wise, +you’re so perfectly right, as you know. I do always +in general believe in letting things like this take +their course. But ... as this thing can’t <em>have</em> a +course, really mustn’t: is it quite fair to the young +man? Because Lois is so very⁠—”</p> + +<p>Here she broke off, scared by a terrible clatter in +Lois’s room. A pail had been kicked and some +furniture violently shifted.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Francie!” exclaimed Lady Naylor reproachfully. +“You ought to remember she’s there! +One can’t be too careful! In fact, if you don’t +mind, I expect we had better not talk any more. +You must go and lie down—you’re looking as fresh +as a rose, but I know how Hugo insists upon it.”</p> + +<p>They got up, she took Francie’s arm and led her +as far as her door. Francie felt like something +being put back in its box. Lady Naylor went +down, calling, to look for Laurence and ask him to +bring the chairs in and lock up the garden.</p> + +<p>For Lois, this had all been exceedingly difficult. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>There she was, caught in her bedroom, she had not +the face to come out. The door went paper-thin +as they raised their voices. At first it had seemed +all right: Aunt Myra knew she was in here, having +just left her. But soon their tones changed, a keen +hunting note came into them; they were on a topic. +Carried away, Aunt Myra had forgotten. She +heard “Lois ... Lois ... Lois ...” She hummed +and sang: they were too intent. To one’s sense of +honour such things were agonizing. She leaned +right out of a window into the cooling air, into the +hush of limes on the avenue; she watched Uncle +Richard and Mr. Montmorency walk to the white +gate. Their heads nodded down from their shoulders +like old men’s, happily; they spoke of Archie +and Mrs. Archie and poor John. But from the +room behind the other voices, flooding in through +the door, came after her. She flung herself on her +bed with a squawk from the springs and pressed her +ear shut till the lobes and her finger-tips ached: +also she pulled the pillows over her head. It was +hot thus and still the voices penetrated. They +came on steadily, like the Hound of Heaven. It +was hard, really, the way they both kept at it.</p> + +<p>The voices spoke of love: they were full of protest. +Love, she had learnt to assume, was the mainspring +of woman’s grievances. Illnesses all arose +from it, the having of children, the illnesses children +had; servants also, since the regular practice of love +involved a home; by money it was confined, propped +and moulded. Lois flung off the pillows and +walked round the room quickly. She was angry; +she strained to hear now, she quite frankly listened. +But when Mrs. Montmorency came to: “Lois is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>very⁠—” she was afraid suddenly. She had a +panic. She didn’t want to know what she was, she +couldn’t bear to: knowledge of this would stop, +seal, finish one. Was she now to be clapped down +under an adjective, to crawl round lifelong inside +some quality like a fly in a tumbler? Mrs. Montmorency +should not!</p> + +<p>She lifted her water jug and banged it down in the +basin: she kicked the slop-pail and pushed the +washstand about.... It was victory. Later on, +she noticed a crack in the basin, running between a +sheaf and a cornucopia: a harvest richness to which +she each day bent down her face. Every time, +before the water clouded, she would see the crack: +every time she would wonder: what Lois <em>was</em>⁠— +She would never know.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="VIII"> + VIII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>SIR RICHARD, to whom the idea about +Lois and Gerald percolated in time through +the family conversation, declared the idea +was preposterous. What chiefly worried him was, +might she not have mentioned to Gerald those +guns in the lower plantations? He had charged +her not to, but she was just like Laura, poor Laura’s +own child in fact; she would talk and talk and +you never knew where you had her. He announced, +he had been thinking for some time +subalterns should be fewer and more infrequent. +He was delighted when he heard from the postman, +and was able to pass on, how three young women +in the Clonmore direction had had their hair cut off +by masked men for walking out with the soldiers. +And indeed they had got no sympathy from the +priest either, the postman said, for the priest knew +that English soldiers were most immoral.</p> + +<p>“And how would you like it,” Sir Richard said +to his niece indignantly, “if a thing like that were +to happen to you?”</p> + +<p>“I should be bobbed,” said Lois. “I should +take it as a sign. But I have never walked an +inch with anyone, not what you would call <em>out</em>, +Uncle Richard.”</p> + +<p>“But masked men,” said Lady Naylor, “would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>be a very nasty experience for a girl of your age.” +Lois said she would prefer the men to be masked; +she would be less embarrassed in the event of +meeting them afterwards.</p> + +<p>“I wonder what they do with the hair,” she +added. She thought inwardly: “If they’re going +to take this attitude, I could not be blamed for +falling in love with a married man.” She searched +her heart anxiously. She wrote to Viola that she +feared she might be falling in love with a married +man. But when she looked at Mr. Montmorency +next morning at breakfast, and still more when she +had to drive him back from Mount Isabel, the idea +seemed shocking. She regretted having sent her +letter to post in such a hurry.</p> + +<p>Scandalized by the memory, she drove home +briskly. On the bright sky, opposite, Mr. Montmorency’s +pale face hung like an apparition’s. +She took the curves of Mount Isabel drive with +a rattle: the trap swung on its axle, the traces +creaked. Beyond the gates, light lay flat and +yellow along the hedges where brambles showered; +hard red blackberries knocked on the spokes and +swung back, shining. She took the short way, +over a shoulder of mountain; the light-pink road +crunched under the wheels like sugar. Coming +up out from the lanes they bathed an hour or so +in the glare of space. Height had the quality +of depth: as they mounted they seemed to be +striking deeper into the large mild crystal of an +inverted sea. Out of the distance everywhere, +pointless and unrelated, space came like water +between them, slipping and widening. They +receded from one another into the vacancy. On +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>yellow furze-dust, light was hard and physical; +over parching heather shadow faded and folded +tone on tone, and was drawn to the sky on delicate +brittle peaks.</p> + +<p>The road bent over a ridge, the trap ran down +on the pony’s rump; he and she shifted back on +their seats. They stared with unfocussed intensity +over each other’s shoulders. Gorse, they said, +was never out of bloom (he commented). Nor +kissing, they said (she supplied), out of season—yet +she supposed this untrue; she supposed that +they both sometimes must be. “And so much +bitterness,” he exclaimed, “over this empty +country!”</p> + +<p>“What is it exactly,” she asked, “that they +mean by freedom? What does it affect? What +is it besides an excuse for war?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” he said in his faint voice, as at +the pit of a yawn, “some kind of a final peace—stability.”</p> + +<p>“Then to fight’s absurd; the more one keeps on, +the further from it one is. It’s a hopeless kind +of beginning.” She looked at him earnestly, +lucidly, like a puppy.</p> + +<p>“You are very reasonable.... Do you read +the papers?”</p> + +<p>“Well ... I do hate things that have just +happened.”</p> + +<p>“—I don’t follow?”</p> + +<p>“They’re so raw.”</p> + +<p>The road was steep and the pony determined to +trot; it stumbled; she pulled it up sharply. She +was inclined to forget she was driving at all. He +started and put out a hand, to steady himself, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>along the back of the seat. He hated things to +be done badly; he was old-maidish. They were +silent in a mutual criticism. As they came down +and the mountains, drawn behind, were once +more scenic, as hedges ran up at the sides of the +road, the illusion of distance between them faded; +they obtruded upon each other; a time when they +could have talked was gone. They might have +said, she felt now, anything; but what had remained +unsaid, never conceived in thought, would exercise +now a stronger compulsion upon their attitude. +She was to believe they had approached each +other in the unintimacy of silence. Shy with +retrospective emotion she fidgeted in the trap, +irked by his look, his manner, all his presence +physically. Whenever she stretched a foot it +touched his, always she seemed to be retreating, +apologizing, having to shift her position. When +she sat well forward to give her attention to driving, +their knees touched.</p> + +<p>“This trap’s too small,” she said finally. Mr. +Montmorency—face dull on the bright sky—replied: +“Oh, I don’t know—it depends on how +one arranges oneself.” If he only would not +smile—but he smiled constrainedly. Next to +Laura, she was the most fidgety person from +whom he had suffered. But Laura’s unrepose +had been an irradiation, a quiver of personality. +She was indefinite definitely, like a tree shining, +shaking away outlines; a bay, a poplar in wind +and sunshine. Her impulses—those incalculable +springings-out of mind through the body—had +had, like movements of branches, a wild kind +of certainty. He had been half aware of some +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>kind of design in her being of which she was +unaware wholly.</p> + +<p>Whereas, here still was Lois (now Laura’s tree +had fallen), twisted away from him on the opposite +seat of the trap, outraging tone in her pink jersey—a +shade or two nearer than Laura, perhaps, to +the accuracy passing for beauty. She looked +gênée, dispirited; some failure, no doubt, in his +company: he must be an old man to her. She +glanced back once or twice at the mountains, +from which a light peaty breath still came after +them down the descending road.</p> + +<p>She laughed suddenly, parted the reins, and +jerking a rein in each hand, with wide elbows, +chirruped and clucked to the pony. “This,” +she said, “is how my governess used to drive. +She used to say it came natural because all her +people were horsey. She said her father had +been a colonel and she used to plait hats out of +crinkled paper and wear them. She loved my +mother embarrassingly, and she was always embroidering +things. My mother hated it—do you +remember?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t remember your governess. Hated +what?”</p> + +<p>“Being loved like that, and given embroidery. +Miss Part used to laugh and say, ‘I’m afraid I’m +terribly whimsical, Mrs. Farquar,’ and Mother +used to say, ‘Oh no, I don’t expect you are really’—was +it unkind?”</p> + +<p>“Well, it sounds unkind.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder if she would have liked being loved +at my age—do you remember?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose she had made up her mind.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span></p> + +<p>Lois turned and looked at him so intently that +he was uneasy suddenly: the bottom dropped out +of the past, spilling all its security. He would +never know how much Laura had said to her +daughter those last ten years—years locked away +from him: Lois had got the key. He said with +acidity: “If she and I had married⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>yes</em>....”</p> + +<p>“My dear child, you wouldn’t be here.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but half of me would be. And I dare say,” +she said charmingly, “the other half of me would +have been much nicer.” The turning away of +her look was more confidential than any directness.</p> + +<p>“Thank you—don’t run over the little pigs!”</p> + +<p>Michael Connor’s farm first announced itself +by some pink little silky pigs running along the +roadside. A sow got up, like a very maternal +battleship. Connor children looked, shrieked, fell +from a gate and fled to the farmhouse, skirting +a pool of liquid manure in the front yard. It +was a nice farm, Lois pointed out, it had the door +and window-frames painted blue, the colour of +all the cart-wheels. The Connors were darling +people; she drove past slowly, leaning over the +side of the trap to see if the family were about. +The house was one story high, with a slate roof. +Mr. Montmorency sat frowning; he could not +remember if this were a Michael Connor he ought +to remember.</p> + +<p>Michael Connor came out from a furze-thatched +shed at the side. He took off his wide straw hat +and shook hands with them both. His hand was +bony, nervous and dry as earth. “It’s a grand +evening,” said he with a melancholy smile.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span></p> + +<p>“It is indeed. And how,” she asked, apprehensive, +“is Mrs. Connor?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, the poor woman ... the poor woman!” +Michael looked away from them, nobody spoke. +Lois at last said: “Give her my love.”</p> + +<p>“I will,” said Michael, “and proud she will be. +And yourself’s looking lovely, Miss Lois; a fine +strong lady, glory be to God.”</p> + +<p>“You remember Mr. Montmorency?”</p> + +<p>“Sure indeed I do!” exclaimed Michael, and +shook hands with Mr. Montmorency again with +greater particularity. “And very well I remember +his poor father. You are looking grand, sir, +fine and stout; I known you all these years and +I declare I never seen you looking stouter. And +welcome back to Danielstown, Mr. Montmorency, +welcome back, sir!”</p> + +<p>“Are your grandchildren well?”</p> + +<p>“They are,” said Connor gloomily, “but they’re +very bashful. And they do be stravaging about +always and not contented at all. They are a +great distress to herself, and she unable to come +out after them.”</p> + +<p>“But is Mrs. Peter Connor not with you?”</p> + +<p>“She is, Miss Lois. But she is desthroyed with +it all and disheartened. Indeed, miss, she is in +great distress; and she always looking and starting +and craning up the boreen. It is torn in herself +she is; distracted for Peter and dhreading he’ll +come. It would dishearten yous to be with her +daily and nightly the way she is, the poor woman. +And the military from Carveen have the hearts +torn out of us nightly, and we stretched for +sleep, chasing and charging about in the lorries +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>they have. Sure you cannot go a step above in +the mountains without them ones lepping out +from your feet like rabbits. Isn’t it the great +pity they didn’t finish their German war once +they had it started?”</p> + +<p>“And no news at all of Peter?” Lois asked, +diffident.</p> + +<p>“We have not,” said Michael, expressionless. +His face resumed its repose. The sum of detachment +and sadness was this special kind of nobility. +“And I don’t know what is to be the end of it,” +resumed Michael, with a return to his conversational +manner. “I couldn’t tell you what will be +the outcome at all. These surely are times that +would take the heart from you. And thank you, +Miss Lois, and you too yourself, your honour.”</p> + +<p>They once more shook hands, complimented +each other again on the beauty of the evening, and +Lois drove on. Michael stood at the gate till they +turned the corner. The mountain farm, its wind-bitten +firs dragged east, its furze-thatched byres, +sank slowly under the curve of a hill. Looking +longest after them, like an eye, a window glittered. +Some grey geese that had gaped and straggled +behind the trap relinquished the chase abruptly, +stumbled round in a flock and went straining off +in the other direction. Their backs were more +than oblivious; they made the trap, the couple in +it, an illusion. And indeed Lois and Hugo both +felt that their pause, their talk, their passing had +been less than a shadow.</p> + +<p>“That is not,” said Hugo, after reflection, “the +Michael Connor that I remember. He was a +foxy man with a chin. Has that one a son Peter?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span></p> + +<p>“He has. I expect you guessed—he is on +the run—‘Proscribed’ don’t they call it? He +could be shot at sight. He is wanted over an +ambush in County Clare; they got him once, but +he escaped again—I was so glad. I shouldn’t +wonder if he was up the boreen at the moment. +I know he is home, for Clancey saw him three +days ago. But don’t speak of it—one cannot +be too careful. Poor Mrs. Peter must be in a +dreadful state, wherever he is. Mrs. Michael is +dying, you know: she has been dying a long time. +The last time I went up they wouldn’t let me see +her, because of the pain.... There are young +men gone from three of the farms up here—Captain +Carmichael told me; he is Intelligence Officer. +And I know it is true, because Clancey told me +too—I say, supposing Gerald had happened to +be with us and Peter Connor had come down +the boreen, would Gerald have had to have shot +him, or would he have been off duty?”</p> + +<p>“Peter might have shot Gerald.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, not when he was with me. Besides,” +she added, “Gerald is so matter of fact. Nothing +could make him into a tragedy.”</p> + +<p>Hugo debating if she were subtle or very stupid, +Lois busy with melodrama, they drove home +briskly. To the south, below them, the demesne +trees of Danielstown made a dark formal square +like a rug on the green country. In their heart, +like a dropped pin, the grey glazed roof reflecting +the sky lightly glinted. Looking down, it seemed +to Lois they lived in a forest; space of lawns blotted +out in the pressure and dusk of trees. She wondered +they were not smothered; then wondered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>still more that they were not afraid. Far from +here too, their isolation became apparent. The +house seemed to be pressing down low in apprehension, +hiding its face, as though it had her +vision of where it was. It seemed to gather its +trees close in fright and amazement at the wide, +light, lovely unloving country, the unwilling bosom +whereon it was set. From the slope’s foot, where +Danielstown trees began, the land stretched out +in a plain flat as water, basin of the Madder and +Darra and their fine wandering tributaries, till +the far hills, faint and brittle, straining against +the inrush of vaster distance, cut the droop of +the sky like a glass blade. Fields gave back +light to the sky—the hedges netting them over +thinly and penetrably—as though the sheen of +grass were a shadow on water, a breath of colour +clouding the face of light. Rivers, profound in +brightness, flowed over beds of glass. The cabins +lifting their pointed white ends, the pink and +yellow farms were but half opaque; cast doubtfully +on their fields the shadow of living. Square +cattle moved in the fields like saints, with a mindless +certainty. Single trees, on a rath, at the +turn of a road, drew up light at their roots. Only +the massed trees—spread like a rug to dull some +keenness, break some contact between self and +senses perilous to the routine of living—only the +trees of the demesne were dark, exhaling darkness. +Down among them, dusk would stream up the +paths ahead, lie stagnant over the lawns, would +mount in the tank of garden, heightening the walls, +dulling the borders like a rain of ashes. Dusk +would lie where one looked as though it were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>in one’s eyes, as though the fountain of darkness +were in one’s own perception. Seen from above, +the house in its pit of trees seemed a very reservoir +of obscurity; from the doors one must come out +stained with it. And the kitchen smoke, lying +over the vague trees doubtfully, seemed the very +fume of living.</p> + +<p>But as they drove down the home-sense quickened; +the pony, knowing these hedges, rocketed +hopefully in the shafts. The house became a +magnet to their dependence. And indeed it was +nice, they felt in this evening air, to be driving +home, with all they would have to tell of the Mount +Isabel party, to all they would have to hear of +Sir Richard’s day in Cork. Friendly women +smiled at them over half-doors of cabins. And +they both felt approached, friendlier, turning in +up the avenue under the arch of the trees; he +accepting her with philosophy as though she +were his daughter, she comforted in her fancy, +as though he had wept coming over the mountains +and told her his life was empty because she could +never be his wife.</p> + +<p>She said: “I hope we shan’t have to wait for +dinner; I couldn’t bear it.” He said: “Really?” +shocked to discover that he also had been thinking +of dinner.</p> + +<p>Livvy Thompson had ridden over; she sat on +the steps with her habit over her knee, waving +as they approached. She had sent a message round +to the yard when she heard the trap, so that a +man immediately came to take the pony. “Listen +now⁠—” she began. But Lois only gave her +a brush of the hand; she couldn’t speak till she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>had rushed past her into the hall to look for the +post, because of a tearing feeling of expectation. +There was Viola’s square blue temperate envelope +on the table. There was nothing more but some +gloves Lady Naylor had worn in Cork, some +English papers, a box of tennis balls. She had +again that conclusive feeling of disappointment. +“They’re back,” she said to Hugo.</p> + +<p>“Listen now,” resumed Livvy, coming in after +her. Lois slipped Viola’s letter into her pocket +and buttoned the flap over it. For what Viola +would think of Livvy she did not like to imagine.</p> + +<p>Livvy was anxious to know if Lois had seen +Mr. Lesworth lately, and, if so, whether he had +happened to mention Mr. Armstrong. Because +it did seem strange, she thought, about Mr. Armstrong; +she almost feared that he must be ill. +When she heard Mr. Lesworth had not appeared +either, she was amazed, she said, that Lois was +not more worried. It was now too evident something +must be the matter. She pointed out it +was her duty and Lois’s to find out if they were +ill, or indeed if worse hadn’t happened, as worse +might, to the two young Englishmen in a hostile +country. Lois, thumbing Viola’s envelope, said +she was quite certain they would have heard. +Livvy suspected something was hushed up for +fear of the English papers: nothing was ever +allowed in the English papers that could be mortifying +for the English people to read.</p> + +<p>“If they should only be ill,” she said, “there +would be so many little things we could do for +them. It does seem in a kind of a way an opportunity. +I often think it is only when a man is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>ill that he understands what a woman means in +his life.”</p> + +<p>Lois said that her own impression of a man ill +was one of extreme crossness and of inability +to find the nicest woman attractive at all. She +pointed out that there was an excellent military +hospital at Clonmore, so that they need not imagine +David and Gerald tossing feverish and untended. +She did not suppose they would be allowed a visit, +and confessed that, for her part, she found people +lying down while she stood up embarrassing; so +curiously bumpy and extremely difficult to talk to.</p> + +<p>“But if he seemed at all unlikely to recover,” +said Livvy, “there would be several things I should +like to say to Mr. Armstrong. If he should +recover after all, he would be gentlemanly enough +to forget them, though there would be no harm +in their leaving a pleasant impression. To tell you +the truth, Lois, I have often wondered if he does +not think me a little reserved and cold. Does +it ever seem to you that he looks discouraged? +You see, he is accustomed to English girls who +are very free; I believe there is almost nothing +they will not let a man say and that they get kissed +before they get engaged. Now I should not like +him to think I had no heart at all. You know +Irish girls in books are always made out so fascinating +and heartless; I should not like him to think +that of me. And if he does recover, he might go +back to England and get engaged to a girl simply +out of his lower nature. I should not like to feel I +had spoilt a man’s life.”</p> + +<p>“I expect,” said Lois, “it is their week for extra +duty.” She thought: “If only I weren’t so certain +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>there’d be a letter from Gerald to-morrow! If +only he’d let me wonder! He is so terribly <em>there</em>....” +If only his coming or writing could have +some touch of the miracle, heal a doubt.</p> + +<p>“Will you not stay to dinner?” she said to Livvy. +“You could borrow one of my frocks.”</p> + +<p>“I’d like that yellow taffeta, though I should +have to reef it in. It’s a great inconvenience, +Lois, being so slight as I am, though it does seem +to be admired. Are you sure your aunt will not +mind?... But no, thank you, I couldn’t; my +father’d kill me for riding home after dark. In +fact, I should go now,”—looking up at the sky—“one +never knows, does one? Isn’t that too +bad?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Too</em> bad,” agreed Lois, touching her letter. +She walked round to the yard with Livvy to get +her horse. “But listen,” said Livvy, mounting, +“there’s one thing that we had better do. We can +drive in to Clonmore, Wednesday, to do some +shopping: I really do need wool for a jumper. +And if we should meet Mr. Smith or Captain +Carmichael, I should just mention, laughingly, we +hadn’t seen any of them for a long time. And +then it might all come out. Or if the worst came +to the worst, we could drop in to tea at the Fogartys’; +if there was nobody else, there’d be bound to +be Mrs. Vermont. I don’t think she’s trustworthy, +but if there were anything definite she’d be +bound to say—like illness, or an ambush they were +not supposed to mention. Or it might all come +right and the first we would meet might be Mr. +Lesworth or Mr. Armstrong.... I certainly +think, Lois, that is what we should do. If you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>can’t get your uncle’s trap, I will take my +father’s.”</p> + +<p>She rode away. Lois listened until the romantic +horse-hoofs had died on the avenue, smothered in +trees. This manner of Livvy’s of coming and going +gave her a setting—picaresque, historical somehow. +She would have been much worse if she had ridden +away on a bicycle⁠— Then she took Viola’s +letter out of her pocket and read it out there in +the yard. Gnats danced in the underneath gloom +of the chestnuts.</p> + +<p>Viola did think Lois took feeling rather too +earnestly. Lois must not grow less interesting. +She admitted the little Gerald might be affecting; +he was permitted to happen once. Gerald +assimilated, she should be more of a woman. Only +don’t lose detachment, darling; do not lose distance. +Viola would be delighted if Lois would give her +“Trivia.” She confessed it did startle her to be +reminded that up to now she had been only eighteen +by this talk of a nineteenth birthday. She felt, +she said, older than the rocks among which she +sat—she wrote from a rock-garden. Maurice +Evans, a really ridiculous person, sat on a pink +tuft of something valuable, apparently painting +her. By the way, did Laurence read Pater? Maurice +did not—did really anyone nowadays? Did +Lois think that Viola might intrigue Laurence? +Laurence continued a subject for speculation for +three paragraphs. She only referred to Mr. Montmorency +indirectly, and at the very end. She +warned against introspection. “For introspection, +darling, does make us the prey of the nice-middle-aged.” +She complained there was too much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>introspection and tennis in Lois’s letters. “Don’t +talk of yourself to that elderly man.”</p> + +<p>Lois, relieved but chagrined by the omission, +wondered if Viola really did read one’s letters at +all thoroughly. She always noticed the split infinitives—one +could not be sure. Lois turned in at +the back door and pulled herself up to dress by +the back-stairs banisters. She sniffed—duck for +dinner again: it seemed the end of a cycle. This +morning she had renewed the roses in Mrs. Montmorency’s +room.</p> + +<p>Crossing the ante-room, a spring in some board +from her step made an unlatched door swing open. +She saw Mr. Montmorency in shirt-sleeves brushing +his wife’s hair. And Francie, facing the +glass, saw Lois reflected, standing still in alarm +on the shining floor. They smiled at each other. +Mr. Montmorency, thoughtfully and heavily brushing, +did not observe the interchange.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_VISIT_OF_MISS_NORTON"> + THE VISIT OF MISS NORTON + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="IX"> + IX + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>LIVVY’S afternoon in Clonmore was such a +great success that she forgot the wool for +her jumper. At first there had been +uneasiness; she let Lois drive while she looked +carefully round the Square, went into the Imperial +Hotel to see if her father had left a stick and searched +both pavements of Cork Street, down which they +drove from end to end. In despair, she had just +suggested going up to the tennis club to see was +there anyone there, when the rain came down—it +had been threatening all day, the mountains looked +moist and close on their drive in. They had to +turn in to the Fogartys’. And there, to them +anxiously awaiting tea and social developments in +Mrs. Fogarty’s artistic drawing-room, entered severally +all whom they wished to meet: Captain Carmichael, +Smith with Mrs. Vermont, finally Mr. +Armstrong himself. Mr. Lesworth did not appear +(which, as Livvy whispered to friends, would be +a disappointment for Lois): it turned out that he +was on extra duty. Mrs. Fogarty had one of the +narrow houses looking out on the Square; her +windows were screened from outside observation +by cubes of evergreen; between the pane and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>evergreens rain fell darkly. Mrs. Fogarty’s drawing-room +was thronged with photographs; all the +dear boys who for years back had been garrisoned +at Clonmore, many of whom, alas! had been killed +in that dreadful War. You could not stoop to +put down a cup on one of the little tables without +a twinge of regret and embarrassment, meeting the +candid eyes of some dead young man. The room +was crowded with cushions that slid from the +narrow seats of the chairs and tumbled over the +back of the sofa; cushions with pen-painted sprays, +with poker-worked kittens; very futurist cushions +with bunches of fruit appliques, dear old cushions +with associations and feathers bursting out at the +seams. And there were cushions with Union +Jacks that she wouldn’t, she said, put away—not +if They came at night and stood in her room with +pistols. And this was all the more noble in Mrs. +Fogarty in that she was a Catholic, with relations +whose politics were not above reproach at all. +Mr. Fogarty was a retired solicitor; he had no +politics; he became very cross and reproachful +when they were discussed at the Club and said +he supposed he could not help being a philosopher. +But he drank, which shows that nobody can be +perfect. He never appeared at tea.</p> + +<p>As more and more people dropped in and the +chairs gave out, the subalterns pulled the cushions +on to the floor and sat on them. Mrs. Fogarty +was delighted. The room warmed up, there was +just enough air left not to make one aware of discomfort +in breathing. There was a smell of wall-paper, +tea and tea-cakes, polished Sam Browns and +the <i>Nuit d’Amour</i> on Mrs. Vermont’s handkerchief +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>which she pulled out frequently to wipe honey +from her fingers. They all felt very easy and very +Irish—the qualities radiated, perhaps, from Mrs. +Fogarty, who sat flushed with pleasure and hospitality, +taking up rather more than half of her +own sofa. She wore a brown lace blouse and a +tweed skirt, with a green shell rope that swung and +clinked on the teapot. Indeed, it was all very +harmonious; she did not know how she would +have lived at all without the military at Clonmore.</p> + +<p>After tea, cigarettes went round, there was a +kick and splutter of patent lighters. Livvy said +she would <em>not</em> smoke, she would not indeed: they +might laugh but she was an old-fashioned girl. +Her continued protests attracted a good deal of +attention, till she noticed that old-fashioned girls +were after all in the majority. The rector’s daughters +and Doreen Hartigan all sat looking approving +and rather unfinished about the mouth. So she +accepted a strong cigarette of Captain Carmichael’s, +and Smith broke into a howl and said she had +sacrificed his ideal of womanhood. Mrs. Fogarty +suggested music: they helped her move the bowls +and photographs off the grand piano which, undraped +and opened, gave out to Mrs. Vermont’s +fingers some damp chords. It was too bad, +declared Mrs. Fogarty, listening doubtfully, that +their tuner had died in Cork and she hadn’t the +heart to look for another since. She said they +must have real music, not just the piano. Real +talent was present, she added, and looked round +compellingly. There was a scuffle from which +Mr. Smith was forced up. He stood with his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>weight on one leg, stroking his hair detachedly, +while Mrs. Vermont looked through the music.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vermont remarked in passing to Captain +Carmichael that this was a country where the most +extraordinary people died. “Well, I mean,” she +said, “who would have expected that of a piano-tuner? +There was a house where I went for +tennis; they had had a parlourmaid there who +died. And last week I went for some little cakes +to Fitzgerald’s and they were all plain ones. I asked +for some fancies and they said the woman who did +the icing had been taken, God rest her soul! Really, +there’s something grizzly about that cake shop.”</p> + +<p>“In the midst of life we are in death, if you know +what I mean,” said Captain Carmichael.</p> + +<p>Mr. Smith said he didn’t mind what he did +sing: they all wanted “The Green Eye of the Little +Yellow God.” The piece was very tragic and +sinister, they all sat wrapt and Livvy did not notice +that Mr. Armstrong was pressing her arm till she +felt Doreen Hartigan notice. She moved away +from him, closer to Lois.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“There’s a b-r-r-roken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carewe</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the Yellow God sits smiling up above.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Lois blushed and let Livvy squeeze her hand. +They both wondered: “How should I feel under +the circumstances?” The subalterns round all +looked dogged, clasping their knees, and thought +of what one would do for a woman. There was +a stagger of emotional clapping. Then Mrs. +Vermont cried they were too ridiculous, the boys +were sillies, she couldn’t sing at all really, but if +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>she must she would. So she sang “Melisande,” +which sent every girl there into a trance of self-pity; +it was so clearly written about oneself.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“With your eyes for fear and your mouth for love</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And your youth for Pity’s grace</div> + <div class="verse indent2">—All alone, Mel-lisande, all alone.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The subalterns thought it pretty, high-class but +rather dull, and clapped with abandon when it was +over. They cast up David Armstrong, blushing +and looking very much surprised at himself and all +of them. He blushed till half-way through “The +Shooting of Dan McGrew,” when he became carried +away and carried his audience with him.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“A woman came between us,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She was beautiful as Venus,”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">brought a momentary return to consciousness. +He looked at the ceiling to avoid seeing Livvy and +Lois. The atmosphere strained with cramp, there +was a creak of leather as subalterns readjusted their +attitudes. Mrs. Fogarty sent round a plate of +chocolate biscuits. What a pity it was, she said, +that they did not get up some pierrots. When +David returned to his place Livvy was rose-pink; +she fluttered at him her remarkably long lashes.</p> + +<p>“Indeed,” declared Mrs. Fogarty, looking from +David to Smith (who had no Christian name), “I +never heard anything like the two of you. No, +not in Dublin in Horse Show week, nor in London +nor Liverpool either. You’re remarkably gifted. +Isn’t it a pity they were all so sad? Shall we all +have a song now, something rousing, you know, +that you sang in the Great War?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, do you know,” cried Mrs. Vermont, “I never +knew Tipperary was really a place till I came to +Ireland?”</p> + +<p>“Listen to her!” shouted Mrs. Fogarty, sweeping +some more of the cushions on to the floor. +They were all delighted. Mrs. Vermont spread her +fingers over her face. Under cover of all this +excitement Lois rose and said they would have to +go. She was sorry, because the party seemed +slightly insulted; also, Livvy was so happy. If +David should die now, she did not think Livvy +would have to reproach herself. Also Captain +Carmichael had seemed intrigued; he had spoken +mysteriously of the adventures he had in the mountains +and of the disguises he sometimes put on. +She knew he must feel like the Scarlet Pimpernel; +she could not help sympathizing. When she rose, +he said they must meet again. He and David +came out to help them into their trap in the Imperial +yard, tucked them up in their rugs, relinquished +them disapprovingly to the exposures of +the journey and stood looking after them with rain +dripping down their bronzed and military noses.</p> + +<p>They drove home very much flushed and excited. +The rain came down in a curtain and hid the mountains; +brown shining puddles were linked along the +road. They agreed about almost every one—especially +Mrs. Vermont and the D.I.’s niece—they +laughed at each other over their mackintosh collars, +eyes bright with comprehension and sympathy, while +the strong rain stung their noses, then numbed +them. Only when Livvy said, “Melisande” was a +beautiful poem, wasn’t it, something stiffened in +Lois: she said she thought it was sentimental.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span></p> + +<p>“All that fuss, if you know what I mean, about +just somebody.”</p> + +<p>“Well, love is that, if you come to think,” said +Livvy, “and myself I think it is very satisfying.” +There was something so very experienced about +the tip of her nose that Lois went flat. She felt +that she herself must be like a cake in which the +flour had been forgotten.</p> + +<p>She complained: “I wish we were not being late +just this evening. Miss Norton, you know, is +arriving and I did so want to look nice. My nose +will not have thawed till half through dinner.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, who is she? Is she pretty? How old is +she? Is she engaged?”</p> + +<p>“Never met her—though she often seems to have +come to Danielstown. But I feel she may be a +person one wants to look pretty at. She annoys +Aunt Myra by being unfortunate in ways that are +far more trying for other people than for herself. +When she was little she came over to Danielstown +to a children’s party: she fell down at once on the +scraper and cut her knee and there was a good deal of +fuss and bloodiness. And another time there were +people to tea she started an argument about Kimberley: +they all stayed till past eight o’clock in the +library taking down the <i>Encyclopædia Britannica</i> +while other people who were coming to dinner kept +arriving. And another time she lost her engagement +ring at a tennis party and they were all very +much upset. She wrote afterwards to say it didn’t +matter because she had broken off her engagement +anyhow and the man said he didn’t want the ring, +he said he wished it were at the bottom of the sea. +I always thought people breaking off an engagement +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>went all noble, but that sounds to me vindictive. +Aunt Myra stayed put out.... She is +twenty-nine.”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me odd,” said Livvy, “that she +shouldn’t have brought anything off by this time. +But I dare say,” she added, “that there has been a +disappointment.”</p> + +<p>At this point they heard a lorry coming. Black +and Tans, fortified inwardly against the weather, +were shouting and singing and now and then firing +shots. The voices, kept low by the rain, the grind +of wheels on the rocky road tunnelled through the +close air with a particular horror. To meet in this +narrow way would be worse than a dream; before +the half-obscured lorry appeared Livvy had turned +the pony hurriedly up a boreen. They went up some +way and waited under a dripping thorn-bush: if +Black and Tans saw one hiding they were sarcastic. +They heard the lorry grind past the mouth of the +boreen with apprehension, feeling exposed and +hunted. Lois recalled with surprise that she had +cried for a whole afternoon before the War because +she was not some one in a historical novel: it had +begun, she thought, because they told her to go +and practise. The road clear again, they discovered +they could not turn the trap; they had to back +the pony out. “My!” said Livvy, glaring at the +horizon. “I wish I were driving a lorry! I should +like to crash those fellows head on!”</p> + +<p>Just before eight, Livvy dropped Lois at Danielstown +gates and drove off, beating her pony into a +gallop. Her father would kill her, certainly! +Lois raced up the avenue till she had no breath, +then had to crawl the rest of the way, recovering. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>Apprehensive, she strained for the throb of the +dinner-gong, a shriek of reproach from a window. +But her unpunctuality passed unnoticed: Miss +Norton herself had only just arrived. The hall was +full of suitcases, a fur coat sprawled on a chair, there +was a tennis racquet, a bag of golf-clubs.</p> + +<p>“Though where the poor female is going to +play golf ...!” thought Lois. “A nice coat.... +Good, she has brought the <i>Tatler!</i>”</p> + +<p>No one had even gone up to dress, from the +library voices exclaimed in excitement; voices +complained insistently through the drawing-room +door. Lois undid the top buttons of her mackintosh +and stepped out of it, leaving a damp ring. +Absently she wrung the water out of her hat. She +listened.</p> + +<p>“She is certain she has left it in the train,” +her aunt was saying; “she says she would swear it +was put in with her at Kingsbridge and that she +saw it after leaving Darramore. I do not believe +myself in travelling with suitcases, one is always +counting—I believe in one good trunk.”</p> + +<p>“Looking at it from the porters’ point of +view⁠—” said Mrs. Montmorency.</p> + +<p>The library door clicked open and Laurence, +looking quite enthusiastic, shot into the hall. +“She thinks telephoning will do it,” he said to +Lois. “I cannot make her understand about the +Ballyhinch telephone.” He disappeared, shouting, +into the back part of the house. Evidently there +need be no hurry for anything. Lois sat on the +hall table to look at the <i>Tatler</i>. Early autumn +fashions reminded her—this was an opportunity to +try on the fur coat. She hoped for the proper +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>agony, finding a coat she could not live without.... +Her arms slipped silkily through; her hands appeared, +almost tiny, out of the huge cuffs. “Oh, +the escape!” she thought, pressing her chin down, +fading, dying into the rich heaviness. “Oh, the +<em>escape</em> in other people’s clothes!” And she paced +round the hall with new movements: a dark, rare, +rather wistful woman, elusive with jasmine. “No?” +she said on an upward note: the voice startled her, +experience was behind it. She touched the fur +lightly, touched the edge of a cabinet—her finger-tips +drummed with a foreign sensitiveness. And the +blurred panes, the steaming changing trees, the +lonely cave of the hall no longer had her consciousness +in a clamp. <em>How</em> she could live, she felt. +She would not need anyone, she would be like an +orchestra playing all to itself. “Is it mink?” she +wondered.</p> + +<p>“You look so nice!” said Miss Norton, from the +door of the library.</p> + +<p>Lois went quite blank. “Oh,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Where is that unfortunate Lady Naylor?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t <em>think</em>⁠— Well, she is in the drawing-room.”</p> + +<p>“Anyhow,” said Miss Norton, “I will go up +now. When she sees me looking less arrived she +may forget about the suitcase.” She looked at +Lois earnestly. “I don’t lose things except coming +here; I am efficient really. But there seems a kind +of fatality ...”</p> + +<p>“I <em>know</em>.”</p> + +<p>“Do you?” she said with interest, a keen disconcerting +flash. “How odd that you should!”</p> + +<p>An approach seemed possible, imminent. Lois, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>feeling herself smiled at, unwrapped herself from +the coat without embarrassment. Miss Norton, +who did not seem surprised by the disappearance +of the family, asked to be shown where she was. +They went upstairs together; she was on the top +floor, opposite Laurence.</p> + +<p>“Who was the capable person? Who wouldn’t +let me telephone—the young man?”</p> + +<p>“Laurence.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Laurence. And the other people: I +couldn’t hear their names. They seemed very +much here—faintly resentful: I expect I must be +horrible for them. He at once accused me of +having cut my knee on a scraper—when I was +three or four. Who did you say?”</p> + +<p>“The Montmorencys.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Hugo and Francie? Of course I have +heard of them. Isn’t she his mother—practically?” +Miss Norton took off her hat and looked at herself +in the glass dispassionately and closely. “God!” +she remarked.</p> + +<p>“He brushes her hair,” said Lois, laughing—in +the sharp unshadowy atmosphere produced by Miss +Norton it sounded more of a giggle—and swinging +with her back against the edge of the door.</p> + +<p>“Oh, then it is mutual.”</p> + +<p>“I knew him best when I was a child.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he looks like that. Thank you so much; +I think I have got everything. Yes, heaps of hot +water. Wouldn’t you like to go now: I mean, +won’t there be dinner?... Oh, Lois!”</p> + +<p>Lois, from over the threshold, came back willingly. +“Mm?” she said.</p> + +<p>“I mean, you are Lois, aren’t you? I’ve heard +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>so much ... No, don’t be late: I should hate +you to help me.” Miss Norton had taken her +coat off and stood in a frilled shirt looking round +distastefully at her suitcases. “Go,” she said, “do +really.”</p> + +<p>Lois, half-way down the gallery, met Laurence +coming up. “Mm?” said Laurence.</p> + +<p>“I think she seems quite mad,” said Lois doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“You would,” replied Laurence and went past +her coldly.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="X"> + X + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>ONE did not lightly telephone. There was a +telephone six miles away, at Ballyhinch, +but its use made excessive demands upon +the sympathy and attention of the post-mistress. +Marda could not understand—as Sir Richard said, +one would think she had come from America. +From all their angles she seemed to them very +modern. They sat on the steps after breakfast, +waiting for post to come, discussing what they +should do. There was something agonizing to +Sir Richard in the thought of that suitcase. Marda +said, it would not have mattered at all but that her +tennis shoes seemed to be in it. It was quite a +relief when the postman settled the matter by saying +there had been another raid last night in the Brittas +direction and that all the wires were down again. +It had been a great raid, the postman said; if the +boys had not fled it would have been almost a battle. +What times, said Francie, looking at Marda +doubtfully, they did live in! But other times, +said Marda, other disadvantages. Nobody hurt, +they hoped? Well, said the postman, the Black +and Tans had been fired on, but why would they +not be, they themselves firing to the left and right +continually? It seemed two of them ones had +pitched from the lorry the way you would think +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>they’d be killed and the boys had bolted, leaving +the two lying.</p> + +<p>“How do you know?” said Marda. The postman, +looking austerely at her, asked how would one help +hearing? Though it was not for him to say what was +true and what was what you would hear. Sir Richard +agreed with this hastily and with some warmth: he +did not want to have the postman discouraged.</p> + +<p>Marda received her six letters as a matter of +course and glanced them through sceptically. +Lois watched her. Putting the letters away Marda +suggested that, since Laurence was so practical, +he should drive her into Clonmore or Ballydarra +to buy more tennis shoes. Laurence feared he +did not drive the car nicely: he could avoid things +but he was inclined to wobble.</p> + +<p>Sir Richard had disappeared on his morning +round; how much of his corn had been “laid” by +the rain last night he did not like to imagine; it +was better to know. The rain had ceased before +breakfast; loud drops still drummed through the +leaves; the trees with their rainy smell were a wall +of moisture. Thin vapours trailed on the sky +over an intermittent brightness; distances showed +up thinly, as though painted. “The end of our +weather,” said poor Francie.</p> + +<p>“But I feel,” persisted Marda, “I must have +tennis shoes. I don’t mind wobbling.”</p> + +<p>“Laurence is more of the intellectual type,” +explained Francie.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think that matters.”</p> + +<p>“It does with a car,” said Lois.</p> + +<p>“I have never consciously driven <em>you</em>,” said her +cousin coldly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span></p> + +<p>Marda laughed; she got up and stood on the +steps. Fixed in their row, the others all looked +up at her. She was tall; her back, as she stood +looking over the fields, was like a young man’s in +its vigorous slightness. She escaped the feminine +pear-shape, her shoulders were square, legs long +from the knee down. Her light-brown dress +slipped and fitted with careless accuracy, defining +spareness negatively under its slack folds. Sophistication +opened further horizons to Lois. Marda +gathered her strung cornelians in one hand into +a bunch at her throat; they slipped down the nape +of her neck. Standing vaguely she had still that +quality of directedness—from which they all swerved +off in their different ways. A hardy unawareness +of self in her heightened one’s own consciousness. +Her lightest look watched, her casual listening +assessed, her speech was a lightning attack on one’s +integrity out of the stronghold of her indifference.</p> + +<p>They remained sitting behind her with a vague +sensation of having been abandoned. Hugo came +out, shut the glass door with precision and blinked +at the sky. “Clearing,” he said, then asked Marda +to come for a turn. Exercise seemed the order +of the morning; Lois and Laurence were later to +go to the village with messages. Francie was +waiting to go to the garden with Lady Naylor.</p> + +<p>“Am I or am I not to drive her?” wondered +Laurence aloud, with fatalism, looking after Miss +Norton.</p> + +<p>“She’ll certainly let you know.” Francie’s little +ironical smile sent her cheeks up, their faint +flush wavering, under her eyes. She was not so +simple. Her diffidence, her inquiring softness, an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>outward “laciness” of her personality—into which +impressions seemingly filtered like light, diffusedly, +making no impact—covered a structure of delicate +hardness. She was in spirit insistent, tenacious +and quick in antagonisms; complexity tightened, as +had been her delicate body’s, by constant resistance +to pain. She gave hospitality to the ever-living +Laura, she invited claims from Mrs. Archie +Trent, she would have endowed Lois, but she +watched Marda turn beside Hugo into the beech +walk with raised brows, a cat’s blank unsparing +lucidity.</p> + +<p>“She’s very positive,” said Laurence, still looking +after them.</p> + +<p>“Positive about what?” asked Lois eagerly. +Laurence held his breath with annoyance and +pulled up a sock.</p> + +<p>Marda wanted nothing of Mr. Montmorency but +entertainment. She was an experienced fellow-visitor. +He interested her; his negativeness was +startling. She had heard of him, and of it, in all +parts of the country, had arrived at several houses +into a loud reaction, a kind of indignant excitement +following his departure. Her acquiescence in +finding him so exactly as he had been described +was tempered by incredulity, almost shock. And +she could define in him qualities which her friends +in the rush of discussion had slurred or had overshot: +one, a kind of drawn-back apprehension in +his approaches, as though something bright were +being brandished before his eyes. His look, +coming wavering round this interruption, had, in +regard to herself, a peculiar intensity. She was +already real to him as a woman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span></p> + +<p>He now swung his blackthorn, slashing the air +widely. “I remember this walk,” she said. “I +seem to have been here yesterday. But I thought +it was somewhere in Kerry, at Castle Reagh.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, it is here,” he said wisely. They +laughed. Down the walk, brightening air slipped +like gauze round the beech trunks; great pewter +limbs went turning and straining up with the +sheen of muscles. Drops, infrequent and startling, +loudly fell on his hat brim, icily on her shoulders +through the mesh of her dress. The path’s +perspective was a tunnel of glass. Her companion’s +lameness of thought, the faltering silence produced +a kind of vacuum in her; she covered a yawn.</p> + +<p>“This is not a good morning,” he suggested, +“to walk under trees.”</p> + +<p>“Really the worst possible.”</p> + +<p>“Oh ... had we better⁠—?” However, they +walked on.</p> + +<p>“I always come here,” he said in extenuation. +“My turn to the right’s mechanical. I was here +as a boy, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Were you here when I bled so much at that +children’s party?”</p> + +<p>“Not actually, but I have always heard of it. +Didn’t you lose a ring?”</p> + +<p>“At another party, at a more suitable age. It +was the most lovely ring I have ever had—Regent +Street. The jeweller said it must be emeralds +because the lady was Irish and Timothy fully agreed +with him. I had had no idea I had such an expensive +nationality.”</p> + +<p>“What a pity!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, those things are always a pity.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span></p> + +<p>He was not sure how much she included. “Did +your—did Timothy mind?”</p> + +<p>“Not so much as the Naylors. Later, he was +killed on the Somme. But he had two sons first, +so it all came right—I mean, he married.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes ... I suppose you are often here? I +have often heard of you. And at Johnstown and +Ballyduff and up in the North I have heard you +expected. But I was always going. Once, I +believe, we crossed at an avenue gate.”</p> + +<p>The fact was, she acknowledged with a laugh, +that they both visited incorrigibly. She knew also, +she told him, that he not only visited but travelled; +he had been almost everywhere but Canada.</p> + +<p>“But I really should not have come back here,” +she said. “There is something in Lady Naylor’s +eye: a despairing optimism. I feel that suitcase +won’t be the end of me here. There will be a +raid and I shall be shot on the avenue, not even +fatally, or Laurence will take me out and upset +that car. Then really she will never forgive me, +though the efforts she makes will follow me over +Europe.... How far do you think this war is +going to go? Will there ever be anything we can +all do except not notice?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t ask <em>me</em>,” he said, but sighed sharply as +though beneath the pressure of omniscience. “A +few more hundred deaths, I suppose, on our side—which +is no side—rather scared, rather isolated, +not expressing anything except tenacity to something +that isn’t there—that never was there. And +deprived of heroism by this wet kind of smother of +commiseration. What’s the matter with this country +is the matter with the lot of us individually—our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>sense of personality is a sense of outrage and +we’ll never get outside of it.”</p> + +<p>But the hold of the country <em>was</em> that, she considered, +it could be thought of in terms of oneself, +so interpreted. Or seemed so—“Like Shakespeare,” +she added more vaguely, “or isn’t it?... +But now tell me,” she said, “about Lois?”</p> + +<p>“Lois?” He was guiltily startled, thinking of +Laura’s daughter.</p> + +<p>“Lois—haven’t you noticed her? She sat beside +you at dinner.”</p> + +<p>He feared he was no good at people, he was +preparing to say—but the remark, tried over +critically, seemed a kind of echo: he reminded +himself of Laurence. He was confused by her cool +watching, her eyebrows drawn up and together +in ironical friendly despair at him. Her face—like +a Dutch doll’s; he defensively told himself, +in its accurate clear disposition of red-and-white +colour—was, at this sudden pull-up to her interest, +like a mask in its halt of expression. Her features, +the dark line of hair springing over the white square +of forehead, were in their special relation like something +almost too clearly written that he still could +not read; to be learnt now and puzzled over in +retrospect.</p> + +<p>She was, in fact, repelled by his lack of sympathy. +“Lois,” she said, “is nice. She is in such +a hurry, so concentrated upon her hurry, so helpless. +She is like some one being driven against +time in a taxi to catch a train, jerking and jerking +to help the taxi and looking wildly out of the window +at things going slowly past. She keeps hearing +that final train go out without her. How I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>should hate to be young again! But, I had no +ambitions.”</p> + +<p>He watched her unguarded profile. “Oh yes,” +he said, “ambition?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve never met any woman so determined to +love well, so anxious to love soon, so certain of her +ability. She really prays for somebody to be +fatal; she eyes doors. And you are all disappointments.”</p> + +<p>“To begin with,” said Hugo, nettled. “She’s +not a woman⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Awful if nothing happens to her! She reminds +me, too, of a little girl I remember at school sports; +in a team race, one of those things with bean-bags. +Hopping at the end of the line, working up to the +front slowly, simply sick with eagerness. Her +turn comes, she is the whole world: her eyes shoot +out of her head—she drops the bean-bag. They +all groan.... It makes me go dry inside to think +of it now.”</p> + +<p>“There is a young man—Harold—Gerald. They +dance on the avenue.”</p> + +<p>“Like rabbits?”</p> + +<p>“They have a gramophone.”</p> + +<p>“Is he supposed to love her?”</p> + +<p>“My wife thinks so. Laurence considers he +suitably might. Her aunt does not think it suitable +at all and won’t hear a word of it, so he officially +doesn’t.”</p> + +<p>“Anyhow, to be loved is not her affair at all, it +is quite irrelevant. She does not love him, poor +little thing: he is useless.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t think it necessary for a young girl, at +her age, to love anybody.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, it is not,” she said impatiently, “at any +age. But one has those ideas.”</p> + +<p>This dismissal, this lightness vexed him. Let +her speak for herself. She had, then, her whole +sex’s limitations: a teachable shallowness, a hundred +little abilities. But he, prey to a constant +self-reproach, was a born lover; conscious of cycles +in him, springs and autumns of desire and disenchantment, +and of the intermediate pausing +seasons, bland or frigid, eaten at either margin +by past or coming shadows of change.</p> + +<p>“I have not these ideas,” he said coldly.</p> + +<p>They turned at the end of the walk through a +gateway, into a fir plantation. Here they walked +between walls of dusk, to be released to an airy green +space, tree-pillared. The green strip, measureless +on ahead but narrow, slanted down on their +left to the open meadows, on their right was bounded +by an uneven wall. Below the wall an unseen +swift stream flowed, tinkling and knocking. The +path hesitated ahead of them, faint on the bright +green turf. Here the few beeches stood, unrelated, +lovely, desultory; between their trunks—the +tall mountains, vivid in a suffusion of distant light. +The scene glittered. “More rain coming,” said +Mr. Montmorency.</p> + +<p>But she stared ahead. A trench-coat flickered +between the trees, approaching. Her look focussed; +there was an interchange. Coming to them, the +young man almost hurried. After consideration: +“Hullo!” said Mr. Montmorency.</p> + +<p>“Hal-<em>lo!</em>” cried Gerald, flushing with expectation. +Never had they been so acclaimed. He was +out this way, he explained, coming into ear-shot, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>and was proposing to take advantage of something +rash that Lady Naylor had once said about dropping +in to lunch any time. “They’re not <em>out?</em>” he asked +suddenly with, Marda noticed, a queer haggardness. +They were not? That was splendid, marvellous. +Early about?—he had been out all night, +he told them. Oh yes—feeling Mr. Montmorency +glance at his chin interrogatively—he had +shaved by the road; he had brought his tackle with +him, he often did. Here—no, that was his pistol: +the other pocket. Marda extolled his foresight. +Mr. Montmorency had forgotten to introduce +them; they stood socially grouped round a beech +and exchanged cigarettes.</p> + +<p>“Very busy now?” said Marda, bending down +to the match Gerald sheltered.</p> + +<p>“Off and on—generally on, but we don’t know.” +She really seemed most remarkable, he looked +intently, just lightly enough to avoid a stare. He +liked talk like this, square and facty, compact with +assumptions Pleasant that she should be here at +the house for lunch. Light slipped back over the +dints of her hair as she looked up again. Lunch +seemed a torch in the future; between now and +lunch-time he would have come on Lois, somewhere, +somehow, and amazingly kissed her amazed hands. +There would be, till the kiss, no speaking—there +she eluded him. He had thought this out.</p> + +<p>He had thought this out, seen ahead to this +climax rather—as though a flower’s centre had been +revealed by an impetuous opening out of lovely +confused petals—on the lorry, breasting the darkness. +Watching the morning skylines form and +creep out like enemies from the cold night, he had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>burned at her nearness under the insistent groping +of the wind. Rushing under his eyes the hedge-tops +shivered; he had laughed and shivered, hand +in his pistol pocket, hand on his razor. And now, +as looking at Marda he once more kissed Lois’s +hands, he knew once more, assured by her eyes, +that keen truth of the first showing of daylight. +He was fortified in assurance. Leaning with her +elbow against the tree, returning casually his directness +of look, she recalled some profound and +certain excitement, as of his first approach to the +War. Now he meant to go past the hands, to +kiss the curve of Lois’s cheek as she strained away, +then stamp her uncertain mouth with his own certainty. +Naïvely, he looked at his wrist-watch.</p> + +<p>“Yes, go on,” she said, looking up through trees +where a bright breath disturbed the closeness. +He looked past her, the path led to Lois. This +green open path spaced out with trees was (he afterwards +thought) like something in heaven.</p> + +<p>“It will rain by lunch-time,” said Mr. Montmorency. +And indeed the sky was already creeping +together and fading, and the mountains’ sharpness +seemed a kind of anxiety.</p> + +<p>“I wish,” said Gerald to Marda, “you’d been +out up there this morning. You wouldn’t know +where you were, with the light coming.”</p> + +<p>“Is there a smell of daylight? I once heard a +man say⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Well, that is just like me—I was smoking.”</p> + +<p>“Look, you must go on.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, perhaps⁠—” He went on. She was +left only half protected by irony from an inrush +of desolation. His look and smile clung to her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>memory with the tenacity of irrelevance: his steps +on the grass died out quickly. There was silence: +a cold apprehension of rain in the beeches, the +tinkling and knocking of water beyond the wall. +Hugo, having walked a short way ahead, looked +back at her sharply. She was startled. “Bother!” +she thought. For there was bother behind the look.</p> + +<p>“Do we go on?” They walked on, but were +oppressed by their lack of objective. They met +the white stare of a cottage, stared and turned.</p> + +<p>“Dannie Regan lives there: he shot out an eye +shooting rabbits and now he’s losing the sight of +the other. I used to go out with him when I was +a boy—so high. His mother lives with him—or +should still; I haven’t heard that she’s gone. She +must be a hundred and four.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know the man I am going to marry, +Leslie Lawe? He’s a stockbroker; he fishes a good +deal. His people are in Meath.”</p> + +<p>“Meath?... I didn’t know you⁠—”</p> + +<p>“I am really. I haven’t told the Naylors. They +think my engagements fantastic; you see, they +have all come to nothing. But I ought to have +told the Naylors; it ought to have come at once, +but there was that wretched suitcase. I will say +something at dinner, not lunch: please do something +to lessen the atmosphere of surprise.”</p> + +<p>“When?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, we think this winter.”</p> + +<p>He looked from one window of the cottage to +the other. “It will make a break in the winter,” +he said at last. “I dare say you will go somewhere +sunny. Algiers perhaps—Morocco, if you are +able.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, he is quite rich.”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t go to the Riviera.... But I +thought you didn’t believe in this sort of thing?”</p> + +<p>“I? Oh, I never said so.”</p> + +<p>Now he came to think of it, she had not explicitly +said so. “I hope you will be happy.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t expect I shall be much different.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” he said, “I must go in and talk to +Dannie. He will have heard I’m back. It seems +a good time now—do you mind?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll talk to Mrs. Regan.”</p> + +<p>“She’s deaf.”</p> + +<p>“Then we’ll smile at each other—she’s not +blind.”</p> + +<p>They approached the doorway that yearned up +the path like an eye-socket. A breath of peat +smoke, of cold trodden earth, of the ghostly dark +of white walls came out from the cottage. Dannie +took form on the darkness, searching with his one +eye. He stood with his white beard, helpless and +eager. “Well!” exclaimed Hugo. Then Dannie +broke out: this was young Mr. Hugo, wasn’t he +the lovely gentleman, as fine and upstanding as +ever. And here was his wife he’d brought with +him, the beautiful lady. And, trembling and +searching, he took Marda’s hand. He declared +that she brought back the sight of youth to his eyes.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XI"> + XI + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>IT rained before lunch-time. Gerald heard loud +drops come after him as he went up the +beech walk. Under every beech he expected +to see Lois looking round in surprise. When he +heard a dog in the undergrowth he turned, laughing +with expectation. But it was the <i>louche</i> yellow +dog from the lodge, intent on rabbiting. Soon a +square black eye of the house—three—four—looked +down at him through the branches; he came +out under the whole cold shell of it, streaked with +rain and hollow-looking from an interior darkness. +The yellow dog passed him, looked back scornfully +from the steps and pattered in at the door with +an air of possession. “Hallo!” called Gerald, +looking about him.</p> + +<p>But she was nowhere; the place was cold with +her absence and seemed forgotten. The tennis +party became a dream—parasols with their coloured +sunshine, rugs spread, shimmer of midges, amiable +competition of voices. Something had now been +wiped from the place with implied finality. Gerald +told himself it was all very queer, quiet; that it +was disappointing about Lois. He tugged the +bell, a maid appeared in surprise, did her back hair +hastily, encouraged him in with a smile and left +him. The hall with staring portraits contracted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>round a glove on the table—a grey suède gauntlet +strapped at the wrist—he picked up the glove and +kissed it. But the house was full of ladies, the +glove might as well be Marda’s—he dropped it +doubtfully.</p> + +<p>A lovely mystery of feminine life: what did +a young girl do with herself in the mornings? +Vaguely he pictured keyboards and pink ambling +fingers. He recollected those sage-green sexless +covers of intellectual books. He recalled the musty +smell of work-boxes, the blush through transparent +paper of shell-pink needlework wrapped +away hastily. You never asked a girl what she was +making.</p> + +<p>He listened, took off his trench-coat, stepped to +the drawing-room door. The five tall windows +stood open on rain and the sound of leaves, rain +stuttered along the sills, the grey of the mirrors +shivered. Polished tables were cold little lakes of +light. The smell of sandalwood boxes, a kind of +glaze on the air from all the chintzes numbed his +earthy vitality, he became all ribs and uniform. +He was aware of intrusion. But he dared not go +in unasked to the library, where Sir Richard might +well look up from writing, sharp with pince-nez. +He could not again face the hall—he was shy of +the glove.</p> + +<p>He took up the <i>Spectator</i>, read an article on +Unrest and thought of the Empire. Mechanically +his hand went up to his tie. He looked ahead to +a time when it all should be accurately, finally +fenced about and all raked over. Then there +should be a fixed leisured glow, and relaxation, as +on coming in to tea from an afternoon’s gardening +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>with his mother in autumn. He turned in thought +to confident English country, days like the look in +a dog’s eyes, rooms small in the scope of firelight, +neighbourly lights through trees. He thought of +a woman, kind and palpable, who should never +produce this ache, this absence.... A door +dragged forward its portière; Lois came in from +the dining-room, brushing rain from her frieze +coat. He stood for a moment in a kind of despair +at her agitation, as though he were trying to take +her photograph. Then he stepped forward and +kissed her, his hands on her wet shoulders.</p> + +<p>“—Oh, but look here⁠—” cried Lois.</p> + +<p>But she was his lovely woman: kissed. He +shone at her, she helpless. She looked out at the +hopeless rain.</p> + +<p>“I love⁠—” he said eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, but look here⁠—”</p> + +<p>“But I love⁠—”</p> + +<p>“What are you doing in the drawing-room?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve come to lunch.”</p> + +<p>“Do they know?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t seen anyone.”</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> don’t know who to tell,” she said distractedly. +“They have all disappeared; they always are disappearing. +You’d think this was the emptiest house +in Ireland—we have no family life. It’s no good +my telling Brigid because she forgets, and the +parlourmaid is always dressing. I suppose I had +better lay you a place myself—but I don’t know +where the knives are kept. I can’t think why you +are being so sudden all of a sudden, in every way: +you never used to be. I haven’t even done the +flowers yet. I do wish you wouldn’t, Gerald—I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>mean, be so <em>actual</em>. And do be natural at lunch, +or I shall look such a goat. You really might have +asked me, I never mind talking things over. But +now the gong will go at any moment. And how +do you know I’m not in love with a married man?”</p> + +<p>“You wouldn’t be so neurotic; I mean, like a +novel. I mean: do be natural, Lois.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t look so, so inflamed.... Miss Norton +is here; she’s a girl—at least a kind of a girl. She’s +awfully attractive.”</p> + +<p>“I think I met her. She’s awfully—well, not +beautiful, but ... Oh, Lois ...”</p> + +<p>“Do be normal: do play the piano.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t start playing the piano before I’ve even +told them I’ve come to lunch. I may be musical, +Lois, but I’m not artistic.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” she said, and walked away from +him round the room. So that was being kissed: +just an impact, with inside blankness. She was +lonely, and saw there was no future. She shut +her eyes and tried—as sometimes when she was +sea-sick, locked in misery between Holyhead and +Kingstown—to be enclosed in nonentity, in some +ideal no-place, perfect and clear as a bubble. Or +she was at a party, unreal and vivid, or running +on hard sands. “It wouldn’t have mattered so +much at the seaside,” she said to Gerald.</p> + +<p>“But we never are at the seaside.”</p> + +<p>She opened a sandalwood box and looked in: +three blue beads and a receipt of her own from +Switzers: three-and-eleven for yellow velvet pansies, +worn at a dance and spoilt. “It’s not even +as though we were at a dance,” she added.</p> + +<p>“Lois, I’ve been thinking about you all night, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>up in the mountains—right up there when you +were asleep. You were wonderful.”</p> + +<p>“Haven’t you been to bed at all?”</p> + +<p>“No, you know I⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Gerald⁠— Oh ... darling⁠— But you +did have breakfast?”</p> + +<p>The gong sounded: great brass balls went bouncing +about the empty rooms. The parlourmaid +looked in perfunctorily. “Lunch?” said Gerald to +Lois.</p> + +<p>“No one is in—and I don’t suppose lunch is +even ready. Gerald, <em>did</em> you have breakfast?”</p> + +<p>“An enormous breakfast at Ballydarra.... +What were you saying, Lois; what did you call +me <em>then</em> ... before the gong?”</p> + +<p>But now she flushed and answered: “I’m sopping +wet; I’m steaming, I smell like a dog. I should +have thought you would want me to go and change. +I should have thought you’d be—protecting.”</p> + +<p>“You know I’d die for you.”</p> + +<p>They looked at each other. The words had a +solemn echo, as though among high dark arches +in a church where they were standing and being +married. She thought of death and glanced at +his body, quick, lovely, present and yet destructible. +Something passed sensation and touched her consciousness +with a kind of weight and warmth; she +glimpsed a quiet beyond experience, as though for +many nights he had been sleeping beside her.</p> + +<p>“What <em>did</em> I say then? Say it.”</p> + +<p>“‘Darling’ ...”</p> + +<p>But she turned away from some approach in his +look.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor and Mrs. Montmorency passed, in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>profile, under the three west windows, pressed very +close together under a green en-tout-cas, discussing +the vice-regency of the Aberdeens. Simultaneously, +Mr. Montmorency and Miss Norton were +heard coming up the steps rather breathlessly, +talking about money. They must both have been +conscious of being a little vulgar, a little English, +for as Sir Richard rattled open the glass door and +went out to meet them, they broke off flatly.</p> + +<p>“You must have got very wet,” said Sir Richard. +“Marda, about that suitcase of yours. I have been +thinking it over⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Sir Richard, I can’t bear you to⁠—”</p> + +<p>“My dear girl, a suitcase is a suitcase—I was +just saying to Marda, Myra, that I have been thinking +over that suitcase of hers⁠—”</p> + +<p>“We had better have lunch at once,” said Lady +Naylor imperatively.</p> + +<p>“Miss Norton will have to change.”</p> + +<p>“Hugo, how <em>could</em> you let her get so wet!”</p> + +<p>“My dear, I am not an umbrella.”</p> + +<p>“Marda, how could you go out without a mackintosh!”</p> + +<p>In the drawing-room Gerald walked to a window +and stared at the rain in perplexity, stroking the +back of his head, looking rather an ordinary kind +of subaltern. Lois looked at herself in a mirror, +then went out to the hall to tell them about Gerald. +Every one stared, she put up a hand to her face. +“Mr. Lesworth has come to lunch,” she said deprecatingly. +“You told him he could whenever he +wanted, so I suppose he thought he might.”</p> + +<p>“Of <em>course</em>,” said Lady Naylor; “I suppose you +have told Sarah?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t know where to find her; she is +always dressing.”</p> + +<p>“Of course she is not always dressing; should +I keep a parlourmaid who was? She only changes +once a day, but you always go and look for her at +the wrong times. Where is Mr. Lesworth?”</p> + +<p>“In the drawing-room.”</p> + +<p>“How extraordinary! Wouldn’t he rather be +in the library? Richard, why didn’t you ask Mr. +Lesworth into the library? I expect now he had +better wash.”</p> + +<p>Lois went upstairs: Marda came up after her +and took her arm; Lois started. She could not +think of anything to say, Marda was not even +trying; they went up silently. “Some time,” +Lois said as they parted, “can I show you my +drawings? They’re fearfully bad.”</p> + +<p>“Come up to my room after tea.”</p> + +<p>Throughout luncheon, Sir Richard talked to +Gerald about the South African War and the +Cork Militia. He liked the young fellow. Laurence +talked to Marda about whaling, Lady Naylor +and Francie continued the Aberdeens, Lois tried +to explain to Hugo about Augustus John. The +rain stopped, they agreed that it had been only a +shower. Lois and Gerald were side by side, but +they did not have to speak, they simply passed +things. The side of her next to Gerald felt numb.</p> + +<p>“Raspberries?” she said towards the end of the +meal, constrainedly.</p> + +<p>“Please.” <em>He</em> was not nervous at all. Queer, +she confusedly thought, how men throw off action +without a quiver at severance from the self that +goes into it. They remain complete, the action +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>hangs in the air of the place, above the grass or +furniture, crystallizing in memory; eternal, massive +and edged to the touch of thought as, to the +bodily touch, a grand piano. She herself felt bound +to all she had done emotionally. But his kissing +of her, his attack, were no longer part of him. He +concentrated upon his raspberries, crushing them, +on his cream with carmine beautifully folding +through, on his flushing sugar. She watched the +work on his plate. “Magnificent,” he said to Sir +Richard, agreeing about the Cork Militia.</p> + +<p>Going out through the hall, Laurence offered +Gerald a cigarette. “American—extra mild.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks—I⁠—”</p> + +<p>“How is your jazz band?”</p> + +<p>“Very little practising; not much time, you see.”</p> + +<p>“Do tell me: did you kill anybody?”</p> + +<p>“How much?” said Gerald, startled.</p> + +<p>“Anybody last night?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, good Lord, no!”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t that why you go out?”</p> + +<p>“We were looking for arms, really. And nights +you find the most surprising people at home. We +were after a fellow called Peter Connor: we got +him.”</p> + +<p>“Fight?” said Laurence eagerly.</p> + +<p>“He was at home, in bed. These blighters +think we are greater fools than we are.”</p> + +<p>“Very cynical of him.... Oh, I say, Uncle +Richard, Lesworth has captured Peter Connor.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sir Richard, +flushing severely. “His mother is dying. However, +I suppose you must do your duty. We must +remember to send up now and inquire for Mrs. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>Michael Connor. We’ll send some grapes. The +poor woman—it seems too bad.” He went off, +sighing, into the library.</p> + +<p>Gerald was horrified. His duty, so bright and +abstract, had come suddenly under the shadowy +claw of the personal. “I had no idea,” he exclaimed +to Laurence, “these people were friends +of yours.”</p> + +<p>“Can’t be helped,” said Laurence. “I dare say +he was a dirty dog.... If you hate that cigarette, +Lesworth, have one of your own. It seems a long +time since we have seen you. How is this war of +yours really going? Do you realize I know nothing—this +might all just as well be going on in the +Balkans. I sometimes rather wish that I were a +gunman. There are one or two things I should +like to ask—but don’t let me keep you if you want +to talk to anyone else.”</p> + +<p>“Rather not.”</p> + +<p>The ladies were in the drawing-room laughing +intimately, putting across the open door a barrier +of exclusion. Laurence and Gerald wandered +about the hall, taking note of each other indirectly +and amicably. Laurence was by three years the +younger, but imposed his own impression of +seniority. Light hair tumbling, eyes startled open +and limp grey flannels, he looked to Gerald as +though he had slept through the morning. While +Gerald circled, the grey glove lay on the table, its +fingers crisped in derision. Outside, in an irresponsible +burst of sunshine, the wet fields had a +metallic brightness. Gerald thought of Lois’s +shoulders, their rounded squareness, the feel of +wet frieze under his grip. He was flattered but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>uneasy under Laurence’s interest, which had indeed, +for the simple, the awkward menace of some one +preparing to cast a net. He pursed his lips to a +whistle and shrugged slightly.</p> + +<p>“For instance, what do you, personally, think +about all this?”</p> + +<p>“Well, my opinion is⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but I don’t want your opinion, I want +your point of view.”</p> + +<p>“Well, the situation’s rotten. But right <em>is</em> +right.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Well ... from the point of view of civilization. +Also, you see, they don’t fight clean.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, there’s no public school spirit in Ireland. +But do tell me—what do you mean by the point of +view of civilization?”</p> + +<p>“Oh—ours.”</p> + +<p>Laurence smiled his appreciation: the conviction, +stated without arrogance, had a ring of integrity. +Gerald, embarrassed by this benevolence, +had recourse again to the back of his head, so +gratifyingly polished. “If you come to think,” +he explained, “I mean, looking back on history—not +that I’m intellectual—we <em>do</em> seem the only +people.”</p> + +<p>“Difficulty being to make them see it.”</p> + +<p>“—And that we have what they really want ... +though of course the more one thinks of it all, +the smaller, personally, it makes one feel.”</p> + +<p>“Oh? I don’t feel small in that way. But I’m +not English⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no—I beg your pardon.”</p> + +<p>“—Thank God.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span></p> + +<p>“Don’t understand?”</p> + +<p>“God may. Shall we look for the others?”</p> + +<p>Gerald, shocked, preceded Laurence into the +drawing-room. Their conversation, torn off rough +at this edge, seemed doomed from its very nature +to incompletion. Gerald would have wished to +explain that no one could have a sounder respect +than himself and his country for the whole principle +of nationality, and that it was with some awareness +of misdirection, even of paradox, that he was out +here to hunt and shoot the Irish. His alertness +was blunted, while he approached the ladies, by a +slight stupor of effort; he was groping for something +Napoleon had once said, something remarkably +neat and apposite that Gerald had once copied +into a pocket-book. Laurence had not hoped to +explain, but had wished that Gerald could infer, +that there was a contrariety in the notions they +each had of this thing civilization. As a rather +perplexing system of niceties, Laurence saw it; +an exact and delicate interrelation of stresses between +being and being, like crossing arches; an unemotioned +kindness withering to assertion selfish or +racial; silence cold with a comprehension in which +the explaining clamour died away. He foresaw +in it the end of art, of desire, as it would be the +end of battle, but it was to this end, this faceless +but beautiful negation that he had lifted a glass +inwardly while he had said, “Thank God!”</p> + +<p>Gerald knew that no one who spoke of God in +that family way could have any belief. He had +heard that Oxford was full of Socialism, of a wrongness +that was the outcome of too much thinking, +and in the light of this it did appear to him that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>Laurence’s conversation had been decidedly Sinn +Fein. But he liked and respected Lois’s cousin, +who made a man of one by that naïve curiosity as +to bloodshed—curiosity to which Gerald had been a +stranger since the days of the <i>Boy’s Own Paper</i> +spread on the nursery floor. Also, he could not +have looked so consistently bored at parties if he +had not been, as they all said, very intellectual.</p> + +<p>Lois, watching Gerald approach with an absence +of smile that was almost a shadow, was certain she +must have done him injustice. His constraint +(the pursuit of Napoleon) had a rather grave beauty. +Their kiss under the high ceiling must be present +and palpable to him also. Aware of some growth +of manliness in him, she wanted the feel of his lips +again, to capture what she had missed before. +And a quick glance of Marda’s from one to the +other sealed their mood with a recognition.</p> + +<p>“Can’t we go out?” she said generally, for Gerald +to take up.</p> + +<p>“It will rain again in a minute,” said Lady Naylor, +glancing cynically at the weather. And indeed +a few drops already sparkled against the sunshine. +“Also I particularly want to talk to Mr. Lesworth. +When he comes he is always playing tennis, or I +forget. But now there are some things I really +want to ask him ... I really want his point of +view ...”</p> + +<p>She sat down in a faded bowery chair, settling +herself with a rustle of expectation. Francie, +attracted, trailed her skirts and her fancy work +down the sofa; Marda, putting a new cigarette in +her holder, leaned over the back. From the constellation +of eager faces Lois wandered away. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>The three were no more her enemies than were +her own irresolution or the bright vicious raindrops +blotting the pane. Yet their unforeseen combination +defeated her finally. She yawned at the outlook.</p> + +<p>“Lois, don’t yawn,” said her aunt. “Now I +want to know, Mr. Lesworth, what Colonel Boatley +really thinks of reprisals. Of course it will go no +further, though you mustn’t think I want you to +be indiscreet.... Laurence, just shut the door.”</p> + +<p>Laurence shut himself out. And Gerald, sitting +down with a sigh, said that of course it was all rather +a problem. He caught Marda’s eye, dark and +bright with amusement, and read there the doom of +his afternoon.</p> + +<p>“Yes? Yes? Yes? This is so interesting—you +were asking me, weren’t you, Francie, and I +said we would ask Mr. Lesworth.... Marda, +do listen, dear, never mind, shake your ash on the +carpet, you mustn’t miss this. Because these days +when so much nonsense is talked on both sides I +do feel one owes it to speak on some good authority—unless +Mr. Lesworth would rather we didn’t. +Now please go on!”</p> + +<p>And Gerald, half hypnotized, consciously barren +and not in his Colonel’s confidence, repeated to +them what he had read in the <i>Morning Post</i>. As +Lady Naylor said at the time, no one would dream +of taking the <i>Morning Post</i> seriously, it was so anti-Irish, +but an opinion on it from anyone so much +“in things” as Mr. Lesworth was well worth +hearing. And as she said afterwards, it was +extraordinary how no amount of experience shook +these young Englishmen up. Their minds remained +cutting-books.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XII"> + XII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>AN armoured car called for Gerald at four +o’clock and he was driven away through +the rain. Towards the end of the afternoon +he had become very dull, a kind of fog came +over his personality; he confessed he was sleepy. +Lady Naylor remarked what a pity it was he could +not stay for his tea, that would have freshened him +up again. There was still so much that she wanted +to know. The drawing-room became to Gerald +fantastic and thin like an ice-palace, and, reflected +backwards and forwards in tall mirrors, seemed +like a chain of galleries at Versailles down which, +numbing with admiration, he had to advance +wearily. He did not see Lois alone any more. +She kept coming in, looking round vaguely, then +going upstairs again. Upstairs, he could hear her +playing the gramophone. She came out to the +steps with Marda to see him off; they stood with +arms linked, brushing the rain from their hair. +The last they saw of him was a putteed leg being +drawn in carefully. Something steel slid to; they +waved, but never a hand came out. The machine +seemed already to be digesting. He was swept +from them with martial impersonality.</p> + +<p>At half-past five Lois went to the top of the +house with her drawing-books, paused for confidence, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>tickled a panel of Marda’s door. Coming +into the changed and vivid room, she tipped her +drawing-books disengagedly on to a window-seat. +Marda sat on the writing-table, engaged in manicure. +Little pots, pads and bottles paraded; a +chamois leather was spread on her knee. A sweet +smell of varnish, like pear-drops, was in the air.</p> + +<p>“The most I can do,” said Lois, intent, “is to +keep mine clean.”</p> + +<p>“Quite enough. It’s just this habit of making +up every part of one that’s exposed at all.... +Lois, have a cigarette?”</p> + +<p>“Oh ... thanks. You don’t mind my coming?”</p> + +<p>“My dear, why?”</p> + +<p>“What lovely brushes! What a ... what an +uncommon photograph frame!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that’s Leslie Lawe.”</p> + +<p>“Oh? Oh yes,” Lois paused uncertainly. “How +good looking! Do—do you know him well?”</p> + +<p>“Very. We’re engaged.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, how lovely!” Lois had a shock of flatness.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes; didn’t you know?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I thought you probably would be. Shall +you live in London?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose we shall. I suppose we shall have +to.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, how lovely!”</p> + +<p>Marda laughed and began screwing on the lids +of her little pots. In the light of her brilliant life, +her deftness seemed to Lois inimitable. One +would have had to have lived twenty-nine years as +fast, as surely and wildly, to screw pink celluloid +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>caps on to small white pots with just that lightness +of finger-tip, just that degree of amusement, just +that detachment in smile and absorption in attitude. +And the pink smell of nail-varnish, dresses +trickling over a chair, flash of swinging shoe-buckle, +cloud of powder over the glass, the very room with +its level stare on the tree-tops, took on awareness, +smiled with secrecy, had the polish and depth of +experience. The very birds on the frieze flew round +in cognizant agitation.</p> + +<p>“What a lovely dress!” said Lois, picking up +the end of a red sleeve, so that she seemed to be +standing hand in hand with the dress.</p> + +<p>“Vienna.”</p> + +<p>“And, oh, what a lovely green one!... Am I +pawing things?”</p> + +<p>“I like it. But haven’t you got some drawings?”</p> + +<p>“Drawings? Oh, my drawings! Oh—I’m +afraid they’d bore you.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t expect so.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I did just happen to bring them along.”</p> + +<p>She had brought two drawing-books, cheerful +in mottled bindings with tissue between the pages. +She brought them across to Marda, then turned +away. The drawings, in black ink, illustrated +the Morte d’Arthur and Omar Khayyam. They +remembered Beardsley. Lois, away at a window, +heard Marda rustle the tissue paper: she watched +the rain intently. Beyond the demesne trees, a +farm cart rattled along the road. Marda, conscientious, +turned back to the title page. Here she +paused, for Lois had printed out, in uncertain +Gothic:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“‘I am a painter who cannot paint;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In my life, a devil rather than saint;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In my brain, as poor a creature too:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No end to all that I cannot do!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But do one thing at least I can—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Love a man or hate a man</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Supremely—’</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lois Honoria Farquar: Her Book.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>“Oh,” said Marda.</p> + +<p>“Browning.”</p> + +<p>“But can you really?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see why not.”</p> + +<p>“And are you sure that you can’t paint? Have +you ever tried?”</p> + +<p>“I hated two of the girls at school and I really +rather do hate Mr. Montmorency. And I can’t +help getting involved with people. Personal relations +make a perfect havoc of me; my headmistress +said so. Of course I haven’t had much scope here, +so far. Being grown up seems trivial, somehow. +I mean, dressing and writing notes instead of letters, +and trying to make impressions. When you have +to think so much of what other people feel about +you there seems no time to think what you feel +about them. Everybody is genial at one in a +monotonous kind of way. I don’t seem to find +young men inspiring, somehow. I suppose I shall. +Did you ever have any difficulty about beginning?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t remember. I never can see back to +the other side of things that have happened.”</p> + +<p>“I think I must cut that title page out. I wrote +it when I was rather young. But surely love +wouldn’t get so much talked about if there were +not something in it? I mean even soap, you know, +however much they advertise ...”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, there must be. Let me look at the +drawings.”</p> + +<p>Marda, still on the table with crossed knees, +spread out the book briskly. But Lois, all in a +glow, could not help remarking: “Somebody told +me I was neurotic.”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t worry.”</p> + +<p>With a brutality of which she was unaware +Marda returned to the drawings. Lois, thinking: +“I do not interest her,” sat down on the floor with +her back to the chest of drawers. Over the mottled +carpet curled strange pink fronds: some one dead +now, buying this carpet, had responded to an idea +of beauty. Lois thought how in Marda’s bedroom, +when she was married, there might be a dark blue +carpet with a bloom on it like a grape, and how +this room, this hour would be forgotten. Already +the room seemed full of the dusk of oblivion. And +she hoped that instead of fading to dust in summers +of empty sunshine, the carpet would burn with the +house in a scarlet night to make one flaming call +upon Marda’s memory. Lois again realized that +no one had come for her, after all. She thought, +“I must marry Gerald.”</p> + +<p>But with a jump of the heart she heard every +page turn over. She received the print of each +look as though her sensibility were the paper. +Reactions to Lois’s drawings were as a rule momentary +and staccato: “My dear!... They’re sinister +... what a marvellous muezzin!... Aren’t +those the seven queens?” And indeed it had come +to seem to herself that the drawings must really +mean something. A glance at them, though she +had lost the power to see them, gave her the kind +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>of surprised assurance one might expect from +motherhood.</p> + +<p>Marda said nothing; once or twice she changed +her attitude, shifting the book from knee to knee. +Soot, dislodged by the rain, sifted sharply on to the +paper fan in the grate, startling them to an exchange +of glances. Then she said deliberately, closing +the drawing-book:</p> + +<p>“I think you’re cleverer than you can draw, you +know.”</p> + +<p>“Oh⁠—”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mind, do you? Look—have another +cigarette. Why can’t you write, or something?”</p> + +<p>“That’s so embarrassing. Even things like—like +elephants get so personal.”</p> + +<p>“I know. I give up reading—I’m sick of their +personal elephants.... Or act? But why do +you stay here?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t think,” said Lois, startled.</p> + +<p>“You like to be the pleasant young person?”</p> + +<p>“I like to be in a pattern.” She traced a pink +frond with her finger. “I like to be related; to have +to be what I am. Just to <em>be</em> is so intransitive, so +lonely.”</p> + +<p>“Then you will like to be a wife and mother.” +Marda got off the writing-table and began to +change her stockings. “Jacob’s ladder,” she +explained. “It’s a good thing we can always be +women.”</p> + +<p>“I hate women. But I can’t think how to begin +to be anything else.”</p> + +<p>“Climate.”</p> + +<p>“But I would hate to be a man. So much fuss +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>about doing things. Except Laurence—but he is +such a hog. Ought I to go to London?”</p> + +<p>“Ever been abroad?”</p> + +<p>Of course she had not, she said, because of the +War, and of course she would like to. There was +Rome, and she would like to stay in a hotel by +herself.—There was just “abroad”: she always +wondered how long the feeling lasted. And there +was America, but one would have to have introductions +or one would get a crick in one’s neck from +just always looking up at things. She would like +to feel real in London. She had never come out +through a pass and looked down on little distinct +white cities with no smoke. She had never been +in a tunnel for more than five minutes—she had +heard there were tunnels in which you could nearly +suffocate? She had never seen anything larger +than she could imagine. She wanted, she said, to +see backgrounds without bits taken out of them by +Holy Families; small black trees running up and +down white hills. She thought the little things +would be important: trees with electric lights growing +out of them, she had heard of; coloured syphons. +She wanted to go wherever the War hadn’t. She +wanted to go somewhere nonchalant where politics +bored them, where bands played out of doors in the +hot nights and nobody wished to sleep. She +wanted to go into cathedrals unadmonished and +look up unprepared into the watery deep strangeness. +There must be perfect towns where shadows +were strong like buildings, towns secret without +coldness, unaware without indifference. She liked +mountains, but she did not care for views. She +did not want adventures, but she would like just +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>once to be nearly killed. She wanted to see something +that only she would remember. Could one +really float a stone in a glacier stream? She liked +unmarried sorts of places. She did not want to +see the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower (could one +avoid it?) or to go to Switzerland or Berlin or any +of the Colonies. She would like to know people +and go to dinner parties on terraces, and she thought +it would be a pity to miss love. Could one travel +alone? She did not mind being noticed because +she was a female, she was tired of being not noticed +because she was a lady. She could not imagine +ever not wanting some one to talk to about tea-time. +If she went to Cook’s, could they look +out all the trains for her, in Spain and everywhere? +She had never been to Cook’s. Was there any law +about selling tickets to people under age?</p> + +<p>Marda, smoothing the last wrinkle out of a stocking +and fastening up a suspender, said she did not +believe this was so.</p> + +<p>“Of course anybody could do all that. But it +would not be me.”</p> + +<p>“But be interested in what happens to you for +its own sake; don’t expect to be touched or changed—or +to be in anything that you do. One just +watches. Pain is one’s misunderstanding.”</p> + +<p>The advice, fruit of her own relation to experience, +unwisdom, lacking the sublimer banality, +was—as she suspected while still speaking—to her +young friend meaningless and without value. The +infinite variance of that relation breaks the span +of comprehension between being and being and +makes an attempt at sympathy the merest fumbling +for outlet along the boundaries of the self. Lois +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>looked vaguely out at the sky, and thought how she +could not possibly travel in Europe with a green +canvas trunk with her school initials. She longed +for three leather suitcases. She said sadly:</p> + +<p>“The thought of places without one is so lonely.”</p> + +<p>“Pull yourself together, my dear child.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think honeymoons are great waste of +travelling?”</p> + +<p>“That reminds—I must write a letter. Don’t +go—look, have another cigarette. What is the +date?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. Does it matter?”</p> + +<p>Evidently it did matter; Marda had to unpack +the bottom of a suitcase and look the date up in a +pocket-book. And from this Lois immediately +concluded Leslie must be one of those keen square +people who did not care for girls of nineteen, whose +eyes slid past one’s look impatiently, who had no +enthusiasms and read the biographies of politicians +other than Disraeli. She heard Marda writing +with little pauses and gushes; her shoulders and the +stoop of her head took on an appearance of obligation. +Lois thought how anxious to marry Marda +must really be, how anxious not to frighten Leslie +away from her, and how all her distantness and her +quick, rejecting air must be a false effect, accidental +and transitory.</p> + +<p>“I think,” she said, “I must be a woman’s +woman.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes. <em>Where</em> are we going to tennis to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“Castle Trent—but we won’t because of the +rain. Is Mr. Lawe very social?”</p> + +<p>“Reasonably. Of course, he likes his people +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>nice. <em>What</em> was the name of the man at lunch—surname?”</p> + +<p>“Lesworth. Gerald is very social. He smiles +all the time like a dog. Do you think that is good +in a man?”</p> + +<p>“I am telling Leslie he wants to marry you—may +I?”</p> + +<p>“Will it give Mr. Lawe a good impression?”</p> + +<p>“Well, it furnishes you rather. And I can’t +think what else to say.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t scratch it out,” said Lois after an interval, +“but as a matter of fact he didn’t speak of marriage. +He merely kissed me. The English have quite a +different moral standard.”</p> + +<p>“Besides, he had been up all night.”</p> + +<p>“What are men one is engaged to like?”</p> + +<p>“Very worried and kind,” said Marda, blotting +a sheet of her letter. “Business-like, passionate +and accurate. When they press you against their +chests a paper crackles, and when you sit up again +to do your face and arrange your hair, they cough +and pull out the paper, all folded and say: ‘While I +think of it, I just wanted to consult you about this.’ +Dinner services come crashing through the air +like in a harlequinade. You feel you have been +kissed in a shop. I cannot be adequate. I suggested +writing to those public schools for vacancies +for our three little boys, but that was not nice +apparently. When you are engaged you live in +the future, and a large part of the future is improper +till it has happened.”</p> + +<p>“Oh ... what would happen now if you lost +your engagement ring?” asked Lois with enjoyment.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span></p> + +<p>“I daren’t wear it. Oh, look here, I am talking +like a fool. I’m sorry, Lois, but you really must +not talk to me when I am writing letters. I need +Leslie. Dinner services don’t matter. If you +never need anyone as much you will be fortunate. +I don’t know for myself what is worth while. I’m +sick of all this trial and error. Will you find a +book or something? Don’t go!”</p> + +<p>Lois did not wish to go, but thought “Why +should she keep me here when she is thinking about +Leslie?” She felt deprived and unhappy. She +tried to imagine a situation in which Leslie would +look ridiculous. She prayed that the three correct +little boys might never be born. She hoped he +would have five daughters, and all artistic. “One +thing more,” she said, “how is it that men are so +seldom photographed in profile? Do they have to +look frank?”</p> + +<p>Steps coming down the gallery, relentlessly, with +intention, might have been Leslie’s but were unmistakably +Laurence’s.</p> + +<p>Laurence tapped and remarked through the door +that his Aunt Myra wanted to know if the letters +were ready. Timothy would be starting now; he +could wait five minutes, but if he did would almost +certainly miss the post.</p> + +<p>“Damn!” said Marda.</p> + +<p>“What d’you say?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, come in. Why did I polish my nails?” +Laurence sat down on the window-sill. He was +annoyed and surprised to find Lois present. He +suspected that she had been bothering Marda, +confiding, fidgeting, asking about love and wishing +to try on her hats. Probably she had brought up a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>poetry book and kept coming across with a thumb +on the margin to point out the bits she loved. He +wished that Lois would marry and leave Danielstown; +he could perfectly see her as a very pink +bride, later as a girl wife in the Tchehov tradition +in a pink blouse, sucking sweets audibly, prattling +of girl friends’ lovers, rustling papers endlessly. +He only hoped that she might marry Gerald, who +had no papers to rustle.</p> + +<p>“I hope,” he said, “that Lois has been amusing +you?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk,” said Lois. “I mean, she wants to +finish her letter.”</p> + +<p>“Evidently,” said Laurence.</p> + +<p>“Explain Leslie,” said Marda, writing rapidly. +“It will help at dinner.”</p> + +<p>“She is engaged,” said Lois, “to a Mr. Lawe. +That is his photograph there. His name is Leslie.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes,” said Laurence.</p> + +<p>“He is not comic,” said Marda, leaning around +and pushing the letter away. “She makes him +sound so—like ‘a Mr. Wilkinson, a clergyman.’ +Lady Naylor will like it all, but I haven’t told her. +Will you help Mr. Montmorency and Lois form a +public opinion and not be surprised when I talk +about him at dinner? About the end of the fish, +I thought.... I cannot finish this letter; it will +have to go to-morrow and I will wire.”</p> + +<p>“And I have a piece of news for you. Castle +Trent was raided for arms last night. Of course +they didn’t find any. They think the thing was +entirely amateur, nothing to do with the I.R.A. at +all. They took away some boots. The Trents +think one of the raiders was a gardener’s cousin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>from Ballydarra who hates the family. He left a +quite unnecessary message behind with a skull and +crossbones; he sounds to me rather a silly man. I +am hoping perhaps they will come here to-night. +We have two assegais and a stiletto that Uncle +Richard uses for a paper-knife.”</p> + +<p>“It is a paper-knife,” said Lois, “only made so as +to look like a stiletto. How perfectly thrilling; do +let us all sit up.”</p> + +<p>“I shall sit up, but you had better go to bed. +You might be insulted.”</p> + +<p>“Really, I am not so female as all that.”</p> + +<p>Laurence shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“At any rate, don’t tell the others. Uncle +Richard’ll get fussy and spoil it, and if Aunt Myra +meets them she will keep them talking all night.”</p> + +<p>“It seems so odd,” said Laurence, “that she +should be my blood aunt and not yours.”</p> + +<p>Marda looked at him thoughtfully over the back +of her chair. She had not realized he could be so +disagreeable. If he did not take care, he would +grow up just like Mr. Montmorency. She told +him so, and added that she was surprised he did +not appreciate Lois. “She is very charming,” +she said, “and very intelligent. Think of all the +cousins you might have had. It’s not her fault +that you’re not in Tahiti or Valladolid or wherever +it was you wanted to go this summer. If I were +not going to marry I should ask her to come abroad +with me. I have never been less bored.”</p> + +<p>“It would be marvellous,” said Lois. Now that +Laurence had come in she felt more alone with +Marda, and nearer; she could think of all the things +she had wanted to say. Intoxicated by being told +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>she was charming and by Laurence’s disapproval, +she hitched herself up on to the end of the wooden +bed, where she sat swinging her legs and smiling, +all girlhood. She felt movement, a wind in her +face as though she were on the prow of a ship. +With a bound, life carried her forward again. She +felt certain that Leslie would die or break off the +engagement. “Marvellous,” she repeated.</p> + +<p>“At any rate,” Laurence said, “you can ask her +to be a bridesmaid.” And there was Lois, forlorn +in the aisle, with hot air coming up her legs from a +grating and tears dripping off her nose into a bunch +of chrysanthemums. She would keep the ribbon +from her bouquet and show it to Gerald in confidence +while she unpacked on their wedding night.</p> + +<p>“I am thinking of going abroad quite soon,” she +said to Laurence.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Montmorency has gone for a walk,” said +Laurence. “He had to take an umbrella. Apparently +he does not usually take an umbrella, but +when he was half-way down the avenue Mrs. Montmorency +suddenly said he must, because it had +never rained like this before. So she took an +umbrella and one for herself and started off down the +avenue after him. Aunt Myra said she should not +have done this because of her heart and looked round +for me, but I had gone quickly into the dining-room, +which is the last place anybody would look +for one between meals. So she found Uncle +Richard and he took another umbrella and ran +quickly down the avenue after Mrs. Montmorency, +telling her not to run like that. When he had +caught her up he took the umbrella from her and +went still more quickly, shouting, after Mr. Montmorency, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>who pretended not to hear and walked +on with a back view of positive hatred.”</p> + +<p>“But how do you know all this if you were in the +dining-room?”</p> + +<p>“When they were under way I went to the library +window and looked after them.... Lois, did +Lesworth tell you he has captured Peter Connor? +He was in bed, apparently.”</p> + +<p>“Laurence!” called Lady Naylor from the end +of the gallery. “Where are you? What about +Marda’s letters?... They can’t go now,” she +went on, approaching. “Timothy waited ten +minutes, and now he has got to run all the way, but +he will certainly miss the post.... Oh, you are +all here?”</p> + +<p>She looked at her nephew and niece disparagingly +and sat down on the bed. “It is an extraordinary +thing,” she said generally, “the way nobody in this +house can be trusted to remember messages.... +It has been a tiring day,” she added. “Nobody +could be nicer than that young Mr. Lesworth, but +certainly he is not intelligent. And since then +they have all been running down the avenue with +umbrellas. And oh, what do you think? They +have been raided for arms at Castle Trent. They +think the whole thing must have been organized +by their gardener’s cousin. They took some boots +away.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XIII"> + XIII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>WHEN they had all gone to bed, lamps +downstairs extinguished, doors upstairs +shut with a rattle upon the last voices, +Francie talked of Marda’s engagement and said +she was glad. She was glad as a wife that the net +should be flung wider. She talked, but Hugo did +not answer; he was still too angry about the umbrella +to speak when they were alone. So till well on into +the night they lay beside each other under the darkness +in an intent and angry silence. Then she +wept and said they should never have come back to +Danielstown.</p> + +<p>“It’s as though I couldn’t remember where anything +was.”</p> + +<p>“Look here, if you can’t sleep, you’d better take +something.”</p> + +<p>“Hugo!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I suppose this place disagrees with you, too.” +He had designed an insult, he could not bear her +to intrude upon his wakefulness. Whichever way +he turned in that mournful freedom—and the perspectives +of his regret opened fanwise, profound +avenues each white at the end with a faceless statue—she +would come stumbling after him, hand to +heart. “Try and sleep,” he said, and sent her +away angrily.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p> + +<p>She feigned sleep rigidly, hardly bearing to lie +there. Her mind clenched tight, like a fist, at the +isolation of this proximity. She longed to resume +the life of day downstairs in the empty rooms. She +had lain awake in the South of France hearing palm +trees creak in the gritty and dry wind, hooked-back +shutters rattle against the wall; she had lain awake +in town with her room a battle of lights through +the thin blinds, lights like her thoughts, flashing +and crossing⁠— But across this battle-piece, under +the long lances, had swarmed, like Ucello’s roses, +small comforts, a kind of content at suffering, the +tenderness of imagined contact. She had wept +because he was not with her. Now a nostalgia for +that solitude, for a wall so patient and smooth to +the reaching hand where there was now a sleeper, +came on her, quenching tears. He thought she slept.</p> + +<p>But, “I remember,” she said, about two o’clock, +“a Miss Lawe. I met her last in a tram in Dublin. +I remember then she was talking of a nephew—I +wonder would that be Leslie?”</p> + +<p>“Did she say his name?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t remember; I got out of the tram.... +Hugo, I’m so thirsty.”</p> + +<p>Sighing, he got out of bed.</p> + +<p>Laurence could not sleep either. There must +have been something at dinner.... He longed +for the raiders and strained his ears in the silence—which +had, like the darkness, a sticky and stifling +texture, like cobwebs, muffling the senses. The +rain had paused, the trees had shed the weight of +it, never a drop came through them or tapped on +his window-sill. Once he heard, he thought, a +fleet of bicycles in the avenue; he sat up propped +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>on his palms, assembled his attitude, and was prepared +to go down and admit the party courteously. +He meant to offer them bread and apples and +leisurely conversation—and jam and whisky, but +in relating the incident he would only mention the +bread and apples, he liked that smack of austerity, +an Oriental graveness. But there were no bicycles; +no one knocked; all he had to say went sour in him. +It was only some cattle come up close to the house, +rubbing against the wires. They moved away.</p> + +<p>He lit a candle, blinked at the startled flame and +blew it out again. Darkness resumed, with a +discomfortable suggestion of normality. There +seemed proof that the accident of day, of action, +need not recur. And from this blank full stop, this +confrontation of a positive futurelessness, his mind +ran spiderlike back on the thread spun out of itself +for advance, stumbling and swerving a little over +its own intricacy. He caught trains he had missed, +rushing out to the boundless possible from the +shining mouths of termini, re-ordered meals in a +cosmopolitan blue, re-ate them, thought of thought +but sheered away from that windy gulf full of a +fateful clapping of empty book-covers. Far enough +back, in a kind of unborn freedom, he even re-made +marriages. Laura Naylor gave Hugo, scoffingly, +bridal tenderness; they had four sons and all hurried +out to coarsen in Canada. Here, in this that had +been her room, Laura had lain on her wedding +morning, watching a spider run up the canopy of +the bed, while Hugo made ready, five miles off, to be +driven over to take her hand at the altar by poor +John Trent, and the four young sons in excitement +jiggled among the cherubim. And it was Richard +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>who married Francie, who came to him all in a +bloom at his first request and made a kind of a +basinette of a life for him, dim with lace. Aunt +Myra enjoyed a vigorous celibacy, while Laurence, +to be acclaimed a second Weiniger, blew out his +brains at—say—Avila, in a fit of temporary discouragement +without having heard of Danielstown. +Lois, naturally, was not born at all.</p> + +<p>But this involved a certain re-arrangement of +Laurence’s character, for not for anything would +he have put a pistol into his mouth, though he would +have liked to fire a gun out of a window. This +neglect of the raiders pricked his egotism. And +alarmed by the dragging tick of the watch under his +pillow, slowing down as at the mortal sickness of +Time, he turned over and thought in a fury that +he could not think why Laura should have married +Mr. Farquar. The rudest man in Ulster he was, +with a disagreeably fresh complexion and an eye +like a horse. Her confusion had clotted up in the +air of the room and seemed, in that closest darkness +under the ceiling, to be still impending. Here, +choked in the sweep of the bed-curtains, she had +writhed in those epic rages; against Hugo, against +Richard, against any prospect in life at all; biting +the fat resistant pillows. Until once she had risen, +fluttered at her reflection, dabbed her eyes, buttoned +a tight sleek dress of that day’s elegance over her +heaving bosom, packed her dresses in arched trunks +(that had come back since to rot in the attics) and +driven off, averting from the stare of the house an +angry profile. Hotly, she went up North to attract +and marry Mr. Farquar. It was in her to have +done otherwise, but there is a narrow and fixed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>compulsion, Laurence recognized, inside the widest +ranges of our instability.</p> + +<p>Below, through the floor, a light drawling scrape +climbed into stuttering melody, syncopated dance +music, ghostly with the wagging of hips and horrid +in darkness. Lois, child of that unwise marriage, +was playing the gramophone. Laurence listened, +paralysed with indignation, then reached out and +banged a chair on the floor. She attended; the +music broke off with a shock, there was a tingling +calm, as after an amputation. He above, she below, +they thought of each other with outrage.</p> + +<p>Certainly, thought Laurence, there must have +been something at dinner.</p> + +<p>But Sir Richard and Lady Naylor were soundly +asleep. She was dreaming about the Aberdeens, +while he rode round the country on a motor-bicycle +from which he could not detach himself. His +friends cut him; he discovered he was a Black and +Tan. But night rolled on over them thickly and +uneventfully. The others exhausted themselves +to sleep. The darkness clamped round their +waking brains did not any one moment seem to +abate its insane pressure; only, within an hour of +breakfast they found themselves restored without +reason to the illusion of daylight. With a kind of +fatedness, a passivity, they resumed the operation of +living.</p> + +<p>The morning gave birth to a disappointment. +Livvy arrived just as Lois was starting out for the +village with Marda to send the telegram. Her +horse was lame so she came over on a bicycle, and +certainly, thought Lois, watching her lean the +bicycle into the privet hedge, there were many +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>things about Livvy that were a pity. For Marda +stood at the top of the steps in a green jumper, +fanning the telegraph form on the air to dry the +ink. The green, queer and metallic, cut surprisingly +into the steamy tones of the house and the +morning. She would be gone in three days. And +now while Livvy settled her hat and her front and +prepared for speech, Marda, smiling, came down the +steps and walked away down the avenue, not caring. +She missed nobody. The dogs went with her: +gloomily Lois’s eyes went after their wagging sterns.</p> + +<p>“Listen,” said Livvy, clutching Lois’s elbow. +“Ah, listen, Lois: what is the matter?—That is a +natty jumper she’s got. I wonder, has she the +pattern? Of course, it’s partly her figure. I wonder +now that she didn’t marry.... Lois, will +we go up to your room?”</p> + +<p>Lois did not believe the bed was made. Livvy +blushed in her little defined way and said she wished +to be confidential. So they went into the drawing-room—where +Gerald’s kiss was hanging: all the +doubts of the night could not disperse it—and +leaned on the grand piano. Lois was surprised to +notice Livvy breathing on to her breast-bone and +drawing something up on a long blue ribbon from +intimate depths. A ring dangled. “No one could +be more surprised than myself,” said Livvy modestly, +averting her eyes from a finger on which the ring +had flowered.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well <em>done!</em>” Lois could have exclaimed with +spontaneity. Checking this, she said doubtfully: +“Oh, my dear ...”</p> + +<p>“Who do you guess?”</p> + +<p>“Mr.... Mr. Armstrong.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span></p> + +<p>“Aren’t you quick! Listen—swear that you +won’t tell. For my father doesn’t know and I +think he’d kill me.”</p> + +<p>“How did you ... how did he ...”</p> + +<p>“Well, it was like this. You see, he asked me +at Mrs. Fogarty’s when would he see me again, +and I said I might be going to Cork to the dentist +Thursday, and he said he might be going to Cork +too. So I thought no more of it. Think what I +felt when, I getting out at the station, I saw him +there standing as large as life and watching the +train like a dog. So he asked me where was I +going for tea, so I said if I wasn’t alone I might +have dropped in at the Imperial because of the band, +but that my father didn’t like me to go there alone +because of the officers. He said would I go with +him, and it was raining and my appointment wasn’t +till half-past five, so I said that we ought not to be +seen together, but I turned my hat right down +and we went in and heard the band. He seemed +very much confused, so I asked him was there +anything on his mind and he said there wasn’t and +I said there must be. So he went very scarlet and +pulled his belt and looked up at the ceiling and said +he did love me. Then the waiter came with the +tea and I only hope he will not recognize me again. +When the waiter had gone I said he might speak +lower, and he said he couldn’t because of the band. +Then I said that of course a thing like this came as +a shock to a girl, and he said did it, and I said indeed +it did. I said I was not sure if I could get accustomed +to the idea of marriage at all, and he looked +very much surprised. I said when would he wish +it to be? And he said the worst of it was he had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>no prospects. I said we Irish were not mercenary, +and that anyway I knew he had an uncle⁠— It +was a great disadvantage to me, Lois, having to +keep down so low under my hat all the time—for I +could see the Hartigans’ aunt, Mrs. Foxe-O’Connor, +the other side of a palm-tree, and a man my father +buys cattle from kept rising up and staring round +the room. And what with this and my being +naturally very much confused, and David creaking +about in his chair, and the band, I don’t know how +much he heard of what I said at all.</p> + +<p>“However, we thought it might be well to buy a +ring, though I can’t wear it. David looked quite +wandering and I had to get him across the traffic. +And I felt pretty curious myself. You see, we have +neither of us been engaged before, though I have +had two offers. Then he said he must go to the +barracks, so he put me into a tram to go to the +dentist’s. Presently I noticed it was the wrong +tram, but I hadn’t the heart to get out till it was +round the corner after the trouble he’d taken, the +poor boy. But the tram kind of bolted and I got +out near the Cathedral and had to take a very expensive +car. I was late at the dentist’s—he had out +two of my teeth.”</p> + +<p>All in a dream, it appeared, Livvy had wandered +through wet residential Cork. All in a dream she +had sat and bled from the gums in a train. She +opened her mouth to show the two holes the dentist +had made as though they were wounds of love, and +Lois looked into them solemnly. Had they kissed +at all? No, they had not had the opportunity. +They could have taken a cab, but Livvy did not +think it moral to drive in a cab with a man, for it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>roused his passions. Lois said she thought the smell +inside of a cab would put anyone off, and Livvy +said that in that case a cab would be waste of money.</p> + +<p>“But can he marry? <em>Can</em> a second lieutenant?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I can wait some years. But I shall go and +stay with his relations and wear a ring and all, so +that there need not be any uncertainty.”</p> + +<p>“Why not tell your father now and have it announced?” +said Lois hopefully. She watched her +own face looking up from the mottled piano-top +and felt very singular, distant and destined, like +Melisande. “I don’t think,” she said, “that <em>I</em> +should be afraid of your father.”</p> + +<p>For Livvy’s father seemed really a very despondent, +mild man with a yellow drooping moustache +that he had always to lift up over the edge of his +teacup. It was hard to picture his chasing around +after Livvy with a blackthorn, or smiting his fist +on the dinner-table so that (as Livvy declared) the +plates leaped, or going down with the half of a tart +in his hand to destroy the cook. The worst she had +seen him do, when Livvy was late, was to take his +watch out and stand with his thumb on the lid—not +looking at it, as though he could not abide the +thought of Time—while two or three bubbles ran +up his throat. He was a widower: Livvy declared +her mother had died of him. He was a teetotaller: +half a decanter of whisky was in his tantalus, but he +had lost the key. Lois now assured Livvy her +father would be the ideal father-in-law; she was sure +that David would like him. He would come and +stay and be so absolutely unobtrusive.</p> + +<p>“He has a prejudice against Army officers,” said +Livvy despondently. “He wouldn’t mind if it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>was the Navy—but what chance have I, living so +far inland? If David was a general with gold all +down his front and spoke of marriage, I think he’d +still kill him. He says I’ll get the house burnt +over his head with my goings on.”</p> + +<p>“But if he heard you’d been compromised at the +Imperial?”</p> + +<p>“A girl can’t be compromised in the afternoon,” +said Livvy gloomily.</p> + +<p>Mr. Thompson did not entertain very much, but +Lois remembered once staying to supper there, +early that summer, with David and Gerald. That +was before times got so bad and the officers had to +be back early in barracks. Mr. Thompson’s dining-room +looked on to trees, that fanned little gusts +of light over the table then closed again in green +darkness; it smelt of meat and there was an enormous +pilastered mahogany sideboard like the front +of a temple, inside which they could hear mice +running about. Mr. Thompson was silent—from +fear, they thought, rather than disapproval—he +kept drawing long black horsehairs from the seat of +his chair and laying them out on the cloth. At +each hair, David and Gerald leaned forward and +opened their mouths to speak. But Mr. Thompson +went down in his collar so that they could not: they +spoke to each other. And Lois, looking under her +lids, had marvelled at this fortress of many opinions. +His sister Miss Thompson was present, but she was +deaf. The dining-room was dark red, with a +smoky ceiling, and Gerald said afterwards he had +felt like a disease in a liver. When the blancmange +came in it lay down with a sob and Miss Thompson +frowned at it. “Death of the cow,” thought Lois, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>and saved this up. Livvy kept looking warningly +at her friends, but they were all polite. Some ducks +filed in at the French window; the guests flapped +with their napkins, but Mr. Thompson said: “Oh, +let them be,” and sure enough the ducks went +round the table with their usual urgent look and out +by the window again. Mr. Thompson got up and +shut out the May air. “Times change for the +worse,” he said to Gerald, who agreed with him so +emphatically that David had to repeat the interchange +to the anxious Miss Thompson. No wonder +Livvy found home dull.</p> + +<p>But the happiness of the evening, the closeness-up +of the four to each other, the tremors they all +transmitted, the cramp of inside laughter, remained +with Lois, as though they had held hands tightly +under the large oppression. And—under that +pressure of laughter compact to bursting-point—a +particular stored excitement of pride and pleasure, +a jump of intimacy at each other’s voices and movements. +And the awareness stayed when, afterwards, +they had laughed themselves out and were +empty and solemn, tinging their interchanges with +unusual shyness. That supper marked a degree +in her appreciation of Gerald—his crystalline niceness.</p> + +<p>For Mr. Thompson, still with a little blancmange +hanging off his moustache, got up and left +them. And later Miss Thompson stood pulling +down her skirt across her hips, when Gerald opened +the door so beautifully that she had to go out +through it, to perfect an experience. Then Livvy, +to show what she thought of her family, got up and +waltzed round the table, tugged open the window, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>ran on to the lawn and with unabated gentility +jumped on all the croquet hoops, David following. +And Gerald turned for the first time to look +at Lois, who looked away. They poured out more +barley-water and, in an ecstasy of bad manners, +bubbled into their glasses. They went out and sat +on the seat by the croquet lawn, under a bush of +syringa. Waxy petals touched Lois’s arm stretched +out along the back of the seat, the air smelt of +almonds, moths came slanting out of the bush and +glittered off on the dusk.</p> + +<p>Miss Thompson declared it had been a pleasure, +and had asked them to come again. Lois now said: +“I should tell your aunt, she has so little to interest +her; I am sure she would be wonderfully sympathetic.”</p> + +<p>“I always find it difficult,” Livvy said, “to open +the subject of marriage.” And as she looked down, +looked significant, the word did flower over with +implications, so that it was, to Lois, at once in a pit +and upon a pinnacle that she leaned and frowned +and dangled her garnet ring.</p> + +<p>“If only David were more determined!”</p> + +<p>“But aren’t you certain he wants to marry you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but he needs to have it all arranged for +him. Just because I’m such a capable girl.... +Listen, Lois: if you were to be engaged to Gerald +Lesworth it would in a kind of way set the ball +rolling. Then I should say to my father—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but then I⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Of course he may not ask you. But that being +so, I should say to my father—”</p> + +<p>“S<i>s</i>h!”</p> + +<p>Laurence was well into the drawing-room before +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>he recognized Livvy’s shoulder-blades and saw her +pink reflection nodding at him in a glass. He +flushed with annoyance and bowed. There was +ink on his forehead, between the eyebrows, where +he had rubbed with the tip of his pen. “How +d’you do,” he said and, to Lois: “Has Miss Norton +started? Started—set out—gone to village? Eh?”</p> + +<p>“Oh ... yes.”</p> + +<p>“Pity. Did she seem to be ... waiting about +at all?”</p> + +<p>Livvy giggled. Lois said, oh no, she had not +seemed to be waiting about. Why?</p> + +<p>“Curiosity. I could have gone for her; I have +nothing to do.”</p> + +<p>“She hadn’t got anything to do either.”</p> + +<p>“Naturally.” The two girls leaning shoulder to +shoulder on the piano filled Laurence with an unutterable +depression. He could not leave them. +He went to a table of books, took up a book on +Nigeria, looked intently into it and blew some dust +from between the pages. He felt the only living +thing had gone out of the house. He felt hungry, +though it was not yet half-past eleven. He could +not go upstairs and work, or in fact settle down to +anything. He felt as though he were the weather: +“<span lang="fr">Le temps, c’est moi!</span>” He wished he were the +sort of man who would go out to the yard and take +the car to pieces. Marda was the only person who +found him amusing—but perhaps he was not +amusing, perhaps they were right. “Mrs. Montmorency +did not sleep either,” he said. “Notice +her eyes this morning?”</p> + +<p>“Eh?” said Livvy.</p> + +<p>“This is a dreadful house, Miss Thompson. I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>should not stay to lunch if I were you. Besides, +it’s only mutton, I asked the cook. Lois, have you +any foolscap? I thought I might write a novel.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>do!</em> Oh, how lovely! But I have no foolscap; +ask Uncle Richard. He has some paper +over from when he was going to write his memoirs.... +Laurence, <em>are</em> you going to stay in here?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’d rather not.” It occurred to him that +he might do worse than walk over to lunch with +the Careys. There would be a freshness in their +dullness and dampness after the dullness and dampness +here, while his own would have a charm for +them, a fertilizing strangeness. The households +had not seen anything of each other for three days. +Both families had driven over to Castle Trent to hear +about the raid, but had missed each other by half +an hour. There would be the raid to discuss, and +how the Trents were taking it; also, the Careys lived +well—at the worst there could be nothing worse +than mutton. “I am going to lunch at Mount +Isabel—any message to Nona?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Oh!</em>” said Lois. Her eyes went dark with vivid +and deep disappointment at the thought of anybody +doing anything without her. She missed everything, +no one would ever care, she would never +marry. She blinked as Laurence went out and +shut the door.</p> + +<p>“Funny thing,” said Livvy, “the way your cousin +blushes whenever he sees me.” She looked at +herself in the tall glass and settled her side hair. +“Now, Lois, what I always feel: a girl is only young +once⁠—”</p> + +<p>“I expect,” said Lois, “that that is all for the +best.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XIV"> + XIV + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>“THOUGH to tell you the truth,” said +Lady Naylor, circulating among the +begonia beds at Mount Isabel, “though +I am in a way sorry, I am not altogether sorry that +she is going.”</p> + +<p>She glanced closely at Mrs. Carey’s profile, to +see that her exact shade of meaning had been taken. +Mrs. Carey nodded and wrinkled up her forehead, +very profoundly. She was thinking about something +else. She stooped, pulled off three dead +begonias and crumpled them into her pocket.</p> + +<p>“Because if that should be what she is going to do, +I should rather she did not do it with us. For +one thing, the Lawes are relations, they are cousins +to a cousin of mine by marriage. One does not +know what they might not say about influence. +Though no one could interfere less than I do, one +never knows, does one, what might go round +through the family? And really I am superstitious +about her visits, already this time she has lost +a suitcase. One cannot help feeling responsible.”</p> + +<p>“But are you certain,” asked Mrs. Carey, looking +critically round this part of her garden as +though she were wishing to have it all up and +replant it again, “that she is going to break it off?”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t like to say. She has got into a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>kind of a nervous habit of sending telegrams. +Up and down, up and down all day to the village. +Surely that is abnormal in an engaged girl? It is +not even as if they were buying a house or anything. +It’s bound to be so unintimate—unless she does +not consider the post-mistress, and I do think really +she ought to because it is our post-mistress. And +another thing—I don’t really know that I ought to +speak of this, but I really cannot discuss it with +poor little Francie—I don’t think she has at all a +good effect on Hugo. You know what he’s like +usually? Well, he’s quite different. Quite <i lang="fr">empressé</i>.... +But I don’t expect there is anything +in that really. One so easily says too much.”</p> + +<p>She paused, sighed and waited. Mrs. Carey +looked at her mildly. “Oh?” she said. “Oh yes. +But how do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“I know Francie notices; I know she is unhappy. +Of course she always is unhappy, but she’s unhappy +now in a different way. Of course one hates to say +it, but one does know what Hugo <em>is</em> ...”</p> + +<p>“Oh—is he really?” said Mrs. Carey, startled.</p> + +<p>“What Hugo needs is real trouble. Now if +poor little Francie died⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Is she seriously⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“No, I feel that he will die first, he has just that +way of avoiding things. Look how he didn’t marry +Laura.... However, I expect I am being quite +ridiculous; I hate to exaggerate—it is from having +Laurence so much in the house. Have you noticed +how clever young men⁠—? I believe he’s worse +in England; they think him amusing. Of course +there is no harm in Marda; one has known her +since she was little. She’s only wild—two of her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>uncles were like that. Shall you ever forget how +her knee bled that afternoon? You know, I didn’t +give another children’s party for three years!”</p> + +<p>Coming to the edge of the lawn, they looked +down on a court where Marda, Lois, Laurence and +Nona Carey were playing tennis. The two ladies, +at peace and with the faint self-congratulation with +which one generation watches another, gazed with +a statuesque remoteness over the foreground. “She +is, somehow, I don’t know ... charming,” said +Mrs. Carey, as Marda and Lois crossed and recrossed. +“Shall we go round before tea and look +at the dahlias? I wanted to ask you ...”</p> + +<p>They turned, having cast an imposing shadow +over the consciousness of the players, and went +softly, heavily over the grass to the iron door of +the garden. It seemed natural to Mrs. Carey, +half dissolved in the brightness and depth of the +afternoon, that Hugo should be attracted towards +a fellow-visitor; such things came on and passed, +transitory as a summer. She did not see that there +was anything one need do; she said so to Lady +Naylor.</p> + +<p>The fine weather was back again. Over the +roof of Mount Isabel a mountain sheathed in pink +air looked gentle and distant. Light slid over the +heavy burnished trees; the cream façade of the +house was like cardboard, high and confident in the +sun—a house without weight, an appearance less +actual than the begonias’ scarlet and wax-pink +flesh. Begonias, burning in an impatience of +colour, crowded over the edge of heart-shaped beds. +As the four came up from the court there was silence +over the sheen of grass. Then a maid leaned out +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>from the dark through the drawing-room window +sounding the brass tea-gong: a minor note.</p> + +<p>Marda perhaps was wild, like her uncles, but +not inconsiderate. She had realized, almost upon +arrival, that the worst thing she could do would be +to attract Mr. Montmorency. To be loved by +him would be the culminating disaster of her unfortunate +visits. The idea seemed to her silly—she +could not think of herself as fatal—but rooted itself +during a fit of extreme apprehension induced by the +loss of her suitcase. She dreaded the suitcase +might not be the close of her record; having made +the acquaintance of Hugo she saw it would not be. +She might not be fatal, but <em>here</em> she was certainly +fated. She thought: “Damn him!” with conscious +injustice and drew on every resource, all that might +once have been called the arts of her sex to repel, +to annoy and to bore him. That day of the beech +walk, in old Dannie’s cottage, she had had in a +flash the measure of her unsuccess. Persistently +charmless, untiring in her attempts not to please, +she had still to retreat, resentful, upon a female +wariness, guardedness, circumspection she had +always despised. Her reward: at the foot of the stairs +at bedtime, a contact of finger-tips—all of himself +in the touch—as he gave her her candlestick: a +startled look over the flame. And as the four +candles went up with the ladies, drawing a tide of +shadow, she and Lois had turned at a turn of the +stairs to see him still there, looking up from the +staggering mounting dark. She took Lois’s arm.</p> + +<p>That was the night he did not sleep, and Lois +did not sleep either.</p> + +<p>To-day, Smith had ridden over to Mount Isabel +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>for tea and Nona. He stood smiling over the +glittering tray, in the high dark-yellow shadows, +pleased but anonymous. He was a man whose +name one could not remember. But his appearance +agitated Mrs. Carey, who recalled that he did +not eat any tea. She hoped it would all be all right.</p> + +<p>She said to Marda distractedly: “I am glad you +are going to be happy: I hope you will be really, +really married.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you so much,” said Marda. “I am sure +I shall be.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” continued Mrs. Carey, still watching +Smith, “I ought not to congratulate him, I +ought to congratulate you.”</p> + +<p>“I am very fortunate.”</p> + +<p>“Oh <em>no</em>, I don’t mean that at all. Show me your +lovely ring—oh, you haven’t got it on. But I +expect you have got a lovely ring. Mr. Smith, I +hope you will play tennis?”</p> + +<p>But Smith, who did not feel like tennis, had not +brought shoes. Tennis was not his idea at all. +He had thought perhaps a little walk in the garden, +a few plums ... And Nona got up very pink and +conscious and circulated with plates of cake. She +knew that she must throw off people like Mr. Smith +because next summer she was to be presented and +have a season in London. Lady Naylor could +not help raising her eyebrows at Mrs. Carey.</p> + +<p>“Such a pity,” remarked Mrs. Carey, as they slid +up arm-chairs to the tea-table, “you didn’t bring +over the Montmorencys. Wouldn’t they come?”</p> + +<p>“<em>He</em> might have come,” said Laurence, “but as I +am not allowed to drive there was not room in the +car. There were too many of us.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span></p> + +<p>“Never mind,” said Marda. “I am going on +Saturday.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, you aren’t!” cried Lois, and added +respectfully: “Don’t be so silly.”</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor sighed. “Unfortunately, Marda +must go back to England. I don’t know what we +shall do without her....”</p> + +<p>“Do you like England?” said Nona Carey, moving +away from Smith. “Are you really going to +live there? I always think it’s so new-looking. +But of course there’s a great deal going on.... +Where do <em>you</em> live, Mr. Smith?”</p> + +<p>“Eastbourne.”</p> + +<p>Though Lady Naylor said at once that that must +be very bracing, Smith wilted under a general +commiseration. He recrossed his legs, frowned +at the toe of his shoe and said he thought sometimes +of going to East Africa. A forlorn and +slighted feeling the announcement of Marda’s +departure cast over them was heightened by this +proposed defection of Smith’s. Lady Naylor remarked +disparagingly that that would be rather +lonely, while Mrs. Carey, seeing Smith at once +against hot African skies in a silhouette of nobility, +felt they had been unkind and asked him to come +over here on the sofa and tell her about himself. He +told her. Nona sat and twirled on the music stool.</p> + +<p>“Smith,” said Laurence, “you ought to stay and +defend us.” And Smith had to promise he would +not leave the Army and go to East Africa till they +were all settled.</p> + +<p>But to Laurence and Lois this all had already a +ring of the past. They both had a sense of detention, +of a prologue being played out too lengthily, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>with unnecessary stress, a wasteful attention to +detail. Apart, but not quite unaware of each other, +queerly linked by antagonism, they both sat eating +tea with dissatisfaction, resentful at giving so much +of themselves to what was to be forgotten. The +day was featureless, a stock pattern day of late +summer, blandly insensitive to their imprints. +The yellow sun—slanting in under the blinds on +full-bosomed silver, hands balancing Worcester, +dogs poking up wistfully from under the cloth—seemed +old, used, filtering from the surplus of some +happy fulfilment; while, unapproachably elsewhere, +something went by without them.</p> + +<p>Marda wanted more tea—but they were all distracted, +an argument raged round Smith. “You +must, of course, go on Saturday?” said Laurence, +taking her cup. “Oh yes—why?” She leaned +back from the bar of sun, into the shade of the +curtains. Shadow gave transparency to her colours; +its brown clarity hardened her face revealingly so +that she was exposed a moment, in her anxiety, +without the defence of manner. Her green linen +dress went ghostly against the cretonne’s rather +jarring florescence.</p> + +<p>“Just when it’s fine,” said Laurence, banal with +sincerity.</p> + +<p>“That is because I’m going.”</p> + +<p>He listened a moment and, as the uproar of +argument was sustained, said quickly: “Lois and +I aren’t a good addition—the Montmorencys think +so. Is that what bored you? Nobody’s ever gone +so soon. There was a walk I wanted to take you.” +He rattled the cup and saucer at her in desperation. +“I think you make a mistake, going.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I expect so, but⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Look at Lois, her eyes are starting out of her +head. When you’ve gone, she’ll go up and cry on +your bed. It will fill her mornings.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, shut up, she can hear you.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Laurence, “she can’t, though she’s +trying to. I’m not so sorry, but I do think it’s +unimaginative of you going. Why have you got +to see Mr. Lawe? I mean, quite dispassionately, +isn’t there heaps of time for him?... You see,” +concluded Laurence, “I am enraged—by all this—past +snubbing-point.”</p> + +<p>“I want some more tea,” said Marda, “more +than anything in the world.”</p> + +<p>Unable to attract the attention of their hostess, +Laurence leaned over the tray and took the teapot. +On his way back to Marda he guessed from the +unmoving intentness with which she was staring out +at the begonias—they gave back little vermilion +flecks to her eyes—that there was some one at the +bottom of this and that it was Mr. Montmorency. +He had learnt—from leaning out of his window +while his aunt talked to Mrs. Montmorency down +on the steps—that they all thought she contemplated +breaking off her engagement. Personally +he thought this improbable. Mr. Montmorency +himself was the supreme objection; but also she +would be getting herself a good home and what +went with it—money, assurance and scope. He +himself only wished he could do so as easily. He +now stood above her holding the cup of tea and +could have counted three before she turned round. +But then—oh, the waste of his comprehension—he +saw she was laughing.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span></p> + +<p>She had laughed at a thought of the subdued +surprise with which they would come to her wedding; +barely dressed as befitted because of that +unshaken disbelief in her; buttoning, till well up +the aisle, their white gloves. But the origin of their +disbelief did not seem to her funny; had acquired +for her, in fact, a tragic vulgarity. So that she +did not explain the joke to Laurence; she thanked +him and drank the tea, which was all wrong.</p> + +<p>Out, at last, through the window, dazzled, threading +and separating between the flower-beds, the +party dispersed with their cigarettes. Large to +themselves, to each other graduating from a little +below life-size to an eye from the mountain ant-like—but +smaller and less directed—or like beads +tipped out. A sense of exposure, of being offered +without resistance to some ironic un-curiosity, +made Laurence look up at the mountain over the +roof of the house. In some gaze—of a man’s up +there hiding, watching among the clefts and ridges—they +seemed held, included and to have their only +being. The sense of a watcher, reserve of energy +and intention, abashed Laurence, who turned from +the mountain. But the unavoidable and containing +stare impinged to the point of a transformation +upon the social figures with their orderly, knitted +shadows, the well-groomed grass and the beds, +worked out in this pattern.</p> + +<p>Driving home, tightly packed hip to hip in the +back of the car between Marda and Lois, and +bumping conjointly over the inequalities of the +road, Lady Naylor told them of a discovery she had +made. Mrs. Carey, also, did not understand +modern young people. They seemed, Mrs. Carey +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>had said, to have no idealism, no sense of adventure, +they thought so much of their comfort⁠— +Possibly Mrs. Carey was wrong? But almost she +thought she agreed with her. In their youth, +Mrs. Carey and she would have been deeply excited +by all that was happening round them. Lady +Naylor thought all young people ought to be rebels; +she herself had certainly been a rebel. But since +the War, they had never ceased mouching. She +herself had had a deep sense of poetry; she remembered +going to sleep with Shelley under her pillow. +She used to walk alone in the mountains and hated +coming in to meals. Mrs. Carey had noticed that +Nona would not miss a meal for anything—she +was unpunctual always, but never absent. But +perhaps Mrs. Carey misjudged the girl? Mrs. +Carey and she had passed through periods of profound +unhappiness. And yet their youth was a +golden period; they would not have missed it. It +did seem a pity, they both had agreed, to be born +middle-aged.</p> + +<p>These last remarks were directed with a degree +of resentment at Laurence’s back view, in the +front of the car by the chauffeur. His ears, of +unfortunate conformation, curled out semi-transparent +against the evening light. Laurence said +nothing, but thought; he must write that novel, +for here lay a gold-mine (then Spain and those +first editions, a Picasso and curtains for his rooms). +He would vindicate modern young people for his +aunt and her generation. Only he did not know if +he should write about cocktail parties or whimsical +undergraduates.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XV"> + XV + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>HUGO was dumb, his companion inattentive +to him in silence. They walked on the +turf of the Darra valley, along the edge of +the water: he beat with his stick at the gold, strident +ragwort. At every flash of the stick she glanced +in surprise, but did not say: “Spare them.” Lois, +straggling behind, threw in twig after twig to the +swollen, hurrying Darra; ran a short way with each +in intense excitement, lost it and threw in another. +She seemed absorbed but remotely dependent, like +one of the dogs. If she had fallen in with a loud +enough splash and a cry she might have distracted +the couple ahead, but she was surefooted and +not quite certain enough of herself to fall in on +purpose.</p> + +<p>Recollections of Laura were now wiped for him +from the startlingly green valley, leaving the scene +dull. Not a turn of the rocks with the river, not +a break-down of turf along the brink, not the +Norman keep with perishing corners (where they +leaned and quarrelled till Laura had wished aloud +it would fall on them) gave back to him what they +had taken of that eroding companionship. He +and she might never have come here; they were +disowned. The sharp rocks breaking out from the +turf, the impassive speed of the water were naked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>and had to be seen as themselves, in some relation +excluding him; like country seen from the train, +without past or future. And, having given proof +of her impotence to be even here, Laura shrank +and drew in her nimbus, leaving only—as in some +rediscovered diary of a forgotten year—a few +cryptic records, walks, some appointments kept, +letters received and posted.</p> + +<p>He now guessed, in fact, he had never loved +her. Shocked but with an enlivening sense of +detachment, he turned to Marda—but still had +nothing to say. She walked rather too quickly +beside him, with long steps. She was leaving +to-morrow; she was to be in England indefinitely: +she seemed content. And for this, his anger +released from Laura, settled upon her. He loved +her: a sense of himself rushed up, filling the valley. +The rocks again were transmuted: broken all over +in planes of light, a defeated sharpness, they were +no more limestone.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Montmorency knows Leslie’s aunt,” said +Marda suddenly. “Do you? It seems so extraordinary?”</p> + +<p>“If I ever did I’ve forgotten her.”</p> + +<p>“She’s so nice.”</p> + +<p>“I have no doubt.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s ask Lois to come and talk to us.”</p> + +<p>“She seems quite happy. Where do you go—after +to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Kent. Doesn’t it seem extraordinary?”</p> + +<p>Having given the matter rather too marked attention, +he pronounced that her sense of the extraordinary +seemed to him extravagant. She agreed +there did seem to be some disparity in their outlook. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>“Disparity!” he cried out. “Everything! +What a good thing we shall never need to understand +each other.”</p> + +<p>“I never try to understand anybody,” she said +mildly.</p> + +<p>“No, indeed,” he replied with sarcasm. “Who +is worth it?”</p> + +<p>At this she looked back again for Lois. She +remembered Francie, seeing them off from the +steps in a pink blouse, and the look that fluttered +after them down the avenue. No wonder Francie +looked like a windflower—her husband had this +unfortunate ability to be young at any time. His +unordered moods gave him the churlishness of a +schoolboy; his silliness embarrassed her. Yet +anger did illuminate him becomingly: brighter +and harder, for the first time he could be conceived +as lovable. Though in this personal atmosphere +generated by his temper she was feeling least herself, +most nearly negative.</p> + +<p>“I should like to go over there,” she said, looking +across the water to where trees began on a +skyline and went down steeply, powdered yellow +with light on their tops.</p> + +<p>“We can’t,” he said, triumphant, “the stepping-stones +are covered.” He showed her a line of +faint scars, a hesitation across the current.</p> + +<p>“I never thought of there being stepping-stones. +I only wanted to cross because we couldn’t. Why +does one always seem to be on the wrong side?”</p> + +<p>“I should have thought you never were—don’t +you even make rather a point of that?”</p> + +<p>She was exasperated past caution. “Mr. Montmorency, +what <em>is</em> the matter?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span></p> + +<p>Seeing that he had overreached himself, been +absurd, he raised his eyebrows in courteous mystification—“Matter?”—did +not reply but began +talking about his travels—the greenest river he +knew was the Ain, he said; had she ever looked +down on the Ain?—an appointment he had held +in the North (a deterrent from travel), his five years +in London (release from the North), a business +enterprise with which he had once been connected. +It had never been sound, he now saw, he said, but +had once had a chance of success. She took him +as he had intended, as the practical man <i lang="fr">manqué</i>. +They discussed the question of Canada, whether +he would have succeeded. She thought, emphatically, +it was a pity he had not tried. “But my +wife’s health⁠—” “Oh yes, Mrs. Montmorency ...”</p> + +<p>“The fact is, I have not made her happy.”</p> + +<p>“She would always be happy a little; she is +wonderfully unselfish.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, what <em>is</em> that? The ghost of a Palace +Hotel?”</p> + +<p>The mill startled them all, staring, light-eyed, +ghoulishly, round a bend of the valley. Lois had +to come hurrying up to explain how it frightened +her. In fact, she wouldn’t for worlds go into it +but liked going as near as she dared. It was a fear +she didn’t want to get over, a kind of deliciousness. +These dead mills—the country was full of them, +never quite stripped and whitened to skeletons’ +decency: like corpses at their most horrible. +“Another,” Hugo declared, “of our national grievances. +English law strangled the⁠—” But Lois +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>insisted on hurrying: she and Marda were now well +ahead.</p> + +<p>The river darkened and thundered towards the +mill-race, light came full on the high façade of +decay. Incredible in its loneliness, roofless, floorless, +beams criss-crossing dank interior daylight, +the whole place tottered, fit to crash at a breath. +Hinges rustily bled where a door had been wrenched +away; up six stories panes still tattered the daylight. +Mounting the tree-crowded, steep slope some +roofless cottages nestled under the flank of the +mill with sinister pathos. A track going up the +hill from the gateless gateway perished among the +trees from disuse. Banal enough in life to have +closed this valley to the imagination, the dead mill +now entered the democracy of ghostliness, equalled +broken palaces in futility and sadness; was transfigured +by some response of the spirit, showing +not the decline of its meanness, simply decline; +took on all of the past to which it had given nothing.</p> + +<p>Rooks disturbed the trees, disturbed the echoes. +“<em>Don’t</em> go in!” cried Lois and clutched Marda’s +arm convulsively.</p> + +<p>“Come on,” said Marda, “I feel demoralized, +girlish. Let’s hide from Mr. Montmorency.” +Lois shied through the gateway with more than +affected nervousness. This was her nightmare: +brittle, staring ruins. Mr. Montmorency, disgruntled, +still dawdled by the river; the idea of +escape appeared irresistible. But the scene was +strangely set for a Watteau interlude. Inside the +mill door, a high surge of nettles; one beam had +rotted and come down, there was some debris of the +roof.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span></p> + +<p>“If he starts shouting,” Lois said, apprehensive, +“he’ll certainly bring the mill down. Oh, I can’t +come in, oh, I can’t possibly. Oh, it’s beastly +here; I feel sick. I think you are quite mad!”</p> + +<p>“I think you’re a shocking little coward.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not afraid of anything <em>reasonable</em>. But +I’m simply nervous, one can’t help that.”</p> + +<p>“Come in through that door.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s so <em>high</em>.”</p> + +<p>Marda put an arm round her waist, and in an +ecstasy at this compulsion Lois entered the mill. +Fear heightened her gratification; she welcomed its +inrush, letting her look climb the scabby and livid +walls to the frightful stare of the sky. Cracks ran +down; she expected, now with detachment, to see +them widen, to see the walls peel back from a cleft—like +the House of Usher’s.</p> + +<p>“Hate it?” said Marda.</p> + +<p>“You’d make me do anything.”</p> + +<p>The sun cast in through the window sockets some +wild gold squares twisted by the beams; grasses +along the windows trembled in light. Marda +turned and went picking her way through the +nettles; there was a further door, into darkness—somewhere, +a roof still held. “Marda, help: +here’s a dead crow!” “Tchch!”</p> + +<p>“But it’s very dead!” Shuddering exaggeratedly, +leaping in a scared way over the nettles, +Lois also made for the dark doorway, eager for +comment, contempt, consolation. She was a little +idiot—appealing, she felt quite certain, to a particular +tenderness.</p> + +<p>In the dark of a lean-to, Marda was moving +dimly. “Stairs!” she exclaimed with interest. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>Then she was back in a flash and stood in the door, +barring it. She stood intently; menace contracted +about her attitude.</p> + +<p>“What?” whispered Lois.</p> + +<p>“Ssh—some one’s asleep here.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps they’re dead?” She stared past Marda’s +shoulder into the darkness, and, desirous, +laughed, then clapped the back of a hand to her +mouth—unnatural gesture, adequate to the drama. +Gradually, she was able to see a man lying face down, +arms spread out; a coat rolled into a pillow under +his face which twisted sideways a little to let him +breathe. One fist, clenched loosely, strayed to a +clump of nettles; the knuckles must have been stung +quite white. He could not feel the nettles—one +had to imagine sleep like that! Behind him, stairs +went up into visibility, to a gash of daylight.</p> + +<p>Ashamed, the two young women stood elbow to +elbow. Marda stepped back, some plaster crackled +under her heel.</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” said the man softly.</p> + +<p>“Come away quickly—come⁠—”</p> + +<p>But the man rolled over and sat up, still in the calm +of sleep. “Stay there,” he said, almost persuasively: +a pistol bore the persuasion out. They were embarrassed +by this curious confrontation. Neither of +them had seen a pistol at this angle; it was short-looking, +scarcely more than a button. The man +sat looking at them with calculating intentness, +like a monkey, then got up slowly: the pistol +maintained its direction.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be silly,” said Marda. “Go to sleep +again. We’re not⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Are there any more of yez?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span></p> + +<p>“One—not interested either. Better let us go +now, there will be less talk.”</p> + +<p>“We’re just out for a walk,” said Lois, surprised +at her own voice.</p> + +<p>“Indeed,” said the man. “It is a grand evening +for a walk no doubt. Is it from Castle Trent +y’are?”</p> + +<p>“Danielstown.”</p> + +<p>The man’s eyes went from one to the other, and +remained ironically between them. His face was +metal-blue in the dusk and seemed numbed into +immobility. “It is time,” he said, “that yourselves +gave up walking. If you have nothing better to do, +you had better keep in the house while y’have it.”</p> + +<p>Marda, a hand on the frame of the doorway, +remained unmoved, but Lois could not but agree +with him. She felt quite ruled out, there was +nothing at all for her here. She had better be +going—but where? She thought: “I must marry +Gerald.” But meanwhile Marda, holding her arm +all the time, had softly, satirically pressed it. They +could not but feel framed, rather conscious, as +though confronting a camera. The man, who did +not cease to regard them with uneasy dislike, asked +which way they had come, whom they had met, if +they had observed any movement of soldiers about +the country. He remained dissatisfied; evidently +they had the appearance of liars.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Mr. Montmorency, suspicious of +merriment somewhere and determined to humour +no one, had sat down to smoke on a parapet. At +its base the bank descended; the river rushed +loudly, dark with its own urgency, under his +dangling feet. The mill behind affected him like +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>a sense of the future; an unpleasant sensation of +being tottered over. Split light, like hands, was +dragged past to the mill-race, clawed at the brink +and went down in destruction. He looked at the +opposite hill, its distinct and peaceful trees. Marda +belonged there and might be imagined composedly +walking. Knocking some ash off, he leaned forward +and groaned at the intervening water—“On the +wrong side”⁠— He missed Francie; there welled +up in him one great complaint to Francie. She—selfless +woman—would non-committally rustle; +some tender fidgeting always relieved her intentness +of listening. Distressed for her husband, she would +let out little sighs. He would tell her everything.... +Yet he could not, for Marda was everywhere +present, a clear ruddy-white mask of surprise. +She impinged on the whole of him, on his most +intimate sense of himself, with her cool sombre +amusement. Had she a ghost everywhere?—there +was something of her in Francie.</p> + +<p>“It is like this,” he began to rehearse, “what I +need is⁠—”</p> + +<p>A shot, making rings in the silence. Eardrums +throbbing, he gathered up the reverberations +with incredulity. A battle—a death in the mill? +<em>Whose</em> death? He leapt to one thought, a flash of +relief in the panic. The front of the mill—he ran +round to it—grinned with vacancy: corpse of an +idiot. He steadied himself in the door, watched +his cigarette drop into the nettles, then stumbled +in over the debris. A crow’s flight, stooping wildly +among the rafters, dislodged a trickle of plaster. +He paused in the well of ruin, terrified for them all. +But the crow swerved out through the roof.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span></p> + +<p>“Marda!”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said Lois. They appeared in a +doorway and looked at him gravely, rather suspiciously. +Marda put up a hand to her mouth—in +an incredible half-glimpse, he thought he saw +blood round the lips.</p> + +<p>Something released in his voice, he said: “Marda—for +God’s sake—”</p> + +<p>Lois, as though the mill were falling, went white, +then crimson. He had, distantly, some apprehension +of an emotional shock. Marda, perplexedly, +continued sucking her hand. Then she took Lois’s +handkerchief, dabbed at her knuckles, wiped the +blood from her lips—where no more came—returned +to her knuckles. “I have lost some skin,” +she said at last resentfully. “Just, a pistol went +off—you heard?—by accident. I seem to have lost +some pieces of skin.”</p> + +<p>“Let me go past,” he said violently.</p> + +<p>“We swore—” began Lois.</p> + +<p>“Some one went upstairs backward, not very +sensibly, not having eaten much for four days. +There was some plaster—the pistol went off, +naturally. It was silly, really. Look at my beastly +hand—I was holding on to the door.”</p> + +<p>“Let me get past—”</p> + +<p>“But we <em>swore</em>, Mr. Montmorency—”</p> + +<p>“<em>You</em> deserve to be shot!” He turned in a +manner terrifying to all of them—most of all to +himself—on this interruption. “You don’t seem +to see, you seem to have no conception—”</p> + +<p>“Then why sit there and smoke?” said Lois, +trembling. “I saw you—you and your old conceptions.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span></p> + +<p>“Shut up,” said Marda, “oh, do shut up!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t stand there, let me go past; I’ll⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, do let’s talk about something else⁠—”</p> + +<p>“We swore,” went on Lois priggishly. “There +never was anybody, we never saw anybody, <em>you</em> +never heard⁠—”</p> + +<p>But nobody listened. Vaguely, he waved her +silent.</p> + +<p>“The fact is,” said Marda, “we are neither of us +good at explosions. Perhaps if we sat down and +thought it over? Perhaps if you went for a walk—<em>not</em> +up in the trees?”</p> + +<p>“No more hide-and-go-seek,” he said, playful with +fury. “Still bleeding⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Not like I can—I have rather a high standard. +Do you remember the scraper? No, I might have +done—<em>this</em>—on the broken edge of a slate: it will +be the edge of a slate if you don’t mind. And, +being me, it was bound to happen.”</p> + +<p>He was set on transgressing the decencies. +“Don’t you <em>realize</em> you might have been⁠—”</p> + +<p>Marda laughed, coming out through the door +of the mill beside him. He looked at her lips—no +higher—angrily—burningly. Lois looked +quickly away. She thought how the very suggestion +of death brought this awful unprivacy.</p> + +<p>They took his place on the parapet. Warily, +they watched him walk back the way they had come, +with effort, as though breasting a current. Lois +took up his forgotten matchbox, shook it and put +it away in her pocket. Their sex was a stronghold, +they had to acknowledge silently; traditionally, +one could always retreat on collapse. Mr. +Montmorency having taken away with him any +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>element of agitation, they were left with a particular +sort of shyness.</p> + +<p>“How one talks!” said Marda.</p> + +<p>Lois tied up the hand, she said it seemed like +Providence that her handkerchief should be clean +to-day. Marda’s was coloured, that would never +have done. One had always heard that dye ran into +the blood.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think it would,” said Marda. “It +boils, it is really a good handkerchief.... This +is the worst of big hands.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose they are rather big.”</p> + +<p>“Sorry we went in?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“You are being nice to me.... One won’t be +girlish again—I think, as a matter of fact, we were +being goatish.”</p> + +<p>“But I’ve had a ... a revelation,” said Lois. +She bent forward over the river, felt streaks of light +fly over her face and felt that speech did not matter +when so much was being carried past. “About +Mr. Montmorency ... he’s being awful about +you, isn’t he?”</p> + +<p>The statement, almost a query, fluttered up at +the end. But Marda’s face was inscrutable with +reflections.</p> + +<p>“About you. I had no idea—I was too damned +innocent,” she explained with precision—“till we +all stood in there and shouted.—Hear him tell me +I ought to be shot?”</p> + +<p>“He was all—dishevelled. He had to be +adequate.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I didn’t mind. But, I mean, aren’t you +rather—embarrassed?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span></p> + +<p>“One can’t help things.”</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> was awful, I said, ‘You and your old conceptions.’ +They are rather old, aren’t they?... I +mean, really: he was in love with my mother.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m going away, aren’t I?”</p> + +<p>“But, I mean, what is the good of this? It doesn’t +make anything.”</p> + +<p>Marda said, inconsequent: “I hope I shall have +some children; I should hate to be barren.”</p> + +<p>“Once I really meant to love him, but it would +never have done.”</p> + +<p>Marda leant against Lois’s shoulder. “You are +wonderful!”</p> + +<p>“Not so protected as you imagine.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing gets past your imagination.”</p> + +<p>“I wish,” said Lois thoughtfully, “I had really +been shot. But I couldn’t be.” Later she added: +“I’m sorry I said that about Mr. Montmorency. +What will become of him?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad he wasn’t my father.”</p> + +<p>“He couldn’t be anything’s father.”</p> + +<p>“Where shall you be this time to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“In the train.”</p> + +<p>“Funny,” said Lois. “Queer.” Her heart +thumped, she looked at her watch. “Half-past +six,” she said. “It’s harder, for some reason, to +imagine what I’ll be doing or where I shall be.”</p> + +<p>“A nice walk with Laurence, a nice cheerful +squabble. If you want something to talk about, +talk about me.”</p> + +<p>“No, no, I mean ... No.” She looked up +from the water. “You know,” she said, “all this +has quite stopped any excitement for me about the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>mill. It’s a loss, really. I don’t think I’ll come +down this part of the river again.... Will you +have to tell Leslie? I don’t think you ought to: +a swear <em>is</em> a swear, isn’t it, even in England.”</p> + +<p>Nothing would have induced Marda to confirm +Leslie’s opinion that her country was dangerous as +well as demoralizing. He hated to think of even +his aunts at that side of the Channel. She expected, +some forty-eight hours ahead, to be walking with +him in a clipped and traditional garden, in Kentish +light. Under these influences, she would be giving +account of herself. Leslie’s attention, his straight +grey gaze, were to modify these wandering weeks +of her own incalculably, not a value could fail to be +affected by him. So much of herself that was fluid +must, too, be moulded by his idea of her. Essentials +were fixed and localized by their being together—to +become as the bricks and wall-paper of a +home.</p> + +<p>At present, the mill was behind her, tattered and +irrelevantly startling, like a dream of two nights ago. +And Lois kept turning upon her a tragic and obstinate +gaze: she could sense a persistence of Leslie upon +the mental scene. Lois said, but defeatedly: “He +is certain to be suspicious.”</p> + +<p>“I certainly won’t tell.”</p> + +<p>“So it will be a secret?”</p> + +<p>“A perfect secret.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you so much,” said Lois. As though +breaking a spell, she shifted away down the parapet, +put her feet to the ground, and was surprised to +feel her legs trembling under her. “Here,” she +said generously, “comes Mr. Montmorency.”</p> + +<p>He came: “with demurest of footfalls.” They +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>smiled and shouted along the bank. Yes, they +could come now; yes, they were feeling splendid. +“Shan’t we be late for dinner?”</p> + +<p>“That is impossible,” shouted Mr. Montmorency, +who was coming back to them looking +formal and pleasant.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XVI"> + XVI + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>MARDA was not due to leave until after +lunch, but throughout that morning +they were all distressed and sympathetic, +could not settle down to anything, walked about +the house. Every time Lady Naylor saw Marda +she asked her if she ought not to be packing, and +while Marda packed, with her door open, Lady +Naylor kept looking in to remark how sad it was +to see her thus engaged. Francie sat and sewed +in the ante-room, looking anxiously up whenever +anyone passed. The rain fell, the windows were +open, the rooms smelt of window-sills. Francie +rolled up her work with a sigh and went up to +tell Marda how sorry she was about the rain.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have a wet drive,” she said.</p> + +<p>“But the hood works,” said Marda, folding +together the sleeves of a scarlet dress.</p> + +<p>“But rain is so sad when one’s going away. +Nothing, I mean but a train to arrive at.”</p> + +<p>“But I really like trains: I am always talked to.”</p> + +<p>“Hugo will be so sorry, he has so much enjoyed +talking to you.”</p> + +<p>“It’s been very nice of him.”</p> + +<p>Sir Richard looked up Marda’s train in a May +time-table and was worried because he could not +find it. Had she really any proof, he came up to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>inquire, that it had been put on since? Would she +not be wiser to catch the 12.30 and have plenty of +time for dinner in Dublin? Also, what was he to do +about her suitcase if it ever turned up? But he +almost feared now it would never turn up. He +sighed and went back to the library.</p> + +<p>Laurence sat in his room with a book with the +door open; he could see across the landing into +Marda’s room. Evidently she could not make +up her mind which hat to travel in: she tried on three +and looked at herself in each. He did not care for +her looks or her clothes, really; both were over-assured. +But then he could not recall whose looks +or whose clothes he did care for. Finally, he went +across to say he did not want <i>South Wind</i> back, she +could keep it to leave in the train, or simply pack it.</p> + +<p>“Oh, thank you,” she said; “do write my name +in it.”</p> + +<p>He recoiled at this awful suggestion.</p> + +<p>Her room had all come to pieces—dresses swirled +on the bed, hats perched everywhere; she had lost +the wedge from the mirror so that it wagged right +forward, showing its blank side. She was taking +more from the house than herself and her luggage.</p> + +<p>“You will have a wet drive.”</p> + +<p>“The hood works,” said Marda mechanically, +throwing some rolled-up stockings out to make +room for some shoes.</p> + +<p>“Hasn’t Lois been up?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so.”</p> + +<p>“What can she be doing?”</p> + +<p>“Last time I saw her she was bouncing a tennis +ball on the dining-room wall between the portraits. +She says she has not much to do at present.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span></p> + +<p>“Anything I can⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, if you’d write my labels⁠—”</p> + +<p>“I will indeed, but I hate block printing—need +they⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m afraid I would rather⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Remarkable orange labels,” said Laurence, +taking the packet from her politely.</p> + +<p>“Here is Livvy Thompson,” he added, looking +out of the window. “She must have ridden over to +say good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t know her.”</p> + +<p>“She doesn’t know that: you have met.”</p> + +<p>Marda leaned out and called her good-byes to +Livvy, who waved and shouted up to her that she +would have a very wet drive. Marda withdrew, +shutting the window abruptly.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry,” said Laurence, “that our young +men will not have a chance to say good-bye to you.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve only met one of them—Gerald.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, you weren’t here for our last party. +What a very short time you <em>have</em> been here.... +I hope you’ll come back again soon—with your +husband?”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, it’s very kind of you.”</p> + +<p>Laurence bowed and went away with the labels.</p> + +<p>When Lois heard Livvy’s voice on the steps she +fled to the back of the house and hid in a box-room. +Sir Richard had to tell Livvy he did not +know where she was; last time he had seen her she +had been sorting out some packs of old playing-cards +in the drawing-room and seemed very busy. +Livvy was much disappointed; however, she took +her horse round, then sat in the hall to wait.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor—who had spared her attention to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>Marda with difficulty: this was a busy morning—was +agitated by this development. She stood at +the foot of the stairs, calling Lois.</p> + +<p>“She doesn’t seem to be anywhere,” Francie at +last called helpfully, from the ante-room.</p> + +<p>“But Livvy Thompson is sitting in the hall.”</p> + +<p>“Ask Hugo to find her.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t find him either.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps they have both gone out to the garden?”</p> + +<p>“Not in all this rain.”</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor sighed, gathered up two of the +kitchen kittens that were trespassing on the stairs +and plunged away through a swing door. It was +twenty to twelve: extraordinary how one’s mornings +went! Lunch was to be unnaturally early because +of Marda’s departure: evidently, Livvy would, +remain for it. She looked reproachfully into the +library. But there Sir Richard was engaged with +the herd, discussing the Darramore pig fair.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Lois was very melancholy in the box-room. +The window was dark with ivy, she could +not see out. The room was too damp for the +storage of trunks that were not finished with anyhow; +mustiness came from her mother’s old vaulted +trunks and from a stack of crushed cardboard +boxes. On the whitewash, her mother, to whom +also the box-room had been familiar, had written +L. N.; L. N., and left an insulting drawing of +somebody, probably Hugo. She had scrawled with +passion; she had never been able to draw. Lois +looked, and strained after feeling, but felt nothing. +Her problem was, not only <em>how</em> to get out unseen, +but <em>why</em>, to what purpose?</p> + +<p>She did not really know Marda well; to go up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>and offer to help her pack would surely appear +unnatural? Or worse, one might seem to be +taking advantage of yesterday? One had been +passingly intimate under the pistol’s little acute, +pig eye—but one had not spoken again of it. If +she were free, she could search the rooms for something +that looked plausibly Marda’s—a magazine, +a handkerchief—and bring it up. But then Livvy +was unavoidable, varnished up to the height of a +shine with love and bursting open with confidences +like a cotton-pod. She was appalled by these +thoughts of Livvy.</p> + +<p>But Livvy was privileged. If she chose to +announce her engagement even Sir Richard must +stop and listen. It was a passport at any frontier, +that kind of announcement. Spurred by an impulse +she did not examine, Lois picked up two cardboard +lids and with infinite breathlessness crept from the +box-room. Through the back-stairs banisters she +peered and listened. Lady Naylor had given up +calling, but could still be heard complaining to +some one in the basement that she did not know +where Lois was.</p> + +<p>Marda had finished packing, but felt it would +not be decent to reappear so soon. Especially +when weather did not permit of the “last walk,” +a formal parade of the grounds with her host and +hostess before lunch-time. She was pleased to see +Lois appear in the doorway.</p> + +<p>“I brought up some cardboard in case you were +packing photographs.”</p> + +<p>“But I haven’t got any photographs.”</p> + +<p>“And you’re packed ... Would you like me to +sit on anything?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span></p> + +<p>“No, I think they will all shut.”</p> + +<p>“What about Leslie?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he is in talc—unbreakable.”</p> + +<p>“I say, I have never seen your engagement +ring.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, we must see the ring,” called Laurence, +from over the landing. Surprised by a sudden +stillness inside the whirlwind, he had been settling +down to a half-morning’s work. But he came +across and breathed on the ring with Lois, in an +imitation of reverence, then returned to his work, +shutting the door loudly. Lady Naylor was heard +on the stairs again, talking to some one below as +she came up. Lois uttered an exclamation of despair +and dashed behind a window curtain. Lady +Naylor came in with some cake in a cardboard box. +She said she did not believe the train had a tea-car, +but that Marda should be able to get a tea-basket +at Ballybrophy. “But I am sure you won’t care +for tea-basket cakes, we none of us do.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you <em>so</em> much⁠—”</p> + +<p>“My dear,” said her hostess, “it is really a terrible +pity about your hand. Especially as it’s the +left hand, as I’m afraid you will have to be conventional +and start wearing your ring again, now +you are going to England. It is extraordinary, +Marda, the way things happen to you.”</p> + +<p>“We must be thankful,” said Marda, “that +nothing worse has happened this time.” Both +thinking of Hugo, they looked at each other benevolently, +brightly and blankly. “At least she has +not thought of <em>that</em>,” they both thought.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor looked with surprise at Lois’s feet. +“If you are hiding there,” she said, “it is simply +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>silly. I have been calling you everywhere. Livvy +is waiting for you down in the hall.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t want to see her.”</p> + +<p>“But she is waiting for you in the hall.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve got nothing to say and I’m sick of always +having to keep on saying it.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t help that, she is your friend. And +I thought her feelings seemed very much hurt.”</p> + +<p>“She will stay to lunch, you know,” Lois retorted.</p> + +<p>“How fickle girls are!” said Lady Naylor, sitting +down on the window-sill. Her manner of sitting +and waiting most strongly encouraged an exit.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor was more than busy, but could not +resist this last opportunity to discover, before the +veil of an international marriage descended, what +Marda really thought of the English. For nothing +of Leslie was Irish except his aunts.</p> + +<p>“Of course really,” she said, “you are very +adaptable. I dare say we all are, but with some of +us it does not have to come into play. I dare say +you’ll be very happy indeed. Where did you think +of living?”</p> + +<p>Leslie had thought of London, Marda confessed +an omission on her part.</p> + +<p>“Of course that is hardly England,” said Lady +Naylor, encouraging. “And of course it will be +lovely for you being able to go abroad so easily; +you will be so much nearer everything. And +you will have no neighbours, one never has, I +believe.”</p> + +<p>“Demoralizing ...”</p> + +<p>“You could certainly never be happy living like +Anna Partridge. She has an unnaturally sweet +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>disposition: I often pity her.... I always find +the great thing in England is to have plenty to say, +and mercifully they are determined to find one +amusing. But if one stops talking, they tell one +the most extraordinary things, about their husbands, +their money affairs, their insides. They +don’t seem discouraged by not being asked. And +they seem so intimate with each other; I suppose +it comes from living so close together. Of course +they are very definite and practical, but it is a pity +they talk so much about what they are doing. I +can’t think why they think it should matter: supposing +I came up here and insisted on telling you +what I had been doing the whole morning!”</p> + +<p>Marda, feeling how true this must be, pulled +open an empty drawer and looked into it, much +depressed.</p> + +<p>“Though I don’t think it is fair,” pursued Lady +Naylor, “to say they have no sense of humour, and +of course they are anxious not to appear conventional, +and they are kindness itself once they have +‘placed’ one.... Marda, surely you are not +going to travel in that thin coat? Well, for heaven’s +sake do not develop a cold till it can be obvious +that you haven’t caught it here. How very unfortunate +you have been in your weather! Just that +one fine day at Castle Isabel and yesterday evening +when you went for your walk. Before you came +it was brilliant—such a pity you missed our last +party—and as I was saying⁠— Why, Hugo ...”</p> + +<p>He did not seem pleased to be with them. He +was nonplussed at finding the door open, having +prepared to tap on it inexpressively. Francie had +insisted on sending him up with some eau-de-Cologne. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>She expected that Marda, being so +modern, would not care for eau-de-Cologne, but +wanted to give her some little token for the journey: +this was all she could think of. To the idea of +this present he offered surprising resistance. Or +could she not take up her present herself? Her +large eyes of protest reminded him—their plan of +life must eliminate stairs for her; already, she had +been up to the top once. So here he was, prepared +to recede three steps when Marda should come to +her door: he was of that school.</p> + +<p>He stood back from the door, looking past with +surprise at the room’s non-committal features—the +chairs, the window—as though he were specially +struck by there being a room at all in this part of +the house, and especially this room. Some tree-tops +fidgeted under his scrutiny. Where had he +been all the morning, his hostess wanted to know; +no one could find him. Indeed? They could not +have looked far: for he had been in the dining-room, +down at the dark end, taking out those old +<i>Illustrated London News</i>, old bound volumes he +remembered since he was a boy. There was that +Tsar being bombed by Nihilists: very interesting.</p> + +<p>“I can’t think how any of those Tsars had any +confidence,” said Lady Naylor gloomily.</p> + +<p>He looked doubtfully at the bottle of eau-de-Cologne; +Lady Naylor asked at once what he +had there, was told, and exclaimed at Francie’s +imagination.</p> + +<p>“There is nothing like eau-de-Cologne at the +end of a crossing, when one is trying to look like +something again. Of course, it may not be so +bad to-night: at present I don’t like the look of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>those trees. Our inland weather does sometimes +go by contraries; it may be surprisingly calm when +one gets to Kingstown. I often wonder if living +on an island does not make one more deeply religious—the +French, for instance, could never have our +sense of dependence—though of course they have +railway accidents. But I shouldn’t think of it, +Marda, that’s much the best way. I am sure one +is often sea-sick from nervousness.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what Miss Norton’s friends will +think of her hand,” said Hugo. “Their worst +suspicions will be confirmed; they will think we have +been shooting at her. Her stumble was most +unfortunate.”</p> + +<p>“I ought to have brought back that piece of +slate from the mill.”</p> + +<p>“I hold you responsible, Hugo; you should not +have let her go climbing about. Never mind, +it will give them something to talk about.”</p> + +<p>“You must draw on your imagination,” said +Hugo to Marda. “Don’t let them suspect how +tame we all are. They will expect you to be a bit +of a heroine; you must tell them everything that +might have happened.”</p> + +<p>Marda, finding a place for the bottle of eau-de-Cologne +at the top of her dressing-case, declared: +“That would be inexhaustible.”</p> + +<p>“They may think it odd that you should have +cut the <em>back</em> of your hand....”</p> + +<p>The three closed suitcases had a look of finality. +Marda wished to go down and find Francie and +thank her, they all three crossed the landing at a +high pitch of affability. Laurence gripped the +hair over his temples in larger handfuls and crouched +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>lower down over his book. His thoughts, tight +with concentration, were darkened by a wave of +malignance. Marda’s door, which no one had shut, +remained flapping and clicking.</p> + +<p>In the yard, under the dripping chestnuts, Lois +and Livvy walked about in their mackintoshes. +This afternoon, Lois intended to wash the dogs; +they might anticipate the occasion by disappearance, +so she thought it better to go down now—they +had had their dinners—and shut them up in the +stables. They had gone up and looked for no +reason into the loft, at the chaff and the dead swallows. +They went back slowly, listening in vain for +the gong.</p> + +<p>“It seems odd,” said Livvy, “she should be going +away; she seems to have only just come. I generally +get so accustomed to your visitors. I have said +good-bye to her once—I had no idea I should be +staying to luncheon. However, I don’t suppose +she will remember, she seemed rather flurried. +Laurence was up there with her; it seems odd to me +to have a man in one’s bedroom even in the morning, +but I dare say she is rather cosmopolitan.... It +does seem a pity, Lois, you forgot to ask her about +that jumper pattern.”</p> + +<p>“Do you remember those Black and Tans on the +Clonmore road? They always remind me of her.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” said Livvy. Then with her holy look, +which Lois had up to now managed to keep in +abeyance, she added: “That was a memorable day +for me, naturally.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” said Lois crossly.</p> + +<p>“David and I decided to go to Cork.”</p> + +<p>“I thought you said that was just chance.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span></p> + +<p>“It was predestination. Now I must tell you, +Lois⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Things that have come just before people seem +like part of them.”</p> + +<p>“How you do talk ...”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t.”</p> + +<p>“Lois,” said Livvy sagaciously, “I hope things +are not going wrong between you and Gerald?” +Since her engagement, she spoke of all young men +by their Christian names and made motherly little +impulsive advances in all directions, like Mrs. +Vermont.</p> + +<p>Hugo wished to return to the <i>Illustrated London +News</i>, but the parlourmaid was laying the table +and looked at him in surprise. In the hall the two +young girls, hair damp from their excursion, were +playing left-hand catch with a tennis ball. So he +had to go into the library where his wife and Marda +were still talking about eau-de-Cologne—Marda +against the mantelpiece, bright and hard-looking +in her coat and skirt. Eau-de-Cologne wasn’t +scent, Francie summed up; she hated scent for it +seemed a kind of advertisement. Sir Richard +joined them; they all four talked in an eager, +unnatural way, as though they had just met for the +first time.</p> + +<p>Indeed, the unfamiliarity of the moment made +them strange to themselves, though it now seemed +to have been waiting ahead of them like a trap +into which they had stepped with a degree of +naturalness. Sir Richard, the least affected, thought +the Montmorencys unduly animated and deplored +departures. Visitors took form gradually in his +household, coming out of a haze of rumour, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>seemed but lightly, pleasantly superimposed on the +vital pattern till a departure tore great shreds from +the season’s texture. Francie rubbed the palms of +her hands lightly on the tapestry of the chair-arms. +She knew that life was unkind and that Marda must +have begun at least to suspect this; she wondered +how much Marda had understood from the eau-de-Cologne. +Marda, turned half-away from them, +tapped a tune on the edge of the mantelpiece, +laughed at every shade of a silence and felt how +resolutely Hugo did not look at her now. There +was to be no opportunity for what he must not say +to be father painfully not said. Hugo wished +there had been a fire: the room was cold with rain +and branches went restlessly up and down beyond +the windows. Her face and figure, at which he +dared not look, compelled his imagination with +ghostly sharpness.</p> + +<p>“You will have a very wet drive, I’m afraid,” +said Sir Richard finally. To Francie, the remark +had a faint echo. Had it been what she was going +to say, or had she once said it?</p> + +<p>Outside in the hall, Livvy skidded over the edge +of a rug and came down heavily, knocking over a +wicker chair. The tennis ball bounced away, +Lois shrieked her condolences. They all made a +movement of consternation and were delighted.</p> + +<p>Livvy came into luncheon fragrant with Pond’s +Extract, a shiny patch on her chin. She kept +putting up a finger and feeling the bump: David +must “kiss it better” for her to-morrow. David +should have witnessed her courage: he seemed +increasingly struck by her moral qualities; he had +never observed these things in a girl before. Yesterday +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>he had taken her over to tea at the Vermonts; +at her suggestion, they had “told” the Vermonts, +in confidence. It had been a success: she had +been made to feel at once she belonged to the +regiment. She had had no idea Mrs. Vermont was +so jolly; she had taken Livvy off for a real little +chat in her bedroom; they agreed what a rag it +would be if the regiment went to China. Livvy +looked voluptuously from Sir Richard to Lady +Naylor, thinking what a surprise she had here for +them both. She ate two helpings of fricasseed +chicken, in absolute silence, designing her trousseau +dressing-gown; and old Mr. Montmorency, who +sat beside her, did not speak either.</p> + +<p>“I like lunch at one,” said Lady Naylor, surprised. +“It shortens the morning, but gives one +so much more time in the afternoon. I can’t think +why we don’t have it always.”</p> + +<p>“I see no reason why we should not, my dear,” +said Sir Richard, who, unlike an English husband, +was not conservative in these matters.</p> + +<p>The car came round twenty minutes too early, +but Sir Richard said the chauffeur was quite right. +He could hardly bear to let Marda drink her coffee +and was but slightly mollified when she burnt herself. +Mr. Montmorency sugared his coffee twice +over, to Livvy’s delight. They drank coffee out +in the hall, standing up; it was like the Passover. +Marda went upstairs and came down in her travelling +coat. Hugo stood at the foot of the stairs, +in the back hall, tightening the screws of his racquet +press.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you for being +nice to me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh,” said he, looking blindly at her with his +pale eyes, “have I been nice to you? Good!”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye—Marda.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t come on to the steps⁠—”</p> + +<p>“No, I’ll finish this press⁠—”</p> + +<p>They both half-turned, heard the pendulum of +the clock swing once: she went on into the hall. +Everybody was there but Lois.</p> + +<p>Lois stood behind the door in the drawing-room, +waiting. “Marda,” she said through the crack. +“Hullo?” said Marda. She came round the door, +pushing it a little way to behind her. They +kissed.</p> + +<p>“Marda, I can’t⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Never mind.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Darling!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Be good!”</p> + +<p>“Happy journey!”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes.” They parted.</p> + +<p>Marda came back to the hall, not looking at +anybody in particular, putting her gloves on. Lady +Naylor asked her if she had packed the cake. +Sir Richard patted her arm and said she was a +good girl and must be sure and be happy—then +looked very much abashed and startled at what +he had done. Laurence looked bored, so bored; +she was sorry for Laurence. She said: “I am really +going.” “I’m sorry you’re going, I don’t think +it’s⁠—” They shook hands, he immediately +turned—rather rudely, his uncle thought, and +walked into the library.</p> + +<p>After all, there were only Sir Richard and Lady +Naylor and Francie to wave Marda off from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>steps and watch the car up the avenue into a veil of +rain. Rather few, they felt, considering what a +dear she had been and how they had come to love +her. Wondering why and where the others had +gone, they tried to present the broadest possible +expanse of smile and flutter. And of this effort +the flick of Marda’s gloved finger-tips round the +hood conveyed the friendliest, the most satirical +recognition.</p> + +<p>“Well, that’s that,” said Livvy, at last discovering +Lois in the drawing-room. “Partings make me +ever so sad. Now listen, Lois⁠—”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I’m not well, I’ve eaten something,” +said Lois. “I’m sorry⁠—” She clapped her +handkerchief to her mouth and fled from the +drawing-room by the other door, stumbling over the +<i lang="fr">portière</i>. Livvy went a little way after her, talking, +then came back: “It is a disadvantage to a girl,” +she reflected, “that kind of stomach.”</p> + +<p>Lois found in the empty spare room a piece of +paper that crept on the floor like a living handkerchief. +Through the defenceless windows came in +the vacancy of the sky; the grey ceiling had gone +up in remoteness. More wind came through, +flowers moved in the vases, the pages of a book +left open beside the bed turned over hurriedly. +The pillow was dinted, as though half-way through +packing Marda had lain down lazily. Or as +though since last night the pillow had not forgotten +the feel of her head.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_DEPARTURE_OF_GERALD"> + THE DEPARTURE OF GERALD + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XVII"> + XVII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>CAPTAIN and Mrs. Rolfe of the Gunners +were giving a dance in their hut. Denise +Rolfe and her dearest friend Betty Vermont +of the Rutlands had been more than busy the whole +morning. Flustered and happy, they darted about +the hut, cutting sandwiches, scattering floor powder, +pinning draperies round the walls. They masked +the electric lights with pink crinkly paper to produce +the desired enchantment. Every now and then, +one would collapse on to what remained of the furniture +and, catching the other’s eyes, burst into +delighted laughter. It was all such a rag. They +smoked cigarettes and ground the ash into the floor +to enrich the polish; they tried the new records over +again and again till Mrs. Rolfe declared that the +needles would give out and snapped down the lid +of the gramophone resolutely.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rolfe’s Colonel disapproved tacitly; Colonel +Boatley did not think the dance was a good idea +either. Entertainments in barracks had been given +up long ago. But it was not easy to veto what +ladies described as “a little fun in the huts.” Married +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>quarters in barracks were limited; as the army +of occupation was reinforced, lines of hutments +began to extend up the hill at the back of the Gunner +barracks. There was nothing to beat these hut +dances; for one thing, the floors were so springy. +And the fewer the couples, the more intimate the +occasion. Denise and Betty both thought with +contempt of the Rutlands’ official dance in the +barrack gymnasium, full of majors waltzing, where +you were nearly blown off the floor by the regimental +bassoon.</p> + +<p>“All the same,” said Betty, rubbing a board with +her toe, a shade despondent, “I wish this would +polish <em>more</em>. You’re certain it won’t be sticky?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing could be stickier than the C.O.,” said +Denise wittily. “If it wasn’t for him, we should +be keeping it up till breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“It’s these wretched patrols and things,” said +Mrs. Vermont.</p> + +<p>“It seems odd being short of girls. I do feel I +should be getting my sister over.”</p> + +<p>“There will be heaps for to-night,” said Mrs. +Vermont, who thought people’s young sisters rather +a bother. The ladies of the neighbourhood had +praised Mrs. Rolfe’s kind intentions, but said that +they feared the roads were not fit for their girls these +nights. But their girls, meeting Mrs. Vermont at +the tennis club, had told her they would be certain +to come. “In fact, if they all come,” said Mrs. +Vermont, apprehensive, “I may have to telephone +down to the mess for some more of our boys.”</p> + +<p>Captain Rolfe came off duty at lunch-time, and +during the afternoon friends kept dropping in, by +twos and singly, with offers to help.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span></p> + +<p>“But don’t <em>look!</em>” shrieked Denise every time, +flinging herself against the wall to conceal the +draperies. “It’s all a surprise for to-night.” The +subalterns, after a hasty look round, prepared to +be perfectly blind. They began to slide industriously, +buffeted on the head by the Chinese lanterns +which Betty had hung too low. Tubby, Mr. +Simcox, sat down on a mat and was whisked round +the room by his friends to perform the functions +of polisher.</p> + +<p>“Really,” volunteered some one, “we ought to +be rolling the floor with champagne bottles....”</p> + +<p>Girls who succeeded in coming over for the dance +had arranged to be “put up” in Clonmore, or in +married quarters. The two Miss Raltes from +Castle Ralte in the Tipperary direction looked in +about four o’clock, pink from a twelve-mile drive +and parental opposition. Father, in fact, had been +more than difficult. “He says,” said Moira Ralte, +looking beatifically round at the decorations, “that +the whole proceeding is not only criminal but +lunatic. He says he can’t understand the C.O. +allowing it, with the country the way it is. We +really did think, till we got past the gates, he was +going to stop us.”</p> + +<p>“But we came,” said Cicely. Every one laughed. +The Miss Raltes had been cast as wild young Irish +and rather liked themselves. But they exchanged +glances, uneasy. It had not been quite the thing, +perhaps, to have laughed at Father.</p> + +<p>“It takes two to make a war,” said Mrs. Rolfe +wisely. “<em>We</em>’re not fighting.”</p> + +<p>“More’s the pity,” said a Mr. Daventry of the +Rutlands with violence. “<em>God</em>, if they’d⁠—” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>The Miss Raltes, unaccustomed to swearing, looked +down their noses. There was a moment of slight +discomfort, of national consciousness.</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t it be a rag,” said Moira, relieving the +tension tactfully, “if they tried to fire in at the windows +while we were dancing?”</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> shall draw the curtains!” cried Mrs. Vermont.</p> + +<p>Cicely glanced at the gramophone, hummed a +fox-trot and tapped her heel on the floor, looking +most unconscious. But the subalterns continued +to slide violently, rebounding against each other, +and dancing was not begun till the D.I.’s niece came +in. The D.I.’s niece came in with a flourish and +was greeted with uproar. She was priceless. She +had light-red hair fluffed over her forehead, a wide +smile punctuated by gaps in her teeth and tireless +repartee in a Cork accent. Denise and Betty +adored her. She was a Catholic, it seemed so queer +to think that she worshipped the Pope. The Miss +Raltes hardly knew her. As she came in, Daventry +opened his arms, she ran into them with a gurgle +and they began to dance. The gramophone spurted +hoarse music; other couples followed the gramophone.</p> + +<p>Mr. Daventry, the senior subaltern, elegant, tall +and a shade satanic, was “taken,” obviously, with +the queer little person. She could talk and dance +at once with an equal skimmingness and she did. +Daventry shook her, murmuring: “Do shut up!” +He whispered into her hair that she danced +like thistledown and that he hated to have it +spoilt.</p> + +<p>“Like how much?” shrieked the D.I.’s niece +above the music, bobbing her face up at him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Rolfe, as distracted hostess, allowed herself +to drift into the arms of the adjutant, who had +looked in for a moment or two. He spoke of himself +as a busy man, but she knew this to be a pose. +She danced remotely and kept repeating: “Glasses +for claret cup ... Glasses for cider cup ... +Cigarettes ... Cover the washstand ...”</p> + +<p>“Washstand?” said the adjutant, solicitous.</p> + +<p>“They will have to sit out in Percy’s and my bedroom. +Do you think it will matter?”</p> + +<p>The adjutant took a firmer grip of Mrs. Rolfe, +an ethereal girl with a habit of drifting just out of +one’s reach like a kite. He gulped, and said rather +too genially: “It will be no end of a rag to-night. +We—we must make the most of it; it may be the +last for a bit. As it is, we’re doubling the guards. +The C.O.⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Pig!” said Denise, looking deep into the adjutant’s +eyes.</p> + +<p>“Mum,” said the adjutant, blinking. “And +another thing: I’m afraid you won’t have Dobson of +the Rutlands, I’ve just met him—he’s to be out on +patrol.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but he <em>said</em> he’d get out of that! Oh, but +he promised me⁠—”</p> + +<p>“He’d no business to; he’s been due for patrol +for ages. Their C.O.⁠—”</p> + +<p>“He spoils everything. Captain Dobson is one +of my best dancers.” She stopped short and turned +off the gramophone. “Listen, Percy! They’re +sending Captain Dobson out on patrol at a moment’s +notice. <em>Now</em> I’d like to know what I’m supposed +to do? I’d calculated the numbers exactly.”</p> + +<p>“But, Dens,” said her husband, conscientiously. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>“We had four men spare. And you’re certain of +Lesworth and Armstrong.”</p> + +<p>“<em>He</em> won’t count!” They all laughed: Betty +had told a few friends in confidence ...</p> + +<p>“And for a matter of that,” Denise still clouded, +complained to the adjutant, “Mr. Lesworth won’t +count much either. He’s awfully keen on the +Farquar girl.”</p> + +<p>The adjutant thought: “These attachments!” +His C.O. did not like these attachments, either. +The gramophone in a perceptibly minor key began +again, they went on dancing.</p> + +<p>“Suppose,” said the D.I.’s niece, during an +interval, “all we girls are left sitting to-night and +nobody comes to dance with us?”</p> + +<p>“Dance with each other,” said Cicely Ralte firmly.</p> + +<p>“But I wouldn’t care to dance without men,” +said the D.I.’s niece, frankly languishing. She +had hoisted herself on to the cabinet that held the +records and sat swinging her legs in their shiny +stockings and pulling her dazzlingly checked skirt +over her knees. Her green eyes roamed round, +returning attention confidently.</p> + +<p>Daventry, a hand on the edge of the cabinet, stood +leaning with his back to the wall’s art-muslin +draperies. He kept shutting his eyes; whenever +he stopped dancing he noticed that he had a headache. +He had been out in the mountains all night +and most of the morning, searching some houses +for guns that were known to be there. He had +received special orders to ransack the beds, and to +search with particular strictness the houses where +men were absent and women wept loudest and +prayed. Nearly all beds had contained very old +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>women or women with very new babies, but the +N.C.O., who was used to the work, insisted that +they must go through with it. Daventry still felt +sickish, still stifled with thick air and womanhood, +dazed from the din. Daventry had been shell-shocked, +he was now beginning to hate Ireland, +lyrically, explicitly; down to the very feel of the air +and smell of the water. If it were not for dancing a +good deal, whisky, bridge, ragging about in the +huts, whisky again, he did not know what would +become of him, he would go over the edge, quite +mad, he supposed. He opened his eyes: afternoon +light lay in bars on the smoky air. The flash of his +partner’s legs in their glassy stockings exasperated +him, he gripped one of her ankles—harshly, as +though it had been a man’s. She kicked, and a +high-heeled slipper went rocketing through the +air. A forest of hands went up. The D.I.’s niece +looked down complacently on the compact and +plaited backs of the subalterns. The other girls +tittered and hung on the outskirts.</p> + +<p>“Oh, take care,” wailed Denise, “mind my +draperies!” She freed an end of the muslin and, +as no one listened, began with angry laughter to +pepper them all with floor-powder. The D.I.’s +niece looked at Daventry queerly and suddenly: +their eyes were now on a level. His eyes, dark +with fatigue and nervousness, were set in too close +together, like a good-looking shark’s.</p> + +<p>Cicely Ralte yawned slightly; the struggle did +not abate. “We shall all be tired when it comes +to to-night,” she said to the adjutant.</p> + +<p>But he said: “Here comes Miss Farquar, looking +as fresh as paint.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span></p> + +<p>Lois came to the door with David Armstrong. +Livvy would not come up to the hut till this evening, +she would be confused, she feared; she didn’t +know how much they knew. She was down in +Clonmore now, buying sophisticated-looking black +pansies to wear in her dress. She and Lois were +spending the night in Clonmore, with the Fogartys. +Lois was dazed still from her long drive under the +strained white sunless sky. Sir Richard and Lady +Naylor had viewed her departure with the gloomiest +apprehensions, but Francie had insisted she would +enjoy herself. It must be flat for her these few +days, Francie said, after Marda had gone. And +she had slipped a sachet of Californian Poppy into +the top of the suitcase, with Lois’s green tulle dress.</p> + +<p>Lois and David looked through the door at the +young men all in a tangle with a sensation of helplessness, +as though it devolved on themselves to +unwind them. Then they stepped in and shook +hands with Mrs. Rolfe and her girl friends. Lois, +pleasing the adjutant by her freshness, wore a light-blue +felt hat and a blue cardigan. She suspected +she should not be walking about the camp without +a chaperon, but could not see how to avoid this: +she had come up here to look for Mrs. Vermont. +She went pink from the heat of the room and felt +Mr. Daventry look at her—then shut his eyes +again. There was a desperation about Mr. Daventry +she could have loved. But he apparently +craved relaxation: she had found out she did not +relax Mr. Daventry.</p> + +<p>Gerald was not here—she guessed from the eyes +of commiseration. He was a serious dancer and +did not care to tire himself by sliding. Possibly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>he was on duty, possibly would be waiting at Mr. +Fogarty’s. Now, she could remember nothing of +him but the leg he had drawn so tenderly into the +armoured car. She had heard nothing of him from +that moment; he might have been sealed up permanently +in tin, like a lobster. Did he regret the +kiss?—he had not added a word to it.</p> + +<p>Mr. Simcox, the fattest and sweetest of all the +Gunners, started the gramophone with an eye on +herself and came to ask for a dance. He looked +so hot, she said she would rather wait till the evening. +“Remember,” said Mr. Simcox, spreading +a hand on his heart. And by some mysterious +evocation, the hut, lit up, vibrated; the air was +warm like smoke on her cool arm, and she went +throbbing along with Gerald, feeling his hand on +her back through her thin dress—too near to see +each other—his lashes reverent by her hair. She +thought she need not worry about her youth; it +wasted itself spontaneously, like sunshine elsewhere +or firelight in an empty room.</p> + +<p>She thanked Mr. Simcox and said she would keep +number six and would not lose count. Mrs. Vermont, +looking peevish suddenly, said it was tea-time +now and shooed the young men out of the +hut like chickens. They dispersed through the +mud in the tired, wise light of the afternoon.</p> + +<p>That evening a wind came up. Lois and Livvy +dressed in Mrs. Fogarty’s spare room, stumbling +round the edge of the large bed. They took turns +at the looking-glass; in the intervals of their toilet +they ran to the window to look out. It was strange +and pleasant to Lois to be in a town again. The +square, where some crisp leaves whirled autumnly, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>was pervaded by an excitement. Though only +twelve couples had been invited to Mrs. Rolfe’s +dance, all Clonmore seemed to know of it. People +kept coming out quickly through the swing doors +of the Imperial. Some one played half a waltz and +broke off, discouraged; two commercial travellers +clapped one another on the shoulder. Livvy +pinned the black pansies under her bosom and +turned to invite admiration. Lois thought the +pansies looked common, but, knowing they must +have cost four-and-six, said they were most original. +Lois’s green tulle dress slipped over her head like a +cataract. She shone, coming out through the top +of it. If only Marda could see her ... It was +half-past six: she had promised herself to think of +Marda.</p> + +<p>They were dressing early, they were to dine with +a Mrs. Perkins up in the huts. Mrs. Perkins could +not promise there would be much for dinner, but +after all this was Ireland and it would be rather +jolly.</p> + +<p>Captain Vermont was to call for them: they +buttoned their over-coats over their ball-dresses. +Mrs. Fogarty kissed them half-way downstairs, +and warned them not to break hearts. She would +see them later, she was coming to watch the dance.</p> + +<p>Since the acquisition of Betty, Captain Vermont’s +stock of conversation to pretty young things had +given out naturally; biologically the time was past +for it. They walked rather silently up past the +barracks and picked their way over the mud between +the huts. A chill of darkness was coming down on +the air. The wind came, knife-like, down through +the lines of huts from the mountain, over a gulf of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>land where the farms were dark—apprehensive, +the young girls patted the whorls of their hair. +The Perkins’ hut exposed a flank to the wind; it +was chilly, one slipped one’s bare arms out of one’s +coat reluctantly, going to table.</p> + +<p>The dinner was not so jolly as Lois had feared. +Mrs. Perkins looked distraite and had a whispered +argument with her husband about a tin-opener. +Mrs. Vermont could talk of nothing but poor +Denise (“As though,” said Livvy, “she were having +at least a baby instead of only a dance”). Captain +Perkins and Captain Vermont apologized repeatedly +to the girls for being old and married; their +wives told them not to be so silly. Their wives +said the girls could perfectly well see there was no +room for young men here; already their six chairs +grated against the match-boarding. The girls +would have young men in the course of the evening. +Lois agreed politely, but Livvy wished they had +stayed to dinner down in Clonmore where one +could have at least watched Mr. Fogarty drink. +She sat squinting, watching the wasted powder +flake off her nose.</p> + +<p>A bottle of white wine was divided among the +ladies with depressing impartiality; the men drank +whisky. Mrs. Perkins’ pince-nez glittered with +more animation. But the wind like a lunatic +fidgeted with the hut, frames creaked, doors rattled, +a shudder went down the walls; a gust through a +crack set the lights dementedly swinging. During +a strained little silence, between two gusts of the +wind, Mrs. Vermont observed that an angel must +be passing over the house; she wanted them to +listen for its wings. They listened; they thought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>of empty country blotted out by the darkness. +“Quiet here, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Perkins.</p> + +<p>“Better not circulate too far between the dances,” +said Captain Perkins, “and don’t go down to the +wires. It’s dark, for one thing; we don’t want any +of these girls lost.”</p> + +<p>“Grandpa!” said Mrs. Vermont. Livvy noted, +there seemed some communal feeling between the +married: any wife could be faintly rude to anyone +else’s husband. “I don’t go for walks between +dances,” said Livvy, bridling.</p> + +<p>“You don’t know what you’ll do <em>now!</em>” said Mrs. +Vermont, and they all laughed.</p> + +<p>Lois was anxious, there was a tight little ball in +her throat; she could hardly swallow. She was +always “strung-up” before a dance. But to-night +it was worse; she had not the expectation of being +claimed: she was really doubtful. She had not had +a word from Gerald; he hadn’t been round to the +Fogartys’. Was she not nice to kiss; was he disappointed? +Her green frock glinted under the +light; she kept looking down at her breast, and into +her lap, where the folds ran off in shadow under the +table. If he were not there when she came, if she +did not see him before he saw her (as she came uphill +in the dark) standing full in pink light by the +door, staring eagerly on to the slab of darkness that +was to give her up—she should die, she thought. +For this morning she had written to Viola that she +intended to marry Gerald.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XVIII"> + XVIII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>THE Rolfes’ door swung open and shut; +bursts from the gramophone came downhill +like somebody coughing. As the +Perkins’ party stepped up from the duckboards +Gerald spun past the door with the D.I.’s niece, +in a nimbus of gauze draperies. The room was +sticky with strawberry light, unlit lanterns wobbled +between the electric light cords; the dancers seemed +to be moving slowly in jam. A group of young +men stood by the door, coughing. But one hadn’t +yet made one’s official appearance: Lois blinked and +began to tug out her silver shoes from her pockets; +somebody pulled her on down a passage to change.</p> + +<p>In what Denise called the kitchenette at the end +of the passage the five spare men were smoking, +looking into their glasses of whisky and wishing to +play bridge. Lois looked in and they all waved to +her, but Livvy pulled her away quickly: she said +that must be the gentlemen’s cloak-room. Lois +met, with surprise, her own eyes of interrogation +in six inches of mirror between the coats.</p> + +<p>David came to claim Livvy, Betty went swooning +off over the chalky lake of the floor with Mr. Simcox, +Mr. Daventry stared at the passage door with +severity, balanced his cigarette on the rim of the +gramophone and came up to Lois and frowned, without +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>speaking. He opened his arms slowly. They +danced; she had no idea she could dance so beautifully. +At the end of the record Mr. Daventry impassively +moved back the needle again. “Tiring day,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t think so.” They went on dancing.</p> + +<p>The D.I.’s niece picked off ends of her tangerine +draperies from various parts of Gerald and walked +away with an aquiline-looking gunner. Over Lois’s +temple Mr. Daventry’s jaw moved slightly; his neck +muscles strained. Again he revived the gramophone. +Lois, breathless, said: “Isn’t there going to be an +interval?” “Not necessarily,” replied Mr. Daventry. +Meanwhile, one wall of the hut seemed +propped against Gerald’s rigid, resentful back.</p> + +<p>“What a crowd ...”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon?”</p> + +<p>She did not speak again. Anxiously dancing, she +merely constituted Mr. Daventry’s revenge. Mrs. +Vermont, going past Gerald, said: “Oh, diddums?” +She asked Mr. Simcox if he had noticed, nice-looking +boys looked their nicest sulky? Mr. Simcox, +looking round so carefully that he missed a step, said +he would not call that <em>sulky</em> ... More worried.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense, Tubby, what’s he got to worry about?”</p> + +<p>“You never know.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Simcox was a bit of a philosopher, because +he was so fat. He gave up Mrs. Vermont with a +sigh to another young man and went across for +somebody’s young, shy sister. “No luck?” he said +on the way, to Gerald. And Gerald looked at him +candidly, with despair.</p> + +<p>The evening “went” with a rush, with a kind of +high impetuousness out of everybody’s control. +Every one looked and spoke and danced close up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>with a kind of exalted helplessness; intimacy tightened +the very air. Sandwiches were ambrosia, +brightening the eyes; rims of plates went electric +where fingers touched. Mrs. Rolfe laughed all +the time, you would have said with despair. She +climbed past couples very close up at the darkest +part of the passage, she entered the kitchenette +with a shriek and swept some cards from the table. +The spare men danced with each other. She ran +in and out of her bedroom, shaking a plate of chocolates +at the couples sitting out on the chest-o’-drawers +and on the washstand covered with Turkish +cushions. If the hut had risen and soared up into +the air, so that some one stepping out at the door +had to step back dizzily, she would hardly have been +surprised. Indeed, two subalterns running down +to the mess for more siphons did leap to the mud +as from a great height.</p> + +<p>The room was hot; they drew the curtains back +and opened the windows, then were stared in at +oddly by hard little squares of night. Couples +went out for walks, to cool their faces. Livvy was +kissed twice and went off to powder her chin. “Of +course, this is post-war madness,” said Mr. Simcox, +standing beside a window.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes,” agreed Lois.</p> + +<p>“Awful, really.... I expect <em>you</em> understand +what I mean?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes.” Wishing Mr. Simcox were not +intrigued, she put her two hands out of the window, +as into a well, to feel wind cold on her wrists. +Gerald came up behind her.</p> + +<p>“Mine next,” he said, as though they had just +parted. “What a row!” he yelled.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span></p> + +<p>“This jazz,” said Simcox. “They ought to have +let me bring my band,” complained Gerald, “it +wouldn’t have taken up much more room than Mrs. +Fogarty.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Fogarty had indeed come in and sat at the +end of the room in a purple tea-gown. Her circumference +was enormous, her feet stuck out +beyond it—but she was such a darling. Every time +a couple stumbled over her feet she beamed and +nodded in the friendliest way. She had just whispered +to Gerald, who brought her a glass of lemonade: +“Here, where’s <em>your</em> girl?” And her eyes had +rolled at him, dark with worry. Gerald could not +have borne to disappoint Mrs. Fogarty.</p> + +<p>Gerald did not dance silently. His hand supported +her wrist, cool and familiar. Lois felt she was +home again; safe from deserted rooms, the penetration +of silences, rain, homelessness. Nothing mattered: +she could have gone to sleep. But he woke her.</p> + +<p>“Look here: what have I done?”</p> + +<p>“How⁠—?” said she, quite inadequate.</p> + +<p>“You <em>know</em>. But why are you—why must we⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Gerald—oh, do be—sssh!”</p> + +<p>A couple sheered off from them.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t think you’d be cruel,” he said to her +hair, almost confidentially.</p> + +<p>“But it’s you who’ve been cutting me.”</p> + +<p>“But how? When? You’ve never once looked—Lois, +you’re lovely, but you’re so—”</p> + +<p>“Look here, we can’t talk and dance.”</p> + +<p>“Which does that mean you <em>don’t</em> want to do?”</p> + +<p>She looked at a button of his mess coat. “Talk,” +she said after a little contented interval. He slid +his hand up her wrist, they danced on. The D.I.’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>niece trailed past them, laughing at Daventry: they +had a pool of space to themselves on the crowded +floor. The pink room melted round, beatific and +syrupy. He was closer than ever under the lovely +compulsion of movement.</p> + +<p>“You do dance divinely.”</p> + +<p>“What?” he said, like the ghost of Daventry. +Some one stopped the gramophone, they looked at +each other, shocked. Something had made him +absurdly unhappy: she would have liked to have +comforted him.</p> + +<p>“Let’s go out.”</p> + +<p>“Won’t it be cold for you?”</p> + +<p>“Gerald,” said she, discouraged, “don’t be an aunt.”</p> + +<p>The wind whipped round the edge of the hut, ran +through her hair at the roots and stung her ears—a +sinister energy in this fixed and angular world, for +one could not see anything moving. Gerald +walked, unknown, beside her, up in the dark. “At +one time,” said Lois, wrapping her wild skirts +round her, “a girl would have died of this.”</p> + +<p>“Cigarette?”</p> + +<p>“Oh—will it light here?”</p> + +<p>“I can light one most places.” So she bent over +his hands, a cup of fire. There were two bright +specks in his eyes.—Then the match whirled off +and died on the dark. “I can’t think what you +think has gone wrong,” she said.</p> + +<p>“You were so queer that Thursday. You’d been +like part of me, the night before; then everything +seemed—wrong. I dare say I was a brute; I +oughtn’t to have—though as a matter of fact I’ll +never be sorry.... If you’d been just angry or +anything ... But you seemed to go right away: +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>I didn’t know where I was. All lunch you were +like a girl at a tennis club. Then you left me down +there with them all to talk rot and went off with +that beastly gramophone.”</p> + +<p>“<em>That</em> was not my fault—did you want me to +listen to you talking rot?—Gerald, I didn’t realize +you were resentful; I didn’t think you could be.... +I was waiting for you to write.”</p> + +<p>“I began so many letters, I used half a box of +note-paper. I couldn’t think what to say.”</p> + +<p>“Still, you might have written.”</p> + +<p>“But how?” he said candidly.</p> + +<p>She could not remember, though she had read +so many books, <em>who</em> spoke first after a kiss had +been, not exchanged but—administered. The two +reactions, outrage, capitulation, had not been her +own. “You were hoping I would write?” she said, +seeing light suddenly.</p> + +<p>“You see, you had always been so understanding.”</p> + +<p>“But, Gerald, I should have thought you’d have +been shocked if I’d⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh?... Perhaps I would. But I wanted +something to make things natural. I shall never +forget what I felt in that armoured car. You will +always be connected up in my mind with the smell +of oil—Lois, do you think I am terribly introspective?”</p> + +<p>“You know, you were tired.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it was that,” he said, puzzled. “But +bumping along back to barracks, and you going in +again with that girl to that topping house ...”</p> + +<p>“Do you think it’s a topping house?”</p> + +<p>“It seems so to me.”</p> + +<p>This new version of the changeable afternoon was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>a shock to her. It had gone on for him, too; doors +that she had not thought of shutting and windows +opening, the drone in the drawing-room, rain with +a different importance. Might she perhaps have +thought more about Gerald and wondered less? +Splashing along the brown road to Clonmore she +could now see the armoured car diminish—with +Gerald its only nerve. But she thought of the +empty spare room and how it avenged him.</p> + +<p>“Marda’s gone, you know.”</p> + +<p>“But she had just come to lunch, surely?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Gerald!</em>... Can’t you feel any difference +between some one to lunch and somebody staying?”</p> + +<p>“She hadn’t a hat,” said Gerald after consideration.</p> + +<p>“She went two days ago: she’s in Kent now.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” said Gerald civilly. Feeling a +strained, fierce pause, he added: “She seemed +awfully nice, I thought.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you wonder at all if I miss her?”</p> + +<p>“I expect you must. I always miss visitors, +though they’re a bother beforehand.”</p> + +<p>“She hadn’t any beforehand—that seems so odd +now.”</p> + +<p>“Lois ... you aren’t angry, then?”</p> + +<p>“Oh?” Recollecting herself, she looked round the +darkness vaguely. A couple were coming towards +them; she put a hand on his sleeve to make him be +quiet, his other hand came over it. They heard +Daventry’s angry laugh, his partner’s feet ran stickily +on the duckboards. Gerald and Daventry passed in +the dark with, it seemed, a queer silent interchange.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Daventry seems old to be a subaltern.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span></p> + +<p>“It’s absurd that he should be—all this peacetime +bother. He had a company in France in 1916, +later on he was acting major. He’s a splendid +fellow, I’m sorry you haven’t seen more of him. +He won’t go about much, outside barracks. The +fact is,” he added apologetic, “he’s sick at being +over here. It doesn’t seem to agree with him.”</p> + +<p>“Do <em>you</em> really like it?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, it’s a job. Though I rather see +Daventry’s point—it doesn’t seem natural.”</p> + +<p>They had come to the end of the huts—the +foot of the steep slope a wall, the top heavily wired. +Under the wall a sentry inhumanly paced like a +pendulum. The country bore in it strong menace. +Gerald looked out at it, his face blinking in and +out of the dark, faintly red with the pulse of his +cigarette. She nursed her bare elbows, unconsciously +shivering. He seemed at once close and +remote, known and un-personal; she understood +why, up to now, she had searched for him vainly in +what he said. He had nothing to do with expression. +She put out a hand to where he was, shadowy +and palpable. He threw his cigarette away, turned—and +said nothing. The sentry passed.</p> + +<p>They went back the way they had come, between +the huts.</p> + +<p>“Gerald, I <em>wasn’t</em> angry ... at what you did....”</p> + +<p>“No, you were wonderful all the time.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you understand?” she said sharply—“<em>Gerald?</em>”</p> + +<p>“Understand?... <em>Lois!</em>”</p> + +<p>While they kissed, she heard, in the silence of +their footsteps, some one moving about in a hut up +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>the lines. The sound was a long way off, at the +other side of a stillness.</p> + +<p>“Your arms are so cold.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve been so lonely.”</p> + +<p>“They’re so <em>cold</em>.” He kissed them, inside the +elbows. Later: “I like the back of your head,” +she said with exploring finger-tips.</p> + +<p>“I never thought you looked at me.”</p> + +<p>“Gerald, I’ve been so ... vacant.”</p> + +<p>“I never thought you wanted me.”</p> + +<p>“I⁠—” she began. The soft sound of her dress +in the wind became, by some connection of mood, +painfully inexplicable to her—the pain was its own, +from not being understood. “Gerald, your buttons +hurt rather.”</p> + +<p>“My darling⁠—” He let her go, but still, +above consciousness, held one of her hands, +solemnly. “Shall you really be able to marry me?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know till you’ve asked me.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t laugh⁠—” he cried.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you <em>hear</em> I’m not laughing?”</p> + +<p>“Lois⁠—” Something more was coming; she +waited, hearing him draw a breath. “Let’s go back +and dance,” he said almost religiously—“shall we?”</p> + +<p>The hut was compact with movement: she stood +back in alarm, as before a revolving door in destructive +motion. Now it was gone, she remembered +sharply the smell of earth.... David Armstrong +leaned from his partner wildly and struck Gerald +over the head with a red balloon.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rolfe had had an idea that the dance might +well finish up with a cotillion. She was vague +about cotillions, but towards this end she had distributed +balloons, whistles that ran out long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>tongues when you blew them, and streamers from +striped cardboard batons with which dancers might +hit one another over the head. Mrs. Vermont +thought these things went better with fancy dress, +but Denise said a rag was a rag at any time. Girls +ducked and shrieked and waved their streamers over +their partners’ shoulders. Denise, radiant in black +with a trail of nasturtiums, was waltzing—affair of +prolonged “hesitations”—with Betty’s husband. +She bit off a streamer, spat out a mouthful of paper +and said, with a shiver of happiness: “Isn’t it marvellous, +Timmy? I can hardly believe I’m awake!”</p> + +<p>“Ra-<em>ther!</em>” replied Captain Vermont, with blurred +enthusiasm. He was being buffeted by Mr. Simcox +and somebody’s sister.</p> + +<p>“Betty’s been just too marvellous,” went on +Denise—“Oh, Timmy, do have a shot at Reggie +Daventry—there, with the girl in scarlet. He looks +just too refined!”</p> + +<p>But Timmy failed to find Daventry. “Betty’s +<em>tons</em> the prettiest here,” cried Denise, ecstatic.</p> + +<p>“Oh, come!” expostulated Captain Vermont, +squeezing her waist. It gave him a warm, tender +feeling to think how fond she and Betty were of +each other.</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” said Denise, as nearly as possible +snuggling, “are we terribly reckless? Would this +annoy the Irish?”</p> + +<p>“They won’t know.”</p> + +<p>“They have heaps of spies.”</p> + +<p>“I say, <em>sssh</em>, Denise, there are heaps of them here +to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Spies?”</p> + +<p>“Irish—the Raltes and Co.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span></p> + +<p>“They’re different.”</p> + +<p>“Still, they’ve got feelings.”</p> + +<p>Denise sighed. “I could go on like this for +ever.” But Captain Vermont rather thought +he would like a drink. A balloon exploded. +“Glory!” cried Mrs. Fogarty. So they burst four +more to keep her amused.</p> + +<p>“Is this like a bombardment?” asked Moira Ralte.</p> + +<p>“No,” said Mr. Simcox.</p> + +<p>If they were not careful, they would knock over +the gramophone. Mr. Daventry thought it was +time they did. It was time something happened. +He danced the D.I.’s niece down the passage and +kissed her with her head pressed back in the coats. +She struggled, futile, slippery as a weasel. As he +kissed again her face went stiff and she shut her +eyes. When these opened, they were as shrewd as +ever: still he did not know what she thought. The +drums in his temples were now insistent; he could +not forget them even while he was dancing. She +had dabbed herself over with White Rose. Her +frizzy hair tickled his mouth as he bent close to her.</p> + +<p>“Do you get kissed a lot?”</p> + +<p>“Englishmen never could keep their mouths to +themselves.”</p> + +<p>“You won’t know yourself when we’re gone!”</p> + +<p>“You should get back home while you can, the +lot of you.”</p> + +<p>“What would become of Uncle?”</p> + +<p>“Did you like your whisky?” She put a hand +up rudely to shield herself from his breath. This +reminded Daventry, who let go of the common little +hell-cat abruptly and walked away to the kitchenette, +where he heard a siphon. Lois stood in the door, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>waiting while David got her some soda-water. +But wouldn’t she try a little something? Just a +little something to dance on—no? Daventry, +standing back and tilting his drink about in his +glass, stared at her feet with owlish ferocity.</p> + +<p>“Sorry about your silver shoes, Miss Farquar.”</p> + +<p>“There are some beautiful walks round here,” +said David, grinning.</p> + +<p>“Miss Farquar should float, not walk; she looks +like a water-lily,” said Daventry, looking over her +green frock with his discomforting eyes. “Come +on and dance,” said David, taking her empty glass. +Lois began to say she was keeping the next for +Gerald. But: “Miss Farquar and I are hungry, we +are going to find a sandwich,” said Daventry.</p> + +<p>In the box of a dining-room plates of dishevelled +sandwiches sat in unmasked electric light. There +was no one there. Mr. Daventry, looking hard at +her, put the palm of his hand to his left temple with +a curious, listening air, as though to see if a watch +had stopped.</p> + +<p>“Chicken and ham,” he said, “tongue and turkey; +they’re all cat, they say.” (“What shall I say?” +thought Lois.) He looked at a chair with contempt, +then sat down on it. “I don’t think I’ve +met you before,” he continued.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you didn’t notice.”</p> + +<p>“Dear me,” said Mr. Daventry, looking into a +sandwich. “No, I don’t think it could have been +that.”</p> + +<p>“Then it can’t be explained,” said Lois, and (she +felt) glittered excitedly. He suggested the army +of Wellington; buckskins. Looking up thoughtfully, +he directed upon the wall just over her head +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>his strained dark look that was almost a squint. +“You live round here?”</p> + +<p>“More or less⁠—” She was startled to meet +the dark look on a level. Hers was, he said, a +remarkably beautiful country.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid <em>you</em>⁠—”</p> + +<p>He affably shrugged. Did that matter? He +stared at her arms, at the inside of her elbows, with +such intensity, she felt Gerald’s kisses were printed +there. Was this a bounder?—She knew she had +no criterion.</p> + +<p>“Have a nice walk?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“Did you?” she countered.</p> + +<p>“I expect so,” said Mr. Daventry, after consideration. +“As a matter of fact, I am not quite at +my best.” They looked hard at each other. “Nothing,” +he said, “appeals to me.” She moved her +arms nervously on the silk of her dress. For she +saw there was not a man here, hardly even a person.</p> + +<p>“How do you mean ‘more or less’?” he said +suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t live anywhere, really.”</p> + +<p>“I do: I live near Birmingham.” He put the +half-eaten sandwich down, with distaste, on the edge +of the cloth and pulled up a plate to cover it. She felt +she was quite finished with. Suppose, she thought, +they were all like this! Should she go? She made +a movement, he did not see; she was disappointed. +He put the hand to his temple, again listening.</p> + +<p>“Tired?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no,” he said, with irony.</p> + +<p>“I’m going back now.”</p> + +<p>“Such a pity. Anyone so charming ...”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m bored,” she said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span></p> + +<p>“It’s a pity you don’t know about my head, it’s a +most curious head, it would interest you.... +How shall I keep you? Look here, seriously, about +Lesworth⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh?” she inquired, suddenly cold inside.</p> + +<p>“About our young friend⁠—” He pulled up +his chair close; she had a feeling like gates shutting. +“Tell me this⁠—”</p> + +<p>But the roar of merriment, solid and swerving +evenly as a waterfall past the door, splintered off in +a crash. Silence came, with hard impact. “Thank +God, <em>they’ve upset the gramophone!</em>” Daventry +smacked his knee, remotely, as though rehearsing +the gesture. His look decomposed in laughter. +“Done in,” he said, drawing life from the thought. +Simultaneously, a universal shriek went up: it was +smashed, finished. “Really,” she thought, “you +laugh like Satan!”</p> + +<p>“Well, well,” said Daventry, tilting his drink +about, “it’s been a pleasant evening.” Here they all +came—a stampede in the passage. She was glad +of them, for under the storm of his mirth that swept +their island, disarranging the interlude, she had sat +cold and desolate. A gramophone passing, a +gramophone less in the world, it was not funny. +But between bursts of laughter she had felt him look +at her lips, at her arms, at her dress, like a ghost, +with nostalgia and cold curiosity. About their +young friend?—she wasn’t to know.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vermont seemed broken also, she leaned +on the adjutant. “Stay her with sandwiches,” called +out somebody, “comfort her with—with—more +sandwiches!” Moira mopped her eyes with a trail +of her dress, but nobody noticed. They jostled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>about the table. Plates rang, shunted in all directions. +“Sitting in here?” cried Gerald, exalted, +“splendid!” Somebody waved a mouth-organ: +could one dance to that? More and more squeezed +in at the door: the room would burst. The cracks +of the walls that had been straight a minute ago like +bars now seemed to bulge out visibly: light glared +down on the resolution of backs and pink, reaching +arms. “<em>Our</em> young friend, our <em>young</em> friend, our +young <em>friend</em>,” thought Lois, and watched Gerald. +Though she watched wherever he went, she could +not see him. There was nothing, in fact, to which +to attach her look except his smoothness and roundness +of head, which seemed for the first time remarkable. +She looked for his mouth—which had +kissed her—but found it no different from mouths +of other young men who had also been strolling +and pausing between the huts in the dark. The +page of the evening was asterisked over with fervent +imaginary kisses. And one single kiss in the wind, +in the dark was no longer particularized: she could +not remember herself, or remember him.</p> + +<p>As he came up, she looked quickly away. She +looked at an empty plate down on the floor, at a +thin disk of cucumber flaccid against its rim. +“What have I done?” she thought: she looked at +the plate with dread. And: “Oh, sandwich?” said +Gerald, turning to bring up some more. “... Or +perhaps it will seem natural to-morrow?” Nothing +could keep her from having to eat a sandwich. +“Darling ...” he whispered, brushing against her +shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Tired?” asked Mr. Simcox, seeing her face.</p> + +<p>“Oh no,” she said, with Mr. Daventry’s best irony.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XIX"> + XIX + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>MR. and Mrs. Montmorency were sitting +on the steps as Lois drove up the avenue. +Francie waved, Hugo looked warily +round the <i>Spectator</i>. “Well ...?” cried Francie, +as Lois came into ear-shot. Above, twenty dark +windows stared over the fields aloofly out of the +light grey face of the house. The trees had rims +of light round them; everything seemed a long way +away. With a sigh, Hugo put down the <i>Spectator</i> +and came to lift Lois’s suitcase out of the trap.</p> + +<p>“Well ...?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, marvellous.... But what <em>do</em> you think: +we broke the gramophone!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, the poor gramophone!”</p> + +<p>“It was the Gunners’ gramophone.... Where +are the others?”</p> + +<p>“We have no idea.”</p> + +<p>The Montmorencys now felt certain it must be +a tiring day: even Lois looked pale. They had +been having an intimate conversation about the +future, both with a sense of courage as from sweeping +aside some decency. Why not, Hugo had said, +build a bungalow somewhere? “With no stairs?” +Francie kindled at the idea, slipping a hand under +Hugo’s. “And live there always?” Certainly—why +not?—they would un-store the furniture. And +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>at the thought of their tables and sofas coming +again out of limbo, Hugo’s face was illumined by a +look of defiance.</p> + +<p>“But where would we build?” said Francie, +wrinkled up with delightful anxiety. Hugo said +they would motor round for a bit and no doubt +some idea would suggest itself. “We could choose +the view,” said Francie. But at this point, for +some reason, he had taken up the <i>Spectator</i>.</p> + +<p>The man came round for the pony: Lois sat +down on the steps and began to chatter. It was +surprising, really, how much had occurred. And +fancy, the Colonel had been furious.... Even +Hugo listened with some attention. “Dear me,” +he said when they heard about Mr. Daventry. +Francie expected it must be a great relief for a man +in that state of mind to meet a girl to whom he could +really talk. “But he didn’t talk; he really was most +extraordinary. Of course, he was once a major.” +Francie wished she had seen her go off in that green +frock—all, how should she say? like a poppy, only +a different colour. Would Lois put it on for them +all to-night?</p> + +<p>“It’s not really a frock one sits in,” said Lois +discouragingly. Francie said it was almost a pity +in some ways that Laurence was so intellectual. +“I know, we’ll make Hugo waltz with you, he +waltzes beautifully.” But the thought of Hugo +waltzing—as Hugo suspected—made Lois melancholy.</p> + +<p>Laurence, disturbed by her voice, shut an upstairs +window. His industry nowadays was remarkable. +He dragged at his hair and stared at the +trees through a flawed pane, across which Laura +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>Naylor had scratched her name with a diamond. +At his elbows, books were in toppling stacks; movement +produced an avalanche. A wasp hung round +him, tentative, scrawling Z’s on the air. “Go +away,” he muttered, “you are superfluous.” +Finally, he was obliged to open the door and shoo +the wasp out of it; it undulated across the landing +and in at the half-open door of Marda’s room, as +though it had an appointment. Though he did +not care for the wasp, Laurence went in after it, to +see if she had not left <i>South Wind</i> behind. She had +indeed—which was like her. The wasp dithered +above the looking-glass in triumph; he took aim +with the book and almost hit it. An eight-day +clock still ticked; it was five to four, it would soon +be tea-time.</p> + +<p>As he came out, Lois appeared at the top of the +stairs, carrying a suitcase.</p> + +<p>“Hullo! what have you brought <em>that</em> up for?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes,” she said, putting it down in surprise. +“I meant to have left it half-way.”</p> + +<p>“Well⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Really,” she cried, unreasonably, “this house +is nothing but Montmorencys; they are an absolute +state of mind.... I only wanted to see if you +were here.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m not, practically: I’m working.”</p> + +<p>“Oh—why do you work in the spare room?”</p> + +<p>“I was dealing with a wasp.”</p> + +<p>“Laurence, I had a marvellous dance.”</p> + +<p>“Splendid!” He turned to his door, but she, +in tremendous need of his un-sympathy, brought out, +imploringly: “They were all there, every one. And, +my dear, the wind; I thought the hut would be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>blown away. And we broke the gramophone. +There was a most sinister man called Daventry, +with shell-shock ...”</p> + +<p>“Good,” said Laurence, “and <em>you</em> look sleepy!”</p> + +<p>Lois, lamblike under the force of suggestion, +leaned back against the banisters, yawning. +“Livvy kicked all night, she will be a horrible wife.... +Laurence, I wish you would tell me something +to read.”</p> + +<p>“I should go to sleep.”</p> + +<p>The idea seemed grateful: she thought of her +room with the high ceiling, the foreign touch to +the cheeks of afternoon pillows, the delicious crime +of crossing one’s stockinged ankles over the rucked-back +quilt and the slow recession of fact down a +long tunnel till the windows stretched and faded. +But, pulling at her fingers, she said impatiently: +“But I want to begin on something; I do think, +Laurence, you might understand. There must be +some way for me to begin. You keep on looking +into rooms where I am with silent contempt—what +do you think I am for?”</p> + +<p>He leaned against the frame of his doorway, looking +at her with surprise and a degree of humanity. +To-day four weeks, Term would have begun again; +he did for a moment stretch to an effort of comprehension: +there was nothing for <em>her</em> to go on with. +The vacancy, more than negative to him, which +had succeeded Marda made the natural claims of a +life on his young cousin. With that concession to +fancy one makes for the doomed or the very weak, +he suggested she should go on with her German. +He gave her two grammars, a dictionary and a +novel of Mann’s, which she took from him doubtfully. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>When he was back at his table, his door +ajar, she went across stealthily to the door opposite.</p> + +<p>“There’s a wasp in there,” called out Lawrence.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I just thought I’d see if ...”</p> + +<p>But she went downstairs, defeated, forgetting +her suitcase.</p> + +<p>She had not seen Gerald again this morning, +though all contracted with apprehension she had +waited in Mrs. Fogarty’s drawing-room—the multiplicity +of the photographed young men’s faces, +candid and vigorous, further appalling her. An +orderly had come down with a note from barracks. +The crested envelope, handed in with its air of a +claim on her, had austerity, like some limb of an +institution. She lost her last sense of Gerald, she +felt committed. Fumbling open the envelope, +asking: “What have I done?” she wondered what +had become of that last lonely disk of cucumber on +the plate. After “My darling darling”—she was +reprieved, provisionally; Mrs. Fogarty, coming in +in a wrapper—greatly worn, she said, after last +night’s gaiety—had insisted that if she would not +drink port she must drink milk—it was a long +morning—and eat some of this nice sponge cake.</p> + +<p>And: “<em>I</em> know who has been breaking hearts!” +said Mrs. Fogarty, knifing the sponge cake which +was moist and eggy and “gave” to the knife deliciously, +like an eiderdown.</p> + +<p>The ante-room chairs, now looking at Lois +askance, knew also. What she had done stretched +everywhere, like a net. If she had taken a life, the +simplest objects could not more have been tinged +with consequence. The graded elephants on the +bookcases were all fatality. She went into her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>room hurriedly. “All the same,” she thought, +looking round with patronage at the virginal wall-paper, +“it <em>is</em> something definite.” And with curiosity, +with complicity almost, she looked at herself +in the glass.</p> + +<p>Gerald’s straight, round writing had—to her +imagination—a queer totter, like some one running +for life in tight shoes.</p> + +<p>“—I have so much to say to you, though there is +all time now there seems to be no time. Lois, +when I am with you you make me awfully dumb +with your darling wide-awake eyes, and when we +are apart you seem so close I feel you must understand, +so why try to explain when I am so stupid? +So I won’t try to say what I feel; all that matters is +that you are beautifully beautiful. Sometimes, till +now, I have felt you must think me awfully stupid +and introspective and dull; I have wondered so +much what you did think about all the time: it seems +unbelievable now that I am really to know. You +seemed so complicated, it was cheek to associate +you with the sort of person that I am, and now you +are lovely and simple and all mine. Last night +doesn’t seem like part of my life at all—I can’t +believe it was me who danced and drank whiskies +and tinkered about with the gramophone—and yet +it’s the reallest thing ever. And what I am doing +this morning seems so important—although it +keeps me away from you—because I am doing it +<em>for</em> you. It is awful to think of you here in Clonmore +and not to be able to get to you, and yet it is +wonderful to think of you waiting, and of who you +are waiting for being me. Lois, your dear cold +arms were so lovely, I mustn’t think of them now. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>All your life I am going to keep you and wrap you +up and protect you and never let you be cold again. +It is awful to think you have ever been lonely and +sad—you are so brave, you know, and I never +guessed—and yet I am almost glad of that, because +it makes some reason for me. Darling, I kiss the +thought of you and feel so terribly humble. I must +not write more now. If you can, leave a letter for +me at the Fogartys’. Does she guess? I thought +perhaps you might like to confide in her. But of +course I will tell nobody, as you wish. Good-bye, +my most beautiful woman; I cannot write how I +love you.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Gerald.</span>” +</p> + +<p>Folding the sheets again in their order, she +thought: “It is you who are beautiful,” and later: +“If this thing is so perfect to anyone, can one be +wrong?” An escape of sunshine, penetrating the +pale sky in the south-west, altered the room like a +revelation. Noiselessly, a sweet-pea moulted its +petals on to the writing-table, leaving a bare pistil. +The pink butterfly flowers, transparently balancing, +were shadowed faintly with blue as by an intuition +of death. Lois bowed forward, her forehead against +the edge of the table.</p> + +<p>Steps in the ante-room; she slipped the letter +under the blotter and turned round consciously. +“I hear you are back,” said Lady Naylor, entering. +“I hear it was such a success that they broke the +gramophone. Now I want to hear all about it.” +She sat down.</p> + +<p>“Well, to begin with⁠—”</p> + +<p>“One moment—have you unpacked your +frock?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh! I left my suitcase.... I went up to +Laurence to borrow a German grammar.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I shouldn’t go on with German,” said +Lady Naylor, “it still offends so many people; +Italian is prettier and more practical. I could +lend you <i lang="it">Il Piccolo Mondo Antico</i>, or Dante⁠— +However, tell me about the dance.”</p> + +<p>“Well, first of all⁠—”</p> + +<p>“—By the way, I’ve just heard from Marda. +She has arrived quite safely, I’m glad to say. She +says Kent is dull, which I dare say it would be, but +of course she is glad to be with Leslie.”</p> + +<p>“Did she say so?”</p> + +<p>“She naturally would be. You can read it; I’ve +got the letter downstairs.... Who broke the +gramophone? I hope you weren’t anywhere round +when it happened: these things are always remembered. +Were the Raltes there? Did they look pretty? +I wonder, really, at their mother allowing them; she +professes to have them in such control. However, +I dare say this will be the last of these dances.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, why?”</p> + +<p>“If you had heard what we heard at the Trents’.... +There was a man there from Kerry. He +really made us feel quite uncomfortable. Though, +as your uncle said afterwards, one knows what +the Trents’ friends are: everything happens to +them. However⁠— Were the Vermonts there? +<em>She</em> would be quite in her element. And Mr. Armstrong? +I have heard he and Livvy were seen in +Cork together at the Imperial, by Mrs. Foxe-O’Connor. +And the young man who was here to +lunch, who talked so much ... in the armoured +car ... oh—Lesworth?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, he was there.”</p> + +<p>“I am surprised at them all having time,” said +Lady Naylor. “However, if they danced more +and interfered less, I dare say there would be less +trouble in the country. It appears that in Kerry +...” Her voice became colder with inattention +and dwindled away. Lois was certain she eyed the +pink blotter. This zigzag approach to Gerald, +this ultimate vagueness, were sinister. Lady Naylor, +after some moments of odd and oppressive +silence, observed that the sweet-peas were dying. +“The water must be unhealthy, it’s going green. +In fact, all the flowers need doing. Perhaps after +tea⁠— How would you like to go to a school of +art?”</p> + +<p>“Marvellous,” said Lois after reflection.</p> + +<p>“Francie was very much struck by your drawings. +And Marda said you certainly needed an interest.”</p> + +<p>“Oh. Was she discussing me?”</p> + +<p>“We were all saying that girls needed interests +and I thought she seemed to agree particularly. +<em>She</em> has not made much of her life, so far—though +of course if she marries Leslie—and I’ve always +thought that music or drawing, or writing a little, +or organization of some kind⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Did Marda say what she thought of my drawings?”</p> + +<p>“She seemed to think they were nice.... A +quarter to five!” exclaimed Lady Naylor reproachfully. +“The tea will be cold.... You look +sleepy, Lois. Did you hear the Montmorencys are +going to build a bungalow?”</p> + +<p>“Here?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be silly⁠— Besides, according to that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>friend of the Trents, it would be blown up or burnt +in a month or two. Certainly,” added Lady Naylor, +looking out at the sky, “I call this a tiring day.” +She got up with a sigh.</p> + +<p>Later that evening Lois, half-way up to the garden +with scissors and basket, overtook Mr. Montmorency +walking all by himself up the shrubbery +path. Pulling leaves from the laurels he shredded +them carefully.</p> + +<p>“I hear,” he said, as she came up alongside, “you +are taking up German?”</p> + +<p>“Unless Italian might be more practical.... +I hear you are going to build a bungalow?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know; that is chiefly Francie’s +idea.” They walked in silence, she dragging her +basket against the laurels. They had not been +alone since the drive from Mount Isabel. She +remembered how once she had hoped so much, and +how he had been infinitely disobliging. Now she +had a tenderness for him, devoid of attraction, as +though they had been a couple of widows.</p> + +<p>“No stairs would be nice.”</p> + +<p>“But it would be certain to have other disadvantages.”</p> + +<p>“Apparently,” she said with effrontery, “Marda +arrived quite safely.”</p> + +<p>“It should be a surprise to us all,” said Hugo, +sarcastic, “that she has not fallen out of the train. +Even she cannot think of anything better to say to a +hostess. And the information, I always feel certain, +leaves hostesses cold. Once one is clear of +their gates, interest ends with responsibility.”</p> + +<p>“And she says Kent is dull.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot believe <em>she</em> finds it so.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span></p> + +<p>“She is frightfully philosophic. Perhaps she was +dull here.” (She thought: “Even now, shall we +never be natural?”)</p> + +<p>“Have you seen her letter?”</p> + +<p>“No ... have you?”</p> + +<p>“No, your aunt has lost it.”</p> + +<p>He pushed open the door, then followed her into +the garden which, deep in its walls, seemed impossibly +large, for one could not see to the end of it: +it was crossed by espaliers and crowded with apple-trees. +Down the borders, the September yellow +and scarlets were metallic in unsunny light. Dahlias, +orange and wine-coloured, blazed and gloomed. +He turned down one path, she kept to the other; +they silently parted. Here she had come with +Marda—never with Gerald—they had sat on the +green seat, pressed blisters out of the paint and +spat out their plum-stones into the box border +opposite. Entered to-day, the usual breath of the +garden was cold to her face. The branches were +quiet as though in anxiety, the flowers appeared to +be clamouring vainly, forgotten. Coming to the +hedge of sweet-peas she began at the purple end, +diligently. “Though myself,” she could not help +saying, “I do not care for purple sweet-peas.”</p> + +<p>When she reached up to the top of the hedge her +sleeves fell back from her arms and she thought of +Gerald. She felt him looking at her through the +thinning stems. The sweet-peas were practically +over, and indeed she was glad, she thought, snipping +and tugging with blunt garden scissors. In +yesterday’s dusk the Square with its flitter of leaves +had been all autumnal; smoke was blue in the air +and, later, the dark where they kissed had a sharp +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>intimation of autumn. She loved in autumn a +stronger, more shadowy keen spring, sweet shocks +of good-bye, transition. Summer meanwhile stayed +on inside these walls, forgotten.</p> + +<p>The fact was, that though one determined to-night +to sit under the lamp and learn verbs, her +Italian or German would not dispose of last night, +which remained, like the tear in her green tulle +dress, to be dealt with practically. After an +anxious glance at the possible, a pain so sharp that +it seemed her own forbade recantation. It was inevitable +that she should marry Gerald. Mrs. Montmorency +at least—she thought with relief as she +came to the red sweet-peas—would be infinitely +sympathetic and pleased. The unbelievable future +became fixed as the past under the flutter and +settling down of a flock of comments, which, as +she turned in imagination back to the house and +steps and saw lips forming themselves in unconscious +readiness, seemed already uttered. And as +Mr. Montmorency came up a path at an angle, with +the two garden kittens toppling after him, she +was surprised he did not repeat: “Well, I hope of +course that you may be happy. And decision of +any kind is an excellent thing in your mother’s +daughter.”</p> + +<p>Instead, he came to the other side of the hedge +and, picking off some bleaching tendrils, observed +that the sweet-peas would soon be over. The house +flowers must keep her busy, he added. And taking +out his pocket-knife he cut three sweet-peas, with +precision. Having made this gesture of sympathy, +he continued to move with her down his side of the +hedge.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span></p> + +<p>“It is extraordinary,” said Lois. “I feel as if I +had been away for a week.”</p> + +<p>“Yet you find us going on much the same?” +He looked at her through the stems ironically but +without intelligence. And she could not try to +explain the magnetism they all exercised by their +being static. Or how, after every return—or +awakening, even, from sleep or preoccupation—she +and those home surroundings still further +penetrated each other mutually in the discovery of +a lack.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XX"> + XX + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>LADY NAYLOR, who wished for a clear +steady light these lengthening evenings, +saw to the lamps personally. In big yellow +gloves she accurately trimmed the wicks, between +the morning’s head-lines and a thorough talk with +the cook. But the smell of oil was repugnant to +her and now she said with some sharpness:</p> + +<p>“You have no conception of love⁠— You are +in my light.”</p> + +<p>Lois moved from the lamp-room window. “I +really have,” she said, “really.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” her aunt said, looking round for a +rag. Lois began to slide a matchbox about, and +her aunt, taking the matches away mechanically, +thought how hard it was that a woman like this, who +could bring the matter on to an intellectual plane at +once, should have to do lamps at all. Anna Partridge, +whose brain was all shreddy with rabbit-combing +and raffia, had had electric light for years, +just from living in England; even the Trents talked +of harnessing their waterfall.</p> + +<p>“When I was your age I never thought of +marriage at all. I didn’t intend to marry. I +remember, when I was nineteen I was reading +Schiller.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think about marriage, I ...”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span></p> + +<p>“Then you can have no conception ...”</p> + +<p>“I read,” said Lois, with dignity.</p> + +<p>“Girls nowadays do nothing but lend each other +these biological books. I was intensely interested +in art.”</p> + +<p>“But, Aunt Myra, young men are quite usual.”</p> + +<p>“It all comes of dancing and all this excitement.”</p> + +<p>“But Gerald is not excitable; he was in love with +me the other day before lunch.”</p> + +<p>“He was half asleep,” said Lady Naylor. “At +the best of times he has not much conversation. +Of course, I rate brains so highly; perhaps I am +wrong. But remember, you cannot hope to be +always in love, and then ...”</p> + +<p>“But you said I had no conception ...”</p> + +<p>“There you are, in my light again.”</p> + +<p>Lois moved further away from the window. She +wished she had not started this explanation. She +had felt, somehow, that it should be less embarrassing +in the lamp-room. She thought of Gerald’s +unquestioning shoulder, where she would lean her +head. “But I can’t explain,” she said; “I never +heard of a girl being asked to explain. I always +thought ...”</p> + +<p>“Real feeling explains itself,” said Lady Naylor +and polished some oil off the base of a lamp triumphantly.</p> + +<p>“But if he comes to tea ...”</p> + +<p>“Oh, we cannot help that, of course.”</p> + +<p>“But if he spoke to Uncle Richard ...”</p> + +<p>“Your uncle would be very much worried. +Really, Lois, I do think you might be more sensible +and considerate.”</p> + +<p>Lois saw this point of view only too perfectly. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>She wrinkled her forehead. She did not want to +be hard on her Uncle Richard and she could not +help sympathizing with Aunt Myra, who had +so much to organize as it was. Feeling did seem +to her out of proportion with life, and that this +disproportion should be so evident generally, that +her aunt should think she was making an irrelevant +fuss, strongly discouraged her. But she reassembled +herself; she had been led to understand +that love ...</p> + +<p>“But surely love ...”</p> + +<p>“You have no conception of love,” repeated Lady +Naylor, and thought again of electric light in +Bedfordshire.</p> + +<p>“But shall I never do anything?”</p> + +<p>“Go to a school of art.”</p> + +<p>“Where?”</p> + +<p>“It could be arranged.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t think I really draw well.”</p> + +<p>“That is no reason why you should marry.”</p> + +<p>It was, of course, no reason; acknowledging +this, and seeing light from the barred window fall +so coldly on the oilcloth top of the lamp-table, +Lois felt quite at a standstill.</p> + +<p>“However ...” said Lady Naylor. She looked +with her brilliant eyes dubiously, almost shyly, at +the door behind Lois’s head. She swept the rags +and the lamp scissors into a drawer, shut the drawer +on their malodour, and pulled off her gloves, +sighing. She saw life, perhaps, as a shuffle of setting +to partners, then a drawn-out, coupled but somehow +solitary curtsying, to him, the other, the rest of the +eight. “However ...” she said. And the qualification +committed herself and her niece, a shade +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>alarmingly. Lois knew that Gerald might come +to tea.</p> + +<p>“You do see,” said Lois, and stared at her aunt’s +ringed hands which reappeared from the gloves, +“that I didn’t want to be clandestine?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, of course you were quite right,” said Lady +Naylor without enthusiasm. She went down to +talk to the cook.</p> + +<p>Kathleen, the cook, who resembled her mistress +in personality so closely that their relation was an +affair of balance, who had more penetration than +Lady Naylor and was equally dominant, inferred +much of the situation from her mistress’s manner. +Herself, she had felt this was bound to occur. For +an hour or so, they had countered each other amiably +in the lime-washed gloom of the kitchen, over a basin +of green-pea soup. Lady Naylor announced with +unusual deprecation, there would be an officer +coming over to tea. Kathleen, refolding her hands +royally, asked, would she slap up a sally-lunn? On +the whole, Lady Naylor thought drop-cakes. Kathleen +immediately placed the officer. Strolling down +the yard in the course of the afternoon to execute a +couple of chickens, she watched dispassionately from +under the chestnuts Gerald crouch on his motor-bicycle +up the avenue. Lois, standing about with +the dogs, went down to meet him. For tea, Kathleen +sent up an unaccountable iced cake, ironically +festive.</p> + +<p>Francie was glad Mr. Lesworth was coming to +tea. For the day strained with ominousness, as +though it were going to burst. Hugo, pacing +about on the avenues with <i>The Conquest of Mexico</i> +under his arm, disparaged repose. “By the way,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>he said once, coming up, “if you should be happening +to write to Marda Norton ...”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but I shan’t be; not till I send her our +little present. Besides, I have nothing to say.”</p> + +<p>“She might write to you about the eau-de-Cologne.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, she thanked me.”</p> + +<p>“There was a point I wanted to clear, about +Metternich—you remember that argument? I’ve +just come on a book—I suppose I had better write +myself.”</p> + +<p>“But no one knows her address; Myra lost the +letter.”</p> + +<p>“Ah yes, of course.... That settles it.” He +smiled—one would have said with relief. Francie, +looking down in despair at her blouse as he walked +away, saw that the jabot was crumpled. She could +not understand how a woman who travelled with +suitcases could look as <em>smooth</em> as Marda. But then, +she was all outlines: detail seemed to collect and +obtrude in the middle of Francie. She went up to +change, glad that Gerald was coming, sounding +with some attention the silence under the avenue +trees. For the fact was, life attenuated to the +snapping-point; in Gerald’s continuity, in Lois’s, +she must invest her own.</p> + +<p>Gerald propped up his motor-bicycle, looked up +carefully at the closed windows—in one, from behind +a blot of light, Francie was nodding—and said that +he should not really have come. Troops had been +fired on coming back into Clonmore, near that level-crossing. +The situation was tightening; there was +a lot to do.</p> + +<p>“Oh. Then it is a pity you came,” said Lois.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span></p> + +<p>Gerald said nothing; his ears faintly coloured.</p> + +<p>“<em>Clonmore!</em>” said Lois with indignation, and +thought of the little friendly town with its tennis club.</p> + +<p>“So it happened,” said Gerald, looking at her. +“It might have been anywhere else.” He whistled +and greeted the dogs, her dogs.</p> + +<p>“Then ... it was dangerous coming?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, not to speak of.”</p> + +<p>The house so loomed, and stared so darkly and +oddly that he showed a disposition—respectful +rather than timorous—to move away from the front +of it. They walked to the tennis courts and round +one court in a circle. “<em>Lois</em> ...” She veered off +quickly, Laurence was working up there in his +window. Gerald waved, but had no response. +“Doesn’t he concentrate!” he said wistfully.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so.... Does Laurence matter?”</p> + +<p>“You know <em>you</em> ...”</p> + +<p>“Gerald, you are the frightfully concentrated +person, really.”</p> + +<p>“But I can’t read.... Where can I ... where +could we⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“—Here comes Mr. Montmorency.”</p> + +<p>Hugo, coming up to shake hands with Gerald, +said it seemed a long time since they had met. The +young man, by his way of standing and looking +clearly and being positive, strongly connected himself +with Marda. With an unexpected and crooked +stab of nostalgia, Hugo thought of the trees, the +morning mountains, the tinkling and knocking +stream. Of all of her he had kept and had never +had and must try to regain appeared most sharply +the moment of that encounter: irrelevant moment, +when, outside something, he had watched light run +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>down her hair as she stooped for Gerald to light her +cigarette. The quality of their silence, their separation +after Gerald had left them—pressing on up to +the house to look for Lois—now seemed the very +ground of his closest approach. But he knew how +the scene was perishable, how having drawn up into +itself for life, like a plant, any reality that there was +in him, it would die of his barrenness. Until finally, +by even the same conjunction of mountains and +light and trees, it would not be evoked again.</p> + +<p>“No shaving under a hedge this morning?” he +said genially.</p> + +<p>“Oh no,” said Gerald, surprised. Why should +there be?</p> + +<p>Lois, encouraged to find that by some growth of +womanhood in herself her attitude was already a +wife’s, at once proud and deprecating, stood there +watching Gerald, most grateful for the repose of +this interposition and willing that Mr. Montmorency +should be detained. She knew, from a +glance they both gave her, that she must have been +startled by some sort of consciousness into beauty, +and a particular placidness, a sense of being located, +warmed her surroundings, the smooth lawn and +heavy trees. Balancing, foot behind foot, on a line +of the court faint from rain, she constructed a life +in China—most regimental, alert and pleasantly +surfaced—from Japanese prints she had ignored +in shops, an idea of odd, angular archways and +some strips of vertical writing. He must no doubt +some day be a captain, and “captain’s lady” had a +ballad-like cadence. She almost took Gerald’s arm.</p> + +<p>“You find us diminished,” said Hugo, “and a +good deal quieter. Miss Norton has gone.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Marda</em>,” she hastily prompted.</p> + +<p>“She was awfully nice and amusing,” said Gerald, +beaming out like the sun from behind a moment’s +perplexity. “I’d have loved to have met her again.”</p> + +<p>She explained to him afterwards, taking him off +through the shrubberies, how things were at present +with Mr. Montmorency: he was a ruined man. +Gerald went rigid, something shut like a door on his +sensibilities—the thing reeked of adultery. He +produced an appalled silence. But about Lois’s +mother, he brought out finally, hadn’t one heard he +had once been ...?</p> + +<p>“But a thing <em>can’t</em> be final,” said Lois. “Not +while one’s alive.”</p> + +<p>Was this what she read? “But there’s <em>Mrs.</em> +Montmorency....” It seemed fixed here, the +Montmorencys’ conjointness, among the stately +furniture and long mild meals—earth to Lois’s +roots.</p> + +<p>“But one can’t arrange oneself; one doesn’t altogether +live from inside: Marda just happened.”</p> + +<p>“And did <em>she</em> ...?” cried Gerald, appalled. +Above this extraordinary undercurrent, it seemed +to him his Lois was poised too perfectly.</p> + +<p>Lois, in pink linen, perfectly sophisticated and +cool, said: “No. She was just regretful. Also, +she is engaged, you see.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Is</em> she? I should never have thought ...”</p> + +<p>“... Her engaged? Well, how ought she to +look? Like a kind of hen bird, all dim?”</p> + +<p>“She was all herself. Doesn’t love kind of +finish people off ... with something that isn’t them, +in a way you can feel?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span></p> + +<p>She understood him, but did not know how to +agree. What must one then be for him? She was +shy of his uncomprehension of a particular notion +of living she seemed only now to have formed. Did +she give out an untrue ring to his touch? Where +was the flaw? Or was Gerald, sublimely, the +instrument of some large imposture?</p> + +<p>“Complete—you mean finished?... Perhaps +she is not really in love.”</p> + +<p>“But surely she isn’t that sort ... she wouldn’t +just marry?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think what Marda does matters; she +simply <em>is</em>.”</p> + +<p>He looked desperate suddenly, as though she were +behind bars. “Look here, no one matters. Don’t +let’s talk ... I mean ... don’t let’s talk. Lois, +there’s so little time now, I’m desperate. I don’t +see when I am going to see you, ever. Lois, this +miserable waiting; even happiness never lets one +alone. When shall we be quiet?”</p> + +<p>“But, Gerald, we’re quite young.”</p> + +<p>“I want nothing to happen but you. You are +everything. I want so much of you.”</p> + +<p>She stood, perplexed, at the edge of the path; he +kissed her with frightened violence. The laurels +creaked as, in his arms, she bent back into them. +His singleness bore, confusing, upon her panic of +thoughts, her physical apprehension of him was +confused by the slipping, cold leaves. Her little +sighs elated then alarmed him.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” he said, his lips close to her +face.</p> + +<p>“I don’t like the smell of the laurels. Let’s come +out of here.” They went back, she put up anxious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>hands and asked him about her hair. “Is it twiggy +and awful?” “Lovely.” She wished that he were +a woman. As they approached the steps where her +aunt and uncle and Francie composed an abstracted +group, she told him: “Aunt Myra wants me to go +to a school of art.”</p> + +<p>“Oh ... Can you draw?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Gerald</em> ...!”</p> + +<p>“Darling, I’ve never seen them. How could I +know?”</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor exclaimed how delightful it was that +Gerald had come over. Now they would hear some +real, <em>real</em> news, she said: they always relied on +Gerald. Sir Richard, taking his pince-nez off in +amazement, could hardly believe it was Gerald +again; he still thought subalterns came in rotation. +Surely, he said candidly, it was yesterday they had +had that interesting talk about the Militia? Gerald +was given a chair of such voluptuous depth that his +chin came barely above the edge of the tea-table. +They congratulated him on the Rolfes’ dance. In +fact, they united to carry off the situation with such +brilliance that Gerald might well have been a dun +or a tax-collector. Then, at a moment when talk +seemed precarious and Marda obtrusively absent +and Lady Naylor sat eyeing Lois’s hair, the Trents +arrived unexpectedly. They brought over another +friend, this time from County Clare, to whom still +more had happened. Gerald went into joyous +eclipse; the Danielstown party sat breathless—hardly +a chair creaked—the Trents looked at their +friend complacently while the Trents’ friend curdled +the tea in one’s mouth with tales of assault and cattle-driving.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose <em>we’ve</em> a certain amount to be +thankful for,” smiled Mrs. Archie Trent as their +friend, having been put through his hoops, settled +down to tea. And she told Lois that she was +looking remarkably well, and they hoped they would +see her out with the Ballymoyles this winter. And +meanwhile, what about cubbing?</p> + +<p>“Lois is going to a school of art,” said Lady +Naylor.</p> + +<p>“That seems a pity,” said Mrs. Trent.</p> + +<p>The friend, finishing his tea, said all the Irish art +schools ought to be searched. He wouldn’t say +for certain, but he had a pretty shrewd suspicion +what you would find there. If it came to that, he +said, casts were hollow and you could keep a good +deal inside the Venus of Milo. Sir Richard looked +vaguely offended.</p> + +<p>“I should go to the Slade,” said Lois.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Mrs. Archie Trent, “not Rome, I +suppose? Well I shouldn’t do anything of that +sort in a hurry.”</p> + +<p>“Art is long,” said Laurence, who liked conversation +of this sort. The Trents’ friend asked +him how he liked Cambridge; he himself had a +nephew who hoped soon to be going up. Laurence +said he had heard that Cambridge was very +nice.</p> + +<p>The Trents’ friend took Gerald aside after tea, +to explain to him where the Army was going wrong. +Mrs. Trent at once drew closer up to the teapot and +said, in a loud voice of confidence, she had heard +Livvy Thompson was really engaged to that young +Armstrong. “Nonsense,” said Lady Naylor.</p> + +<p>“But they were seen in Cork having tea, and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>aunt denies it too vigorously. After all, it would +be something for the Thompsons.”</p> + +<p>Lois, who was unfortunate, blushed; both ladies +looked hard at her. “To begin with,” declared +Lady Naylor, “these young men are not at all +marriageable. Besides, to tell you the truth ...”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t see what else the girls are to do. I +mean, look at the Hartigans.”</p> + +<p>“There’s a future for girls nowadays outside +marriage,” said Lady Naylor inspiringly. “Careers—how +<em>I</em> should have loved one. One reads so +much about ...” She was an advanced woman: +Mrs. Trent, who did not read, paused in respect but +preserved an honest, bright-pink expression of +incredulity. She pictured those indoor women +with clutched little bags getting hurriedly into the +Dublin trams. It was no life. Her friend seemed, +moreover, unwisely persistent in encouraging art +for Lois: this, for young girls, often resulted in +worse than spinsterhood. “All the same,” she said, +returning, “Livvy seems set on the young man. +And she has a great deal of character.”</p> + +<p>“Well, if I were her aunt and her father, I’d never +hear of it.”</p> + +<p>“Dear me,” cried Mrs. Trent, kicking the table +cheerfully, “we’ve made Lois blush at the very +idea.”</p> + +<p>“Lois knows better,” said Lady Naylor. And +she gave Lois one of her rarest, most charming, +direct and personal glances.</p> + +<p>And indeed what a friend, thought Lois, going +out to the steps to escape them all, if one had only +just met, might Aunt Myra be.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XXI"> + XXI + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>A CLOUD slid over the sun; the stream went +opaque as tortoise-shell. Then, startling +Hugo, the water suddenly flushed with +light as the cloud moved east. Minnows, disturbed +like thoughts, darted shadowy over the clear +yellow stare of the stones. He dipped his stick in +the water, then, drawing it out, thoughtfully looked +at the shining end. At this point: eighteen inches; +the stream, divided in two deep channels by the +island of turf where he stood, went hurrying to the +Darra. In its fold of the Darra valley, the high +white mill would remain sardonic. He was swept +by an irresistible anger back to that affair of the +pistol. For Marda had written: her hand had +healed; no one had asked any questions or wondered, +she said.</p> + +<p>She had written to Lois, sending Hugo this +message. It had pleased both the girls to underline +his exclusion. She wrote also, Leslie had given +her a dog—a correct dog, Lois expected, like +all that was best in English country house life. +Marda could not think what to do with the +dog till she married; she would have to leave it +in Kent.... And what else did Marda say, +Francie had wanted to know. But Lois, who +seemed to have swallowed the letter, postmark +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>and all, could not remember. Later, she did seek +out Hugo and offer to show him.... But he had +put up surprise. “Oh? Was there any particular⁠—?” +No, he did not think on the whole +he would trouble her.... Would the child see, +he wondered, that the little oblique snub was not +intended to stop at <em>her</em>, but to go past? His look +now fell empty, reflective, on the tawny glass +sliding water.</p> + +<p>The child, having seen, went upstairs to describe +his behaviour to Marda. Her unreticence was +immoderate, though she was sensitive for him. +She wrote scrupulously, with an affect of hardness.</p> + +<p>“He is terrible, and, as the end of everything, +they are to build a bungalow. <em>She</em> has it all her +own way now; I don’t know if he still even brushes +her hair. Since you went, it has been the same +time all day: three o’clock, after a long lunch. We +all talk about my future (by common consent I am +about nine now, very distracting and sunny; they +like to have me about). It is to be a school of art, +certainly.—Why did you never tell them I couldn’t +draw?—But we can’t decide where. London, in +view of my age, is supposed to be too large. In +Dublin, a man who came to tea yesterday said there +might be high explosives inside all the casts with +capacious figures. In Cork I might pick up an +accent, and Paris they will not hear of—my wretched +virtue. But as a matter of fact, I have no future, +in their sense. I have promised to marry Gerald.”</p> + +<p>Here she paused, for from now on it was all +obscure ahead of her. Reading back, she was +surprised at the woman she was. She took this +merciless penetration for maturity’s. But when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>she looked for Gerald there seemed too much of +him. He was a wood in which she counted from +tree to tree—all hers—and knew the boundary wall +right round. But how to measure this unaccountable +darkness between the trees, this living silence? +So she turned back to Mr. Montmorency, adding +a paragraph. He had, this morning, snubbed her.</p> + +<p>She would have been surprised to have seen him, +at this same moment, step across to the island and +stand there rootedly. And he, his whereabouts +even so much as guessed at, would have been quite +at her mercy. For to have followed the stream to +this loneliest reach, beyond the plantation wall, +where the meadow’s hedge trailed unknown blackberries +over the water, was not to have walked, to +have strolled even, but to have betrayed oneself in +an emotional kind of straying. Further down, +stepping-stones had been displaced by last winter’s +flood, there was a ruined cottage; nobody came +here. Even Lois had given up, since her eighteenth +birthday, coming to lie on her stomach +along the bank, weep out a bottomless despair at +nothing and look at herself in the stream. And +this wildness within the demesne boundaries, within +sound of the farmyard bell, had a particular +desolation.</p> + +<p>Hugo was pleased with the place; here he seemed +to have stepped through into some kind of nonexistence. +And here, divorced equally from fact +and from probability, he set up a stage for himself: +the hall’s half-light. Marda’s hand is on the wide +scrolled curve of the baluster rail: he touches her +still and electric hand with the deliberation of +certainty, all the senses running into his touch. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span>She stares recognition fixedly, darkly back.... +For though in actuality she had had only one mood +for him—cool and equivocal—he, now frantic with +this power disconnected from life, could command +her whole range imaginatively: her very features +became his actors. And if this were not love ...</p> + +<p>He was pleased with the place. They must all, +he expected, be looking for him: it produced the +faintest vibration behind the solitude. This morning, +Myra was driving into Clonmore to lunch with +the Boatleys; she had asked him to come, he had +said he would see. He had intended by this “Good +God, no,” and if she were fool enough to interpret +it otherwise there was a rightness about her delay +in starting. Francie would certainly go; she was +painfully fascinated by military society. She would +now be standing out on the steps, grey net veil +strained elegantly over the tip of her nose, looking +at her gloves in despair, persisting: “He must be +<em>somewhere!</em>”</p> + +<p>“How many of us do they really expect?” said +Francie at last, getting into the car disconsolate.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor had not the slightest idea. “But +they are accustomed to Ireland. She was a Vere +Scott. And they know that I usually fill the +car.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not taking Lois?”</p> + +<p>“Lois goes into Clonmore quite enough,” replied +Lady Naylor.</p> + +<p>For Lady Naylor had further reasons for going +into Clonmore. She had an assignation with +Gerald at half-past three, in Mrs. Fogarty’s drawing-room. +Fridays were Club days, Mrs. Fogarty +would be “up at the tennis,” and her drawing-room, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span>disembarrassed for once of her large personality, +remained at the disposition of friends. Lady +Naylor, though she deplored Mrs. Fogarty’s taste +in beads, her husband, her stays—which stuck out +half-way up her back in a frill—and her too overflowing +maternity, had fallen into the general habit +of using her house as a kind of Ladies’ Club, dropping +in there at all times to leave parcels, wash her +hands or meet friends. And she had the impression, +always, that the maid who admitted her ran upstairs +at once to put Mr. Fogarty under lock and key. +Still, one knew that one’s coming gave pleasure and +gratification: she would enter the little drawing-room, +even when empty, with her queenliness at +its full.</p> + +<p>Gerald, questioning but elated, turned up a little +before time, much braced in and polished about the +belt. He had never been given an assignation so +directly. For she had said (this now divinely +probable aunt of his): “I may be at the Fogartys, +resting, about half-past three. If you should be +passing—though of course you may not be and I +do not want to keep you away from the tennis—you +might look in and have a chat. For it has been +too bad to-day, I have hardly seen you. I have +missed our usual talk. There is still so much ... +But I dare say you won’t be passing.” Her look, +a special point to its wide-pupilled eagerness, transposed +this to the imperative. The vigorous arch +of her eyebrows insisted strongly. He, feeling +himself ordered like a taxi—better still, like a +nephew—had flushed with pleasure. <em>Rath</em>-er; +he’d make a point—(would she then call him +Gerald?). “Of course, I may not be there; we may +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>not even come in; it is all quite uncertain,” said +Lady Naylor.</p> + +<p>Riding home, the intoxication of Gerald had +mounted. He guessed that she never rested, rarely +leaned back in a chair, never pushed up her hat +with a sigh or stretched tender feet out, unbuttoning +shoes. She would remain imperious, even in +Oxford Street. So she was contriving for him; a +special tribute.</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor, coming in to the Fogartys’ soon +after four, was annoyed to find Gerald before her. +She had now, instead of being discovered, to +manœuvre more or less openly for position. Disregarding +the chair Gerald trundled up with its +load of cushions, she placed herself (unaccountably, +it would have to appear) on the narrow window-seat. +Thus, she conceded no more to the room than +an imposing silhouette of hat and boa, while Gerald, +glancing round pessimistically at the chairs, remaining +with elbow planted among photo-frames on the +mantelpiece, was exposed to her full in the strained +green light coming over the bushes.</p> + +<p>“Such a day,” she sighed briskly. “We have +lunched with the Boatleys. What a delightful +Colonel he must be! <em>She</em>, you know, is Irish; a +Vere Scott. We must seem ridiculous to you, over +here, the way we are all related.”</p> + +<p>“Topping, I think,” said Gerald.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know! Now you lucky people +seem to have no relations at all; that must feel so +independent.”</p> + +<p>“I have dozens.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed? All in Surrey?”</p> + +<p>“Scattered about.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span></p> + +<p>“That sounds to <em>me</em>, of course,” remarked Lady +Naylor, pulling her gloves off brightly, “exceedingly +restless. But you all <em>came</em> from Surrey, didn’t +you?”</p> + +<p>“More or less,” said Gerald, who was not sure. +The Boatleys had not been sure where he came from, +either; her day so far had been unsatisfactory.</p> + +<p>“Now I do hope I’m not keeping you from +smoking?”</p> + +<p>She was. He smiled and lighted a cigarette. +“You don’t ...?”</p> + +<p>“Oh dear me, no, I am quite old-fashioned. +Now tell me—you know how I hate all this gossip +in a garrison neighbourhood, but there is something +I must set right. What is this nonsense I +hear about Livvy Thompson? You know she’s a +friend of my niece’s and comes a good deal to our +house, and I do feel I ought to refute these stories +about her.”</p> + +<p>“Oh?” said Gerald, alarmed. “I had no +idea.”</p> + +<p>“Hadn’t you,” said Lady Naylor. “Well, you +are a friend of the young man Mr. Armstrong’s, +so I felt I’d come straight to you. It appears they +were seen in Cork having tea rather intimately and +in consequence there are all sorts of rumours. +Now it doesn’t seem fair to a young girl, at the +beginning of life, having her name coupled.”</p> + +<p>“I should have thought,” said Gerald rather +stiffly, “anyone could see Miss Thompson was +entirely straight. And as for Armstrong⁠— +They are engaged, as a matter of fact.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nonsense,” said Lady Naylor pleasantly.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes,” he nodded, then with his rather +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>engaging childishness looked at her under his +lashes. “But they don’t want⁠—”</p> + +<p>“To begin with, the Thompsons would never +hear of it. And they would be quite right. Of +course, poor Livvy is motherless⁠—”</p> + +<p>“But many people are,” said Gerald, faintly +aggressive. “Lois is.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, naturally we should never consider a +marriage like that for Lois. The point would not +even arise. But even for Livvy⁠— And then +think of the young man’s career: these early marriages +ruin careers, and engagements are nearly as +bad. I know Colonel Boatley feels⁠— No, what +you should do, I think, is: have a straight sensible +talk with your friend Mr. Armstrong. I know how +much you young men will take from each other. +I think as a friend you should say to him⁠—”</p> + +<p>“But look here⁠—” began Gerald, and paused. +“Look here, Lady Naylor⁠—” He stopped dead +and looked round the room, which was darker +since she had come in: the afternoon was clouding +over. He was disengaging himself with some +anguish of illusions which he had brought here and +which during the first minute or so of their talk had +been fortified. When they came to Surrey, he had +thought she was hoping to meet his mother. Crossing +his legs, he rubbed the side of one shoe on the +other with a slight creak at which she, betraying +her tensity, started. Standing with lowered eyes, +with an air of heaviness and confusion, he noted +this movement, a tremor of light round the edge of +her boa. With unusual calmness and virility he +said:</p> + +<p>“As a matter of fact, I love Lois.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh yes. But I’m afraid, you know, that she +doesn’t love you,” said the aunt equably.</p> + +<p>He overruled this without comment, simply by +maintaining his attitude. For all his physical +lightness and vigour, there was a quality in him she +would describe as stodginess. “Then I gather +she’s told you we⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she’s naturally pleased that you like her. +And at her age, with her temperament, of course +it is nice to love anyone.”</p> + +<p>“But you’ve just said she doesn’t⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Not as I understand love.”</p> + +<p>“But so long,” said Gerald, with the particular +urbanity of an approach to rudeness, “so long as +she and I both mean the same thing.”</p> + +<p>“But you don’t,” said his friend in her kind, +social voice. “That is what I am trying to make +you see. With her temperament⁠—”</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> haven’t noticed her temperament,” said +Gerald loyally, as if a temperament were a hump.</p> + +<p>“Now that alone,” exclaimed Lady Naylor, +waving her gloves in a rapid gesticulation, “would +make a marriage quite fatal.... Mr. Lesworth, +I don’t want to have to imagine you miserable. I +have no sons of my own, you know, and Laurence +being so intellectual⁠— And there is another +thing ...” She paused, and with unusual nervousness, +with a movement almost of Francie’s, +touched her boa, her jabot, two carnations pinned +in the lace. She had now to tilt straight at indecency. +There was this question of money—a subject the +English made free with, as free with as what was +below their diaphragms, but from which her whole +modesty shrank. “You may think me dreadful,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>she said, “but there are things in life one must face. +After all, I am Lois’s aunt....”</p> + +<p>Gerald, blushing, stood agonized to attention.</p> + +<p>“There is money,” she brought out at last. “I +mean, you haven’t any, have you? Of course, I +don’t see why you should have. But two people +must live, though it’s all rather sordid. However, +this need not arise. But I just want to show +you⁠—”</p> + +<p>“I know she’s got a beautiful home,” he said +glumly.</p> + +<p>“However ... You see, it’s impossible every +way. But first and last, she does not love you.”</p> + +<p>He was forced into the position which he would +have described to a friend as bloody, of asserting +she <em>did</em>. “Though I cannot think why.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but so many girls would!” she cried +earnestly. “But for Lois I do think—we all think—a +school of art. She cares for her drawing +intensely.”</p> + +<p>“She never speaks of it.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that just shows ... Lack of sympathy!” +said the aunt with mournful complacency. “And +it isn’t simply your age; it would be the same thing +if you were a captain or even a major. Now I do +think you ought to be sensible. It can all pass off +so quietly. Nobody knows except me. Now what +I suggest⁠—”</p> + +<p>“—She might have told me she’d told you!” +He stared round the changed room bitterly.</p> + +<p>“That was just what I didn’t encourage, to tell +you the truth. Oh, the child was most honest. +But I thought you and I should approach this quite +fresh and unprejudiced.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span></p> + +<p>“Did we have to?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Lesworth!” she cried, disconcerted. +She resumed, firmly but with inspiration, something +between a hospital nurse and a prophetess: “The +less talk, the less indirect discussion round and +about things, the better, I always think.”</p> + +<p>While she considered her gloves and with +gathering satisfaction prepared to put one of them +on, he stood half-turned away from her, stubborn but +indecisive. An unusual pendulum swung in him, +he was ruined—resolute—ruined. He was dark +with perplexed anger, from which his invincible +“niceness” stood, in deprecation, aside. She blasphemed, +and yet he had to admire her four-square +propriety, her sound sense, the price she set on his +Lois. And love, meanwhile, did not so much lie +bleeding as sit back stunned, bruised, a little craven +from shock. Gerald drew in his chin, swallowed, +put a finger inside his collar as though to loosen it.</p> + +<p>“Then I understand you don’t like this: you’re +going to stop it?”</p> + +<p>“—Now, my dear Mr. Lesworth, do think: +would I ever ‘stop’ anything?”</p> + +<p>“—You’re going to stop it because I’m too young +and too poor and not ‘county’ enough—or whatever +I ought to be?”</p> + +<p>“You have entirely misunderstood me,” cried +Lady Naylor, hurt.</p> + +<p>“You don’t have to tell me I’m not good enough: +that’s what I’ve battered my head against ever +since⁠—”</p> + +<p>“We all think you’re charming—the Montmorencys, +every one! You know we’re delighted +to see you⁠—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m all right for tennis,” said Gerald +without rancour.</p> + +<p>“There is no one I’d rather—as far as that +goes⁠—” began Lady Naylor warmly.</p> + +<p>“You feel it’s up to you to stop it,” he summed +up. “And I can see that from your point of view +you’re quite right. But there are some things +you can’t stop. God knows, I’ve got little enough +for Lois, and she ought to have everything, straight +off, now. But I swear I’ll see that she gets it. I’ll +give up the Army, anything. I <em>know</em> I’m going to +work things out. If it were only what <em>I</em> want⁠— +But she loves me—I dare say she’s pretty mad—but +she does love me; I’ve looked at her eyes, I +know. If she hadn’t seemed—if I hadn’t felt—if +it hadn’t been just the only thing for us both, I’d +never have said a word—I swear—I’d have died +sooner.”</p> + +<p>“But she agrees with every one,” said Lady +Naylor, taking off the glove again in despair. +“She is extremely keen to go to this school of art.”</p> + +<p>“Where?” he said violently.</p> + +<p>“Some good school.”</p> + +<p>“Do you expect me not to trust her?”</p> + +<p>“I should have a straightforward, sensible +talk.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not going to stop me seeing her?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what sort of girls’ mothers and +aunts you’re accustomed to,” she said, nettled, +“but how could you expect me to do such a preposterous +thing? It would be not only unkind +but exceedingly foolish. To begin with, she is +not my own niece at all. It would be for her uncle +to decide. But Sir Richard is very easily worried: +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span>I particularly do not wish⁠— You know we are +always delighted to see you at any time ...”</p> + +<p>She paused. “It’s most awfully kind of you,” +said he, by reflex action.</p> + +<p>“In these days of frank unsentimental friendship +between young people, I do not see why you two +should not have a perfectly friendly, sensible talk. +Of course there must be <em>no</em> ... I mean, I know +I can trust you ... I mean, you do quite understand +you are not engaged, and not being engaged +there can be no question of⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“I promise I won’t kiss her.”</p> + +<p>Lady Naylor was much embarrassed. She +laughed impersonally and arranged her boa. She +expressed some envy of this generation, its frank +friendships.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think I am very modern,” said Gerald +flatly.</p> + +<p>“Now Laurence is too modern: he does not seem +to care about girls at all.... For the present, +I’d leave love out of the question⁠—”</p> + +<p>“But I thought that <em>was</em> the question!”</p> + +<p>A shadow went past the window. “Here comes +Mrs. Montmorency,” said Gerald. And he +touched his moustache and blinked and looked +round, wondering which chair to offer.</p> + +<p>“That is too bad! I sent her up to the Rectory.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps they were out.”</p> + +<p>“I told her to wait; there would be plenty to read +in the drawing-room⁠— Well, you do understand, +don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I⁠—”</p> + +<p>Francie was shown in. “Oh!” she cried, “what +a lot of cushions! Kittens! Fancy sitting on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>them, I should feel like a cannibal. No, I don’t +mean⁠— Mr. Lesworth! Isn’t this nice! Are +those photographs of your regiment? I had no +idea there were so many officers.... Myra, I +remembered a little something I had to get at the +chemist’s, so I thought I’d call in here and save you +that climb up the hill. They were all out.”</p> + +<p>“Well, that was very sweet of you, Francie,” said +Lady Naylor.</p> + +<p>“Oh, how patriotic!” cried Francie, knocking +two cushions covered with Union Jacks off the +sofa. “She’s a Catholic, isn’t she? Oh, Mr. +Lesworth, don’t bother; I’m so clumsy.... I had +no idea we were going to meet you. Isn’t it a pity +now that we didn’t bring Lois? Myra, isn’t it too +bad Lois didn’t come too.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it does seem a pity,” said Lady Naylor. +Still faintly regretful she got up, looked at herself +in a mirror, arranged her boa and pulled down the +brim of her hat. Then she shook hands with +Gerald warmly, saying how much she had enjoyed +their talk.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XXII"> + XXII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>“I SHALL never forget,” continued Francie, +through the open dressing-room door, “the +way he picked up those cushions.”</p> + +<p>“Which?” said Hugo, searching irritably among +his collars. The feudal system was weak at some +points, he reflected—this Danielstown laundry. +The laundress’s father had helped to defend the +house in the troubled ’sixties. Nostalgic, he thought +of these neat democratic blue vans labelled “hygienic” +that called on Mondays. “Well really,” said +he, “I may just as well go to bed. I haven’t a +collar left fit to dine in.... Which cushions?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, horrors. But then they say the Fogartys +are so kind.—Never mind, Hugo; Richard’s and +Laurence’s collars are just the same.—You know +how alive he is generally: well, that was all gone. +It was like seeing a waterfall stand still. You +know, Hugo, it may be horrid, but I don’t trust +Myra sometimes. She says things aren’t, and +then she turns and makes these curious little dabs +at them. She dislikes the Clonmore rectory people, +she says they are breath-y, she knows I don’t know +them and yet she insisted on my going up. And +when I came down again she was charming; I +knew I must have annoyed her.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Francie, life is too short for all this.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span>(Though that was not the matter with life, really: +life was too long.) Hugo frowned, chin up in front +of his glass. “It’s a good thing the evenings are +drawing in,” he said, with reference to his collar.</p> + +<p>“Now what I should have said ...” resumed +Francie, “though ideally, really, I shouldn’t have +said anything....”</p> + +<p>“Talking of evenings,” said Hugo, “where do +we go next? We’ve got to fit in the Fitzgeralds +before October. Oughtn’t you to be writing to +somebody? And oh, Francie, you might post +some of these collars to the Terenure laundry, if +you can get the parcel out of the house quietly.”</p> + +<p>“I shall miss here,” sighed Francie, looking out +at the trees.</p> + +<p>“You miss everywhere.” They both thought +of the bungalow which, an eternal present for +them, would be never able to shine in retrospect. +Throughout dinner, Francie was distraite. She +was making out in her mind a little letter to Gerald. +But, of course, that would never do.</p> + +<p>“Hullo!” said Laurence, earlier, looking at the +letters put out for next morning’s post on the hall +table. “Lois has written to Marda. I thought +no one knew her address.”</p> + +<p>“She heard from Marda this morning,” explained +his uncle, bending to study the envelope with +melancholy interest. “I understand that it was +about a dog. I shall be relieved when Marda is +married. I wonder will the young man be able +to look after luggage.”</p> + +<p>“I ran into Mr. Lesworth this afternoon,” Lady +Naylor told Lois. “He came into the Fogartys’ +while I was resting there. Really, she keeps quite a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span>home for those young men—though nothing would +ever take the gloss off those cushions. He seemed +very cheerful, he was on his way up to the tennis.”</p> + +<p>“He never goes to the tennis on Club days.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, he seemed to be on his way up to +the tennis. He told me of that young Armstrong’s +engagement to Livvy Thompson. It +seems quite a <i lang="fr">fait accompli</i>, though secret, of course. +How things do get round in a garrison town! +You knew, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Livvy did tell me.”</p> + +<p>“What a bother for you!” said Lady Naylor. +“It is a comfort to have outgrown one’s friends’ +engagements. I suppose <em>you</em> couldn’t very well +tell her it was preposterous?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I ...”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Lesworth thought it a pity, in view of the +young man’s future. He expects Mr. Armstrong +will not stand well over this with their Colonel at +all. I think he can’t understand his friends not +being keener on his career. I suppose it will end +by their just going out to one of those coffee or +orange places in Africa. But, of course, Livvy is +used to a dull life.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t see ...”</p> + +<p>“And there isn’t much else for her. I can’t see +poor Livvy at a school of art, though she might +typewrite.”</p> + +<p>“She would do for a model,” said Laurence, who +had been listening with interest to this conversation +from his side of the table. “They should be +either voluminous or very spiky.”</p> + +<p>At this point, the candles were brought in—Lady +Naylor had been delayed in Clonmore, they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span>were dining late. The sharp flames shivered, every +one blinked; the dahlias became theatrical.</p> + +<p>“Autumn,” pronounced Sir Richard. “There +should be less of this ambushing and skirmishing +and hey-fidaddling now that the days are drawing in.”</p> + +<p>“But as an English friend of mine pointed out,” +said Hugo, “this Irish fighting is not cricket.”</p> + +<p>Laurence maintained that this way of fighting was +consistent, efficient and very natural. Why, he +asked, be high-toned about a war?</p> + +<p>“Oh dear,” said Francie, “you sound just like +a pacifist!”</p> + +<p>“What else did Gerald say?” Lois wanted to know.</p> + +<p>“I really cannot remember,” said Lady Naylor; “he +was as pleasant as ever, but, of course, not original. +He seemed in a hurry to be getting up to the tennis.”</p> + +<p>Lois, dissatisfied, blinked gloomily in the candlelight.</p> + +<p>About half-past ten, Francie—having been taken +up to her room by Myra, with a suggestion of +having been put away for the night—crept out +again to the ante-room, listening. Her candlestick, +wobbling with indecision, brushed the ceiling +with shadows. Wires twanged where some cattle +rubbed on a fence in the damp darkness. Francie +went across and tapped on Lois’s door.</p> + +<p>Lois turned in alarm from the dark window +where she stood holding her elbows, not quite +thinking. Her heart thumped as the crack of the +door widened, letting in foreign light. “Damn,” +she thought with annoyance. She had been up +here for more than an hour and had not begun +to undress. To look more natural she undid her +frock and stepped quickly out of it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Montmorency, yellow under the chin, +appeared deprecatingly. She had just thought, she +said, of a little chat. She looked round hopelessly, +she could not think where to put down her candle. +This decided—a little table presented itself—her +difficulties seemed to be over. She said at once: +“The young man, Lois, seems so unhappy.”</p> + +<p>“But we’re engaged,” said Lois, tying her +dressing-gown firmly round her hips.</p> + +<p>“Oh ... Are you certain? Because ...”</p> + +<p>“What did he say?” said Lois, at once defensive.</p> + +<p>“My dear, I was up at the rectory. I am sure +your aunt meant everything for the best.”</p> + +<p>Lois went to the glass and took down her hair +distractedly. Shaking it over her face she said, +muffled: “You mean she has interfered?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I wouldn’t say she’d done <em>that</em>. But it +seems a pity ...”</p> + +<p>“Really,” cried Lois, glad of the hair because +her anger did sound to herself faintly academic, +“she is as designing as ... a cardinal.”</p> + +<p>“As I said to Hugo, you have enough sense, +you are so modern ... and after all you will only +be young once.”</p> + +<p>“Oh. Were you all there?”</p> + +<p>“My dear, I tell you, I was up at the rectory. +But from the way he picked up the cushions ... +I can’t bear lives to go wrong.”</p> + +<p>This came out so vehemently, with such an +effect of passion that Lois, surprised, said: “Neither +can I, really.” And looking round, she found the +shadows exaggerated with solemnity; the thin +candle-flames stretched up anxiously: a predicament +must have become noticeable, even to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span>room. Impressed by strangeness, by this pressure +of emergency, Lois plaited her hair in two plaits +instead of one and felt herself a different woman.</p> + +<p>“What they never see,” she said rapidly, “is, +that I must do something.”</p> + +<p>“I should write at once,” said Francie, “I’m +not sure that I shouldn’t even telegraph, if it were +not for the post-mistress. I should say ... Well, +I don’t know really: I do wish Marda were here!”</p> + +<p>“If I learn German they say, why not Italian? +And when I learn Italian they take no interest.”</p> + +<p>Francie picked up the evening dress that Lois +had just stepped out of, stared, and remarked to +it, almost with incredulity: “Love is everything!”</p> + +<p>“At least Gerald is definite. He, I ...”</p> + +<p>“I <em>know</em> love is so important.”</p> + +<p>“At least it may get one somewhere.”</p> + +<p>Francie, raising her voice to a scared note, as +though she must make quite certain what they were +really talking about, cried: “There are such mistakes!”</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t mind being properly tragic....”</p> + +<p>“If one’s not quite certain, one never knows +where one is.”</p> + +<p>“—It’s just that I feel so humiliated the whole +time.”</p> + +<p>“But the young man ...” persisted Francie. +They looked at each other, or at where the other +had been. Francie, deserted at once by the conspiratorial +courage that brought her in, dolefully +put a finger over her lips, as though betrayed +irrevocably by what had come out of them. She +visibly shrank with misgiving.</p> + +<p>“You seem very intellectual, Lois. Do—do you +not love him?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span></p> + +<p>“I <em>must</em>,” said Lois. She put her hands up to +the back of her neck, fumbling open the clasp of +her corals. She could feel the bright girl she had +been for Mrs. Montmorency disintegrate: much +that even she had taken to be herself went with +the illusion.</p> + +<p>“I just thought I might have helped,” said Francie, +in a spent, remote little voice, as though they +were both coming back from a funeral to an imposingly +vacant house.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you have indeed,” said Lois. And she stood +there vacantly and, she felt, rather gruesomely +smiling, weighing her coral beads up and down +in a hand, trying to remember what they had both +said, what they had meant, what it had been about.</p> + +<p>Francie took up her heavy candlestick and looked +about for the door. She sighed and said it had been +a tiring day. She could not bear to feel she was +not missed out after all, had not been passed by +because there was nothing to pass her. It was +late at night for so fundamental a disappointment. +There seemed some difficulty about getting her +back to her room, though they both desired this. +Lois opened the door; they heard Sir Richard and +Hugo arguing up the stairs. Francie shielded her +candle-flame with her hand and wavered out round +the door like a shadow.</p> + +<p>Lois, hot with retrospective embarrassment, +slipped from her clothes and blew out the candles +quickly. The dark was gratefully positive. She +lay on her side with knees drawn up to her chin, +blankness snowing down on her till, quite snowed +up in blankness, she was asleep.</p> + +<p>Next day, mist lay on the fields like a blanket, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span>muffling sound so that the postman arrived unexpectedly. +He brought a letter from Gerald: “For +God’s sake see me.” She meant to go out to meet +Gerald, bright and matter of fact, but this miscarried: +when he came, in the evening, she was half-way down +from the garden, fighting with Laurence over a +snail. He had walked on the snail on purpose.</p> + +<p>“Ough—you fool ... you beast, Laurence!”</p> + +<p>“Well, I didn’t mean to be kind to it.”</p> + +<p>“Just because it had no mentality.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all.”</p> + +<p>“Ough, it’s all over the path.”</p> + +<p>“It’s scrunched ... I dare say,” said Laurence, +pleased, “I am pathological.”</p> + +<p>“Great fat feet!”</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, he was sorry about the snail; +he had thought it was just a shell, but he wasn’t going +to say so. “Little mother,” he said unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>“Laurence, you’re insane. Ough, you’re wiping +it off everywhere. I shall be sick!”</p> + +<p>“Do.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I won’t then.”</p> + +<p>“I had no idea you were so fond of animals,” +he said as offensively as possible. But he was not +feeling up to much this evening and could not +think what else to say to her. He turned and +walked briskly away towards the avenue, conscious +of having no objective. An unusual evening, +however, awaited him. In a boreen in the Castle +Trent direction he met three armed men coming +out of a gate. They made him put up his hands +and march smartly down the boreen ahead of them. +He discovered that under these conditions the mind +works fast but unfruitfully; he noted details sharply +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>and then forgot. When they came to the wall of +the graveyard he was embarrassed, but they only +asked for his shoes and the loan of his wrist-watch. +Placing him with his face close up to the wall they +advised him for life’s sake not to look round or +stir for twenty minutes. “How shall I know?” +said Laurence, “you’ve got my watch.” But they +did not care and went away with his shoes. Laurence +remained with his forehead against the stone +for fifty minutes, horse-flies biting him through the +socks. Then he limped home to dinner and an +audience, considerably cheered. Three days after, +the watch was posted back to his Uncle Richard: +it was in excellent order and ticked as it was taken +out of the package. “Which just shows,” said +Sir Richard, holding the watch to his ear with +satisfaction. But that was a day of confusion; +nobody listened.</p> + +<p>As Lois ran down from the garden, swollen about +the personality with annoyance, she saw Gerald +waiting at a turn of the path by a holly tree. He +looked intently at her advancing, without comprehension, +as though she had been a picture. +Though they were alone, he did not put out a hand +or move towards her. He stood there with the +vigour, grief and indifference of a tree that cannot +help growing.</p> + +<p>“Gerald?”</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” he said, impassive.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Laurence walked on a <em>snail!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Bad luck!”</p> + +<p>“My dear, he liked it.”</p> + +<p>“Queer,” said Gerald, finding the word with +difficulty.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span></p> + +<p>“Where shall we go?” she asked, while something +in her stopped like a clock with foreboding. +The encounter, uncoloured by surprise or passion, +left her quite at a loss. Unkissed, her mouth +and cheeks felt a touch of ice.</p> + +<p>“It seems now,” said Gerald, impersonally, as +though delivering a message, “that we can’t ever +be married.”</p> + +<p>“Why? When?” she cried angrily.</p> + +<p>Gerald looked at her under level eyelids. She +remembered saying: “I wish you wouldn’t keep +looking so pleased the whole time.” Now his look +and silence were cold with a doomed expectancy: +she nearly hated him. Dumbly, in happy-seeming +physical agreement like a pair of animals, they +wheeled off down the path together, crossed the +yard rapidly and came into the plantation ribbed +with shadow and lanced across with light about +the eye-level. He told her her aunt agreed he was +not good enough, it would never do at all, her +aunt had said. Looking angrily up the tree-trunks, +she exclaimed that her aunt was mad. +She repeated this with vehemence and confusion, +pulling at her fingers. He listened to her in +silence, wounded, wounded. She wished they +had not come down—overruling possibly in each +other some desire for space—to the plantation +where, constricted by firs, thought and movement +were difficult and upright shadows emphasized his +severity. “She advised me,” Gerald concluded, +“to have a frank talk with you.”</p> + +<p>“Is this the frank talk now?”</p> + +<p>“She was certain you didn’t love me.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Gerald</em>—why weren’t you furious?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span></p> + +<p>“I ... I don’t know,” he said, surprised by +the question. She saw him standing confused, like +a foreigner with whom by some failure in her vocabulary +all communication was interrupted. Her mind +halted and she wanted to run away. “Gerald, come +back. I’m wretched. Why do we have to talk?”</p> + +<p>“I thought you liked that....” Outside himself +with passion he cried: “I’d rather be dead than +not understand!”</p> + +<p>“But don’t you <em>know</em> I ...? Gerald?”</p> + +<p>If he did not know, it would be quite over. +She watched with agony what seemed to be his +indifference. They were each waiting for the other. +<em>He</em> watched her hand, on a tree-trunk, pick like a bird +at the scaly bark. Her hand, which immediately +centred her consciousness of him, paused and became +quite rigid, fingers spread out. When he saw +her hand so quiet, he would have to be certain. +And he immediately said with his usual little resigned +inflection: “You see, you are everything.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” she said, impersonal.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you are what I mean by life.... +Do you understand at all?”</p> + +<p>“You sometimes make me.” She wanted to +add: “Touch me now:” it was the only way across. +In her impotence, her desolation—among the +severe trees—at not being compelled, she made a +beseeching movement which he—remote in a +rather sublime perplexity that transcended pain—either +ignored or rejected. From the stables, the +six o’clock bell sent out relief in a jerky, metallic passage +of sound through the plantation. She wanted +something to look at, to follow: a train curving +past in a rush. With an exaggerated movement, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>she put up her hands to her ears. Gerald’s face, in +a band of light, remained impassible.</p> + +<p>“Gerald, you’re making us lose each other!” +she shouted above the bell.</p> + +<p>“But I mean to say: what would <em>you</em> lose?”</p> + +<p>“Everything.”</p> + +<p>“Do you <em>mean</em> that?” A light ran almost +visibly up inside him. She saw now where they +were and why he had come.</p> + +<p>She thought of going, hesitating with delight, +to the edge of an unknown high-up terrace, of +Marda, of getting into a train. “No,” she cried, +terrified, “why should I?”</p> + +<p>“Then we don’t mean the same thing.”</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you make me ... like you?”</p> + +<p>“I thought I could. I know I can—when I’m +not with you.”</p> + +<p>“Damn, damn,” said Lois. “I do want you!” +Gerald said piteously: “Then why can’t it all +be simple?”</p> + +<p>“But it’s our being so young,” she said, too +eagerly, “and then, money. I mean, we have got +to be practical.”</p> + +<p>He explained to her, wide-eyed: “It isn’t anything +practical that makes all this—like death. +What <em>she</em> said was; that if you loved me ...”</p> + +<p>“It’s like a nightmare that even you should begin +to talk. I thought you were a rock: I was safe +with you. Gerald, really, this is all like a net; +little twists of conversation knotted together. One +can’t move, one doesn’t know where one is. I +really can’t live at all if it has all got to be arranged. +I tell you, even what I think isn’t my own, and +Mrs. Montmorency comes bursting into my room +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span>at nights. Even Marda—nothing we said to +each other mattered, it hasn’t stayed, she goes off to +get married in a mechanical sort of way. She +thinks herself so damned funny—it’s cheap, really. +All that matters is what <em>you</em> believe—Gerald, +you’ll kill me, just standing there. You don’t +know what it’s like for a snail, being walked +on....”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand you,” he cried in agony. +“Who is a snail?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t ask you to understand me: I was so +happy, I was so safe.”</p> + +<p>Gerald noticed a change somewhere; the light +was gone from his face, moving down the trees +it had disappeared. He looked at his wrist-watch. +They had been a short time together, almost twenty +minutes. “When were you happy?” he said +accurately. He would have liked to be sure of +this, and of several other matters: she was not collected +enough to explain. He eyed the incredible +wood, the path, her unchanged figure in the cheerful +blue woollen dress. Something struggled free in +his brain and said, quite apart from his numbed +self: “My darling, don’t, don’t rack yourself. +You know this will be always the same for me. +Whatever’s impossible, you will always be perfect. +I know we’re different about things: if that didn’t +hurt you it would never matter to me. I mean, +don’t let’s be disappointed. You know I’m not +giving you up, I could never have done <em>that</em>. But +it’s just that, you see, you never ... I suppose +things can’t come out what one wants.... I suppose +it would hardly do....”</p> + +<p>“But, Gerald, where are we?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span></p> + +<p>He said, “Don’t worry.” They were both, he +knew, entirely lost.</p> + +<p>“But what have I <em>done?</em> What have I <em>not</em> +done?” After a minute, during which she heard +him finger his belt—his fingers slipped on the +leather—she shut her eyes and said, “So you’re +certain I don’t love you?”</p> + +<p>No answer. “Oh, leave that belt alone, Gerald!”</p> + +<p>Still no answer, as though he were asleep. And +indeed he felt, as at the approach of sleep, an +immense indifference. She, tortured by the loneliness +of insomnia, had to cry out: “Won’t you +even just try—won’t you just kiss me?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think ...”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>“Look, I must go now.” Vaguely, he saluted +and began to go up the path, towards the beech +walk, towards the house.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye?” she said.</p> + +<p>He only half paused. “No, don’t let’s ...” +“Where did you leave your bicycle?”</p> + +<p>He was well up the path; he called back: “Against +the hedge. You know, under the tennis courts.”</p> + +<p>She knew; she remembered him pulling leaves +from the privet hedge, scattering them on the grass +and throwing them over her. She remembered +that Mrs. Boatley was a Christian Scientist. It +seemed a good thing summer was practically over; +there might not be more tennis parties. But at +this the incomprehensible glare of summer blinded +her, bringing tears to her eyes. “Gerald!” she +called.</p> + +<p>But by this time he seemed to be out of ear-shot.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XXIII"> + XXIII + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>ANOTHER thing Lady Naylor had noticed +about the English was, a disposition they +had to be socially visible before midday. +Soon after ten, she had heard, Mrs. Vermont +and her friends were to be seen about the streets of +Clonmore—from behind the still decently somnolent +blinds of inhabitants—with gloves buttoned +tight at the wrists, swinging coloured baskets. +Before eleven, they would be seated behind the +confectioner’s window, deploring the coffee. Mrs. +Rolfe had once had Moriarty’s shutters taken down +for her specially—and she wishful, Moriarty said, +to purchase the one pair of stockings only. A +Mrs. Peake, of the Gunners, demanded attention +at the hairdresser’s before ten. These unnatural +practices were a strain in the town’s normality; +the streets had a haggard look, ready for anything. +Really, as Lady Naylor said, almost English. +She thought of the south of England as a kind of +extension of Brighton, the north serrated by factory +chimneys, the middle a blank space occupied +by Anna Partridge. Only Danielstown’s being out +of dropping- or popping-in distance from Clonmore +deprived her, as it transpired, of matutinal +visits from Mrs. Vermont and her friends.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vermont, however, overcame difficulties, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>hired a Ford and had herself driven over one +morning about eleven o’clock. She brought her +great friend Mrs. Rolfe; they were on their way +to lunch at the Thompsons’. This she explained +before they were out of the car; <em>she</em> knew what +Mondays were, she did not want to alarm Lady +Naylor—being so much with Mother had made +her considerate in these matters. Lady Naylor, as +a matter of fact, would have minded them less at +lunch-time; one didn’t notice people so much at +meals, she discovered. When news of the dropping +in came down to the kitchen, she groaned: “My +morning!” Nothing could have been worse.</p> + +<p>Francie was lying down with “a head”; Hugo +was talking over old times with the coachman, who +had been pensioned off and brooded all day in the +harness-room, much at a loss. Lois, indirectly +responsible for the outrage, was not to be found. +She had not been herself at all, these last few days. +Her aunt, after Gerald’s departure, had made a +point of saying: “Well, I hope, of course, you +have not made a mistake. But we all have to +settle these things for ourselves, you know.” +Francie never failed to inquire if she were getting +on nicely with the Italian; her uncle agreed it was +high time she went to that school of art. This +morning she seemed to be nowhere; shouting did +not produce her.</p> + +<p>Laurence, always unfortunate, was surprised on +the steps with Locke. “Oh God,” he said as the +Ford came round the bend of the lower avenue. +He turned, too late, to escape; the girl wives were +already shouting and waving.</p> + +<p>Betty said: “Denise, this is Mr. ⁠— (Oh dear, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>how awful!) This is Mrs. Rolfe of the Gunners; +my great friend, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Good,” said Laurence. Denise glanced up, +apprehensive, at all the windows. Laurence stood +looking at them with resignation; he forgot to +open the door of the car though they brimmed +out over it.</p> + +<p>“<em>May</em> we get out?” asked Betty, tittering up at +him in the friendliest way from a perfect swirl of +furs and red crêpe de Chine. On their knees, two +little pairs of hands curled like loose chrysanthemums +over their kid pochettes. He let them out +and they ran up the steps shaking out their dresses. +“<em>Oh</em>, what a brainy book!” cried Betty, pouncing. +“—My dear, just look what he’s reading—oh, you +have got a brain! I mean, fancy reading ...”</p> + +<p>“You’re at college, aren’t you?” said Denise, +fluttered.</p> + +<p>“Sometimes,” said Laurence accurately. Opening +his mouth very wide he shouted for Lois. +They shrieked and covered their ears. “I expect,” +he said finally, “I had better go in and look for⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Don’t go! I’m sure they will all come out.... +I did want Denise to see a lovely old Irish home.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, we are quaint, really,” said Laurence, +considering. “And you oughtn’t to miss the +Trents; has she seen the Trents?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I hardly know the Trents. Here, we +always feel that Gerald is such a link.”</p> + +<p>“Missing or otherwise,” Denise added.</p> + +<p>“Exactly.” Betty smiled at him sidelong, but +all the same, it did seem a pity it should be Laurence +that they had dropped in on with unintended +accuracy. <em>This</em> was not at all what she had led +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>Denise to expect. Laurence’s not quite rudeness +was, in fact, rather international—she supposed, +Oxford. She said: “I have a boy cousin at Reading +University. That’s quite near Oxford, isn’t +it?” Denise, plaintive, said that a wasp was bothering; +she wanted to go indoors and see the reputed +ancestors. Betty flapped with her pochette and +the end of her fur. “She’s <em>terrified</em> of wasps!”</p> + +<p>“So am I,” said Laurence, backing, “absolutely +<em>terrified</em>. I think I’d better go and—better get +a⁠—” He disappeared through the glass door, +shutting it.</p> + +<p>Denise said: “Well, I do think people are extraordinary.” +They both sat down and yawned. All +these trees; it was quite extraordinary. “Is that +Lois’s cousin?”</p> + +<p>“More or less.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I always did think she was an odd girl.”</p> + +<p>“Ssh, there’s Sir Richard writing in the library—Denise, +<em>just</em> look through, sideways. He’s such +a type.”</p> + +<p>“O-oh ... yes. Is he a knight or a baronet?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t see how he could have been +knighted.”</p> + +<p>“My dear, ssssh!”</p> + +<p>“He’s deaf. Oh, darling, look at those little +teeny black cows. Those are Kerry cows. They +farm, you know; they have heaps of cattle.”</p> + +<p>“I always meant to ask you: <em>are</em> there Kilkenny +cats?”</p> + +<p>“Really,” said Mrs. Vermont, annoyed, as her +friend yawned again and she felt her own jaw +quiver, “when one thinks these are the people we +are defending! I wonder if they’ll offer us any +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>coffee. What I think about Irish hospitality: +either they almost knock you down or they don’t +look at you. Or I tell you what, we might go out +to the garden and get some plums. Only I would +like you to see the drawing-room. I wish these +were Livvy’s people; the boys say her house smells—I +hope you aren’t bored, darling?—I mean, +what I mean about Livvy; she does grow on you. +I can’t think what Gerald sees in this family, I +must say. It isn’t even as if Lois⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Of course, I always did think she was an odd +girl.”</p> + +<p>At this point Sir Richard, who was not deaf, +came out in despair. He said this was too bad; +he couldn’t think what could have become of Lois. +“We might shout,” he said helplessly.</p> + +<p>“Your nephew has been shouting.”</p> + +<p>“Still,” said Sir Richard, and shouted again. +“How are you all getting on?” he said kindly, when +he had recovered his breath.</p> + +<p>Betty said with dignity: “There may be going +to be an offensive.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Sssh</em>,” whispered Denise, pinching her elbow.</p> + +<p>“Though I ought not really to tell you.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” said Sir Richard, “I don’t suppose +it will come to anything. Besides, now the +days are drawing in⁠— But this is too bad +really, most unfortunate that my wife should +not be here to receive you. She will be most distressed.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but we just dropped in. As I said to +Denise, what is the good of being in Ireland if +one isn’t a bit unconventional?”</p> + +<p>“She will be most distressed.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span></p> + +<p>“Don’t bother! We’ve been admiring your +darling cows.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll just go in and inquire,” said Sir Richard +firmly and disappeared, shutting the glass door.</p> + +<p>Denise said she would get the giggles: a seizure +did seem to be imminent. “Well, I must say, +Gerald is well out of this family.”</p> + +<p>“But, my dear, <em>is</em> he?”</p> + +<p>“Something’s happened. He’s <em>black</em>—even +Timmy noticed. I said to Timmy: ‘You <em>must</em> +find out’—’Cause I think, don’t you, that when +men get together ... You see, <em>I</em> can’t—though I +can’t bear to see the boy suffer.”</p> + +<p>“But I thought you said you⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ve seen him in the distance and he didn’t +look like himself at all. But he hasn’t been near +us, or to the Club, or into the Fogartys’. And as +I was saying to Mrs. Fogarty⁠—”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me he’s been treated rottenly. If +it were one of our boys, my dear, I should be +fur-rious.”</p> + +<p>“All the same, I do want to <em>see</em> Lois....”</p> + +<p>“What he sees in her, I cannot imagine. She’s +what I should call rather affected⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Sssh—Oh, hullo, Lois!” they cried in unison.</p> + +<p>Lois, unbecomingly bright, came up from the +beech walk.</p> + +<p>“Oh, hullo,” she said, “splendid!”</p> + +<p>“We’ve just been talking about you.”</p> + +<p>“O-oh. <em>Can’t</em> you stay to lunch?”</p> + +<p>“No can do; we’re off to the Thompsons. My +dear, aren’t you thrilled about Livvy and David! +Isn’t it marvellous?”</p> + +<p>“Thrilled, it’s absolutely marvellous. <em>Do</em> stay +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span>to lunch—I mean,” she said agitatedly, “do come +back to tea? Oh no, we shall all be out. Oh, how +rotten. Or come to tennis—no, I believe there +won’t be any more tennis; Laurence is going back +to Oxford and the rain’s washed all the marking off +the court. Perhaps we could have a dance or +something⁠—”</p> + +<p>The two young wives eyed her lightly and curiously; +their looks ran over her form like spiders. +They were so womanly, she could have turned and +fled back down the beech walk. “<span lang="it">Donne ch’avete +intelletto d’amore</span>,” she thought to herself wildly. +And the pause, the suspicion of some deformity +that these ladies produced in her became so acute +that she smiled more widely. She buttoned her +cardigan up to the top, then unbuttoned it.</p> + +<p>“Oh, but don’t go <em>now</em>,” she said, but looked +at their Ford, longingly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, we must, we have been here hours, watching +your darling cows.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid they’re very much in the distance. +Does Aunt Myra⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, we’d hate to disturb her. Unless we +might all run round the garden⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“It’s locked and I’ve lost the key. I feel quite +an outcast. That’s what has been the matter the +whole morning. Do have something to eat—have +some biscuits?”</p> + +<p>“Unless we just come into the drawing-room for +one moment?”</p> + +<p>“I always think drawing-rooms in the morning +are so depressing.”</p> + +<p>Denise said she did not see how the same room +could be much different, but it was no good; Lois +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span>seemed determined to keep them out. From the +way she shifted her feet and stared round, you would +have said she was expecting bad news momentarily: +she talked so much that they hadn’t a chance +to express themselves. She went in for a tin of +<i lang="fr">petit beurres</i> and offered it with an odd air, rather +propitiatory. Lady Naylor called from an upstairs +window that this was too bad, that she was +so much distressed, she would be down immediately. +“She spends whole mornings with the +cook,” said Lois. “I cannot think what they do. +I believe they fence verbally. More biscuits?”</p> + +<p>“No, we shall spoil our din-dins. Denise, we +<em>must</em> come. I hear old Mr. Thompson is a terrible +ogre. Any messages in Clonmore, Lois? Any +messages to Gerald?”</p> + +<p>Lois thought she must blush, but did not; even +her blood stood still.</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> should ask him,” said Denise, “why he didn’t +send <em>you</em> a message. <em>I</em> think it was odd of him; +I should be fur-rious.” Lois saw, with interest, a +ripple of light down their dresses; they nudged +each other. There must be something odd about +her, really, if they had noticed; she must clearly +be outside life.</p> + +<p>“How is the gramophone?” she said enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>“Don’t <em>ask!</em> Gerald is going to Cork to bring +back a new one. We thought we might all go +too, it would be a rag.”</p> + +<p>“Marvellous!”</p> + +<p>“Look, I’ll just run Denise in to have a look +at the drawing-room.”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t, really. I haven’t done the flowers.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span></p> + +<p>“Gerald says all your looking-glasses make him +feel sleepy. He’s a funny boy, in a way,” said +Betty innocently. “You don’t think we ought to +wait till we’ve seen your aunt? She won’t be +offended?”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t really; she’s probably been delayed.” +Lady Naylor did, in fact, arrive on the steps in +time to utter exclamations of despair as they drove +away. “Too bad, <em>too</em> bad!” she called, waving +after them. “You must come again soon!... +Really, Lois, you might have found them some +fruit or something. Fancy puffing them out with +biscuits at this hour.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you what I think it is about Lois,” said +Betty cosily, nestling down in the car as the trees +rushed over them. “I think he’s left her.”</p> + +<p>Denise agreed. “A boy needs keeping, if you +know what I mean.” Betty also told her what +she thought about the Naylor family: they were +going down in the world. “I should not be surprised +if they never used that drawing-room,” she +said viciously. “It smells of damp. Myself, +I do like a house to be bright and homey.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The world did not stand still, though the household +at Danielstown and the Thompsons’ lunch +party took no account of it. The shocking news +reached Clonmore that night, about eight o’clock. +It crashed upon the unknowingness of the town +like a wave that for two hours, since the event, had +been rising and toppling, imminent. The news +crept down streets from door to door like a dull wind, +fingering the nerves, pausing. In the hotel bars, +heads went this way and that way, quick with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>suspicion. The Fogartys’ Eileen, called by a +friend while she was clearing away the supper, +cried “God help him!” and stumbled up to Mr. +Fogarty’s door, blubbered. Mr. Fogarty dropped +his glass and stood bent some time like an animal, +chin on the mantelpiece. Philosophy did not help; +in his thickening brain actuality turned like a mill-wheel. +His wife, magnificent in her disbelief, ran +out, wisps blowing, round the square and through +the vindictively silent town.</p> + +<p>Barracks were closed, she could not get past the +guards; for once she was at a loss, among strangers. +She thought mechanically “His mother,” and +pressed her hands up under her vast and useless +bosom. Trees in the square, uneasy, shifted dulled +leaves that should already have fallen under the +darkness. The shocking news, brought in at the +barrack gates officially, produced an abashed silence, +hard repercussions, darkness of thought and a loud +glare of electricity. In Gerald’s room some new +music for the jazz band, caught in a draught, +flopped over and over. An orderly put it away, +shocked. All night some windows let out, over the +sandbags, a squeamish, defiant yellow.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Vermont heard when Timmy had just gone +out; he was to be out all night with a patrol. She +was to sleep alone, she could not bear it. Past +fear, she ran to the Rolfes’ hut. She spent the night +there, sobbing, tearing off with her teeth the lace +right round her handkerchief. Captain Rolfe kept +bringing her hot whisky. “I can’t, I can’t, not +whisky; it’s so awful.” They all felt naked and +were ashamed of each other, as though they had +been wrecked. From the hut floor—where they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span>had danced—the wicker furniture seemed to rise +and waver.</p> + +<p>“Percy, where did he—how was he⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Through the head.”</p> + +<p>“Then it didn’t⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no. Probably instantaneous.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>don’t!</em> Oh, Percy, how can you!”</p> + +<p>Denise repeated: “I can’t believe it.” And +while the others sickly, furtively stared, she tried +to press from her hair the waves she had had put +in that morning. “You know, I <em>can’t</em> believe it. +Can you, Betty? It’s so ... extraordinary.”</p> + +<p>“Why can’t we all go home? Why did we stay +here? Why don’t we all go home? That’s what +I can’t understand.”</p> + +<p>“Percy, can <em>you</em> believe it? I mean, I remember +him coming in and standing against this table⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t!—Percy, what became of <em>them?</em> +Where did they go? Those devils!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, got right away.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t anyone hear anything, any firing? I +mean, didn’t it make a noise?... Couldn’t they +be tortured—why should they just be hanged or +shot? Oh, I do think, I mean I do think when +you think⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Well, we’ve got to get ’em, haven’t we? Look, +just try⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I <em>can’t</em>, I tell you⁠— Why can’t we all +go home!”</p> + +<p>“Percy, leave her <em>alone!</em> Oh God, my head; I +shall cut my hair off. I mean, he came in and stood +there against that table. Why did they get just +Gerald?—Oh yes, I know there was the sergeant—but +<em>he</em> won’t die; I know he won’t die.... I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>can’t believe it! Percy, <em>can</em> you believe it? Percy, +say something.”</p> + +<p>Betty sobbed: “I should like to—oh, I should +like to⁠— Those beasts, those beasts!”</p> + +<p>“Look, you two girls go to bed.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, how can we!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, why isn’t Timmy here? I mean, when I +think of Timmy, and out all night—<em>I</em> can’t understand +the King, I can’t understand the Government: +<em>I</em> think it’s awful!”</p> + +<p>But they went to bed—Percy spent the night +on two chairs—and lay in what seemed to both +an unnatural contiguity, re-clasping each other’s +fingers, talking of “Him,” of “you know who” and +“that boy” in the eager voices, low-pitched and +breaking, kept as a rule to discuss the intimacies +of their marriages. In the same moment they fell, +dimly shocked at each other, asleep. Then Denise +saw Lois clearly, standing affectedly on the Danielstown +steps with a tin of biscuits, a room full of +mirrors behind her. And Betty woke with surprise +to hear herself say: “What I mean is, it seems +so odd that he shouldn’t really have meant anything.”</p> + +<p>They heard an early bugle shivering in the rain.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="XXIV"> + XXIV + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>MR. DAVENTRY arrived before the postman. +He had not paid an unofficial +visit since he had been in Ireland; it +seemed to him odd there should be nothing to +search for, nobody to interrogate. It was early, +wet tarnished branches came cheerfully through +the mist. He had come to the gate with a convoy +on its way over to Ballyhinch; two lorries had +ground into silence and waited for him at the gate, +alarming the cottagers. He walked up the avenue +lightly and rapidly: nothing, at the stage things had +reached for him, mattered. And superciliously +he returned the stare of the house.</p> + +<p>He rang and made his demand. Lois came out +slowly, dumb with all she must begin to say—for +who could an anxious waiting officer be but Gerald? +“Really ...” Lady Naylor had said, with a glance +at the clock, advising her to put down her table +napkin. And Francie, smiling, had covered up +her egg for her.</p> + +<p>“You?” she now said while everything, the +importance of everything, faintly altered. “Come +and have breakfast.”</p> + +<p>He told her that there had been a catastrophe +yesterday, west of Clonmore: a patrol with an +officer and an N.C.O. had been ambushed, fired +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span>on at a cross-roads. The officer—Lesworth—was +instantly killed, the N.C.O. shot in the stomach. +The enemy made off across country, they did not +care for sustained fire, in spite of the hedges. The +men did what they could for the sergeant.</p> + +<p>“Will he die?”</p> + +<p>“Probably.”</p> + +<p>“And Gerald was killed.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Would you⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“I’m all right, thank you.”</p> + +<p>“Right you are.” He turned round and stood +with his back to her. She asked what time it had +happened; he said about six o’clock. She thought +how accurate Gerald was and how anxious, last +time, he had been to establish just <em>when</em> she had +been happy because of him, on what day, for how +long. “They’d been out all the afternoon?” They +both saw the amazed white road and dust, displaced +by the fall, slowly settling. “As a matter of fact,” +said Daventry, “we were mostly ready for things. +I don’t suppose—if he knew at all—it mattered.” +“No, I don’t suppose, to oneself, it ever would +matter much.” But she thought of Gerald in the +surprise of death. He gave himself up to surprise +with peculiar candour.</p> + +<p>“Thank you for coming.”</p> + +<p>“I was passing this way anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“But still, there was no reason why you should +take the trouble.”</p> + +<p>Daventry glanced at her, then at the gravel under +his feet, without speculation. Cold and ironical, +he was a stay; he was not expecting anything of +her. He finally said: “It seemed practical. Would +you like me to—shall I just let the others know?” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span>She nodded, wondering where to go, how long to +stay there, how to come back. Her mind flooded +with trivialities. She wondered who would go up +to the tennis this afternoon, if there would be anyone +left who did not know, who would expect him; +she wondered what would become of the Jazz band. +She saw for days ahead she must not deny humanity, +she would have no privacy. “As a matter of fact, +they are expecting me back to breakfast.”</p> + +<p>But at the thought of Francie’s tender and proud +smile, covering up her egg, she was enlightened +and steadied by grief, as at the touch of finger-tips. +She went into the house and up to the top to meet +what was waiting. Life, seen whole for a moment, +was one act of apprehension, the apprehension of +death. Daventry, staring at her in memory—she +was, after all, a woman—went into the hall. Here, +it pleased him to think of Gerald socially circumspect +under the portraits.</p> + +<p>He waited. The dining-room door swung open +on a continued argument; they came out one by +one, each on the threshold, balanced momentarily +like a ball on a fountain by the shock of seeing him. +“Lady Naylor?” he said to Francie. “Oh <em>no!</em>” she +seemed appalled at the supposition. “Isn’t ... +Mr. Lesworth here?” “Not to-day.” Lady Naylor +came last and stared hardest: really, the Army +seemed to be inexhaustible. He told her. “Oh, +no!” she said quickly, as though to prevent something. +He told her the circumstances. “Oh—<em>no</em>,” +she repeated, and turned in appeal to her +husband. “That is ... that is too bad,” said +Sir Richard and in despairing confusion touched +her shoulder. He looked back into the dining-room +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span>at the chairs and plates and table, incredible +in their survival.</p> + +<p>The fact was, they did not at all care for the look +of Mr. Daventry. They felt instinctively that he +had come here to search the house. Lady Naylor, +still statuesque from the shock, made, even, a little +disdainful gesture, a kind of: “Here’s everything.” +He, unconscious of her impression of being brought +to book, remained staring darkly and piercingly +past her. Behind her, across the dark dining-room, +he saw through a window the lawn striped with +mist and sunshine. In Clonmore it had rained +that morning: they seemed to have escaped that +too. She said sharply: “Where’s Lois?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he replied, indifferent.</p> + +<p>“She—you have⁠—?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>Her defensive dropped; she said with heartbroken +eyes on his face: “You know, we knew him +so well. He came out here so often to tennis. It +seems queer that one can’t—that one never⁠— +He was so⁠—”</p> + +<p>“Yes he was, wasn’t he?”</p> + +<p>“His mother, he used to tell me about his mother. +Who will write? I should like to write to her. +Yes, I want very much to write to her. I think she +might like—we did know him so well, you see⁠— +Richard, don’t you think I⁠—?”</p> + +<p>But Sir Richard had slipped away quietly; he was +an old man, really, outside all this, and did not know +what to do. He was wondering, also, about the +Connors. Peter Connor’s friends—they knew +everything, they were persistent: it did not do to +imagine....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span></p> + +<p>Mr. Daventry said that was all, he thought; he +must go now. He took leave with unfriendly +courtesy and went off abruptly, with an air that +obliterated them, as though he had never been into +their house at all. Then she exclaimed, recollecting +herself: “<em>He</em> must be unhappy; I ought to have +said something.” There was so much to do now, +more than would fit into a morning; she had some +idea of postponing lunch. And hearing the postman, +she half thought, terrified by a sense of exposure: +“Suppose there should be a—suppose he +should have⁠—”</p> + +<p>But there was no letter for Lois from Gerald.</p> + +<p>No one was on the steps to hear the news from +the postman; he went away disappointed. Lady +Naylor thought firmly: “Now I must go and find +Lois.” But she did not go; things seemed to delay +her. She looked into the drawing-room to see +whether something—she wasn’t certain what—was +there. Francie, red-eyed, looked guiltily over the +back of the sofa. They did not say anything. +The room became so sharply painful that Lady +Naylor almost exclaimed: “Lois has not done the +flowers!”</p> + +<p>It was Laurence who, walking about the grounds +unguardedly, was exposed to what they all dreaded. +He came on Lois, standing beside a holly tree. +She could have moved away, but seemed not so +much rooted as indifferent.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right,” she explained, and added: “I’m +just thinking.”</p> + +<p>His look became almost personal, as though he had +recognized her. He said: “I think I should. I expect—I +don’t know—one probably gets past things.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span></p> + +<p>“But look here, there are things that one can’t⁠—” +(She meant: “He loved me, he believed in +the British Empire.”) “At least, I don’t want to.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you are right,” he said, studying, with +an effort of sight and of comprehension, some +unfamiliar landscape.</p> + +<p>“Well, don’t stop, Laurence. You’re going +somewhere, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Nowhere particular. Not if you⁠—”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t specially. Though if it has to be +anyone, you.”</p> + +<p>Taking this for what it was worth, he went on, +brushing awkwardly past her against the laurels.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A fortnight later, Mrs. Trent drove over, the +very evening of her return from the North. She +had been inexpressibly bored up there and wished +to complain. Lady Naylor, delighted, came out +to meet her; it was like old times again.</p> + +<p>“The house feels empty. They’ve gone, you +know.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear me. I was sorry not to have seen the +last of Hugo and poor little Francie. What about +their bungalow?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that was just an idea; they are quite off it. +Bungalows inland seem so pointless, cliffs are so +windy and one cannot live on a flat coast. No, they +think now of going to Madeira.”</p> + +<p>“Then they won’t un-store the furniture?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so; they never cared for it much.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a pity he never did go to Canada.” Mrs. +Trent looked round at the pleasant fields and lawns, +the trees massive and tarnished, the windows that +from their now settled emptiness seemed to have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>gained composure. Her sense of home-coming +extended even to Danielstown. She went on: +“How’s Richard? And listen: are you getting in +your apples?—we haven’t begun. They never get +anything done when I’m away. And tell me: how’s +Lois?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, gone, you know.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Gone?</em> Oh, the school of art!”</p> + +<p>“Oh no,” said Lady Naylor, surprised. “Tours. +For her French, you know. And to such an interesting, +cultivated family; she is really fortunate. I +never have been happy about her French. As I +said to her, there will be plenty of time for Italian.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s splendid,” Mrs. Trent said vaguely +but warmly. “Then of course you must feel quiet. +Did she and Laurence travel over together?”</p> + +<p>“She seemed so offended at being thought incompetent +and he was worried at the idea of looking +after her luggage, so we sent them over separately; +he crossed Wednesday, she Friday. Both nights, I +hear, it was rough.... Yes, it’s been sad here, +lately; we’ve been so much shocked and distressed +about that unfortunate young Lesworth. I think +I felt it particularly; he had been out here so much +and seemed so glad to talk, and had come, in a way, +to depend on one. Though it was a shock, too, for +Lois. You see they had really played tennis so +often and were beginning to be quite friends. She +did not take it as hard as I feared, girls of her generation +seem less sensitive, really.... I don’t +know; perhaps that is all for the best. And of +course she has so many interests. But it was +terrible, wasn’t it; I still think: how terrible. But +he did have a happy life. I wrote that to his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span>mother; I said, it must always be some consolation +to think how happy his life had been. He quite +beamed, really; he was the life and soul of everything. +And she wrote back—I did not think +tactfully, but of course she would be distracted—that +it was <em>her</em> first consolation to think he died in so +noble a cause.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Trent had for a moment an uneasy, exposed +look. She said: “It was heroic,” and glanced +down awkwardly at her gloves. She missed a dog, +she felt unstayed, there was no dog.</p> + +<p>“Heroic,” said Lady Naylor, and scanned the +skies with eager big-pupilled eyes that reflected +the calm light. “Although,” she added, half in +surprise, “he could not help it.... But come +in now and tell Richard about the North, he will be +amused, though sorry that you were dull. To tell +you the truth, we both rather feared you might be. +Ah, don’t mind the time, I’m sure it’s early; come +in, come in!”</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Trent could not, she was a punctilious +person and wore a wrist-watch. She had not even +sent round her dog-cart to the back; a man was +walking the cob up and down the avenue. “A flying +visit,” said Lady Naylor mournfully, having +prolonged the conversation by half an hour. Then +Mrs. Trent climbed briskly into the dog-cart and +gathered the reins up; they sighed at each other +their resignation to parting.</p> + +<p>“Then we see you on Tuesday. Be sure and +come early, before the Hartigans.” To the domestic +landscape, Mrs. Trent nodded an approving +farewell. “Every autumn, it strikes me this place +looks really its best.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span></p> + +<p>“To tell you the truth, I really believe it does. +There is something in autumn,” said Lady Naylor. +She remained on the steps looking after the trap, +her hands restlessly, lightly folded. Some leaves +spun down from the gate with a home-coming air.</p> + +<p>The two did not, however, again see Danielstown +at such a moment, such a particular happy point of +decline in the short curve of the day, the long curve +of the season. Here, there were no more autumns, +except for the trees. By next year light had possessed +itself of the vacancy, still with surprise. +Next year, the chestnuts and acorns pattered unheard +on the avenues, that, filmed over with green +already, should have been dull to the footsteps—but +there were no footsteps. Leaves, tottering +down the slope on the wind’s hesitation, banked +formless, frightened, against the too clear form of +the ruin.</p> + +<p>For in February, before those leaves had visibly +budded, the death—execution, rather—of the three +houses, Danielstown, Castle Trent, Mount Isabel, +occurred in the same night. A fearful scarlet ate +up the hard spring darkness; indeed, it seemed +that an extra day, unreckoned, had come to abortive +birth that these things might happen. It seemed, +looking from east to west at the sky tall with scarlet, +that the country itself was burning; while to the +north the neck of mountains before Mount Isabel +was frightfully outlined. The roads in unnatural +dusk ran dark with movement, secretive or terrified; +not a tree, brushed pale by wind from the flames, +not a cabin pressed in despair to the bosom of night, +not a gate too starkly visible but had its place in the +design of order and panic. At Danielstown, half-way +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span>up the avenue under the beeches, the thin iron +gate twanged (missed its latch, remained swinging +aghast) as the last unlit car slid out with the executioners +bland from accomplished duty. The sound +of the last car widened, gave itself to the open and +empty country and was demolished. Then the +first wave of a silence that was to be ultimate flowed +back, confident, to the steps. Above the steps, the +door stood open hospitably upon a furnace.</p> + +<p>Sir Richard and Lady Naylor, not saying anything, +did not look at each other, for in the light +from the sky they saw too distinctly.</p> + +</main> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79073 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/79073-h/images/cover.jpg b/79073-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a99df9 --- /dev/null +++ b/79073-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, 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. 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