5 . THE QUICKER THE SLOWER.

    He was not certain how it took place, but lie was seated by her side at table. She did not seem to be conscious of him. Her friends were talking to her across the table, saying how good her acting had been. Pauline Deresa was taking it all very quietly she was used to it she did not seem to get tired or make it clear, at any point, that she would be pleased if the sweet-sounding words came to an end. And to her they were more than sweet-sounding words because it was her belief that what all her friends said was true.
    No one said anything to Henry, and because they had not done so for a long time it did not seem probable to him that they would make a start now, and so he had time to take a look round the room. He had an idea that, though the persons he was with at table were not troubling to say anything to him, everyone at the other tables was looking at him with a desire to be in his place, and to be a friend of his. Without doubt they were saying to themselves, " What a happy young man to be seated near Pauline Deresa ! Who is he ?" But the thoughts of strange persons were of no use to Henry. Pauline herself was probably not even conscious of his name, and, after all, there was nothing very surprising in that, because he was only here by chance.
    Henry's sister had been ill on a night when she had seats for the theatre, and so, at the last minute, his brother-in-law had taken him to the play and later on to the stage where Pauline was seeing all her friends. Henry had been self-conscious on the stage like that, opening and shutting his eyes at the lights, with persons talking all round him. He had kept very near to his brother-in-law and before long he was making the most of this chance of hearing Pauline's voice. She said how sad it was that Henry's brother-in-law was unable to come on with them. Naturally, she quite saw that he had to go back to Henry's sister. Then she had taken a look at Henry without seeming to see him.
    " Will you come on with us ?" she said.
    Henry had said nothing ; he had been unable to give her an answer. Normally he was a ready talker ; his family made sport of him about it. "Henry is talking all the time," they said ; it was a family saying. But now he was unable to say anything. He was quiet and self-conscious.
    " It's only a little meal with some friends," she said, attempting to get an answer out of him.
    " It would give me great pleasure. " Henry's voice had seemed to come from some other place, and from some other person.
    Henry's brother-in-law had gone away. Other persons had come up to have a talk with Pauline, and Henry, pushed out, had kept in the wings. He went on watching Pauline and it did not seem possible that the play was over. The way she was talking to everyone -- she had a word for them all -- the, way she was moving, the way she was walking, it seemed as if she was still acting. In the wings opposite there was a man, and he was watching Pauline, and when he was not watching her he was looking round quickly with that secret, unhappy look in his eyes which made Henry self-conscious for him.
    This man seemed poor ; he had an overcoat which would have given most men a feeling of shame. Henry's overcoat was old, but it was better than this. The man in the wings had glasses ; they were so far from being the right size that it was hard to say if they were needed or if they were only used as a sort of cover. Only those who were unable to get on were like that. Henry was disgusted by men who had no push ; he was not going to be like that. He was poor now, that was true ; but he would get on.
    Henry went out into the street, waiting for Pauline ; she had said in his hearing that it was time for them all to go. He saw the quiet man talking to the driver. That was a thing which Henry himself would not ever have done ; talking to drivers at a stage door was a waste of time ; and, in addition, it was a low trick. When Pauline came out, with all the flowers in her arms, the quiet man went slowly away. Henry kept where he was, and seeing him there by the stage-door, she said, " Please take these for me."
    She gave him the flowers. He went after her into the automobile, and a short time after this he was seated near her at table. He was in love. Possibly that was foolish, but all love was foolish. He would make a great amount of money and get on ; he would be writing plays for Pauline ; they would be the right sort of plays for her, and then she would be in love with him, and they would be happy. He was very young now, not in the public eye, without money, and so the idea that he would be able to make Pauline happy seemed foolish. But when he was well-off and had got on, everything would be simple.
    Pauline said suddenly : " Oh, what a slow place this is, let's go somewhere brighter." They all went on to a cafe. Henry went after Pauline, still keeping her flowers in his arms.
    A number of tables were put together at the café so that they made one long table, and Pauline gave orders for drinks for her friends. A new group came round her ; it was as if she had been putting down grain and birds carne as if from nowhere. They seemed to make a start on their flight from a far angle of the room, and then suddenly they would be quite near and would take seats at the table saying kind things about her acting in high, bird-like voices.
    And then Henry saw the quiet man seated at a table with two friends. They were drinking beer. Probably he was unhappy that Henry was getting on so well with Pauline, or at least would have been pleased to be in his place. He would have given much to have been seated near to Pauline himself. She had not seen him at all ; there was in fact nothing about him to see. But if she saw Henry again, would she have any idea who he was ? She had said, " Do come with us. Take these flowers for me. Get in. Take a seat by me." -- And still she had not given a thought to him. She had not truly given him one look.
    She said to Henry : " Will you go and say we're ready ?" Henry went outside and made a sign to her driver, and at the door of the café, when he came back, the two men who had been drinking beer with the quiet man at the table near Pauline's were talking about her. He was conscious of what they were saying.
    "Pauline Deresa wouldn't get any good parts if he didn't put up money for every play she is in."
    Inside the café there was a group round Pauline's table saying good-night. His friends having gone off, the quiet man had been pushing his way into the group round Pauline, and she was letting him give her help with her coat.
    " Is my man ready out there ?" she said to Henry. " There's a new night club -- but it wouldn't do for me to go by myself. Will you come with me ?"
    She gave the quiet man a pound. She seemed to Henry a very great person there was something queen-like in this giving of money ; she seemed to do it frequently. She had given the maitre-d'hôtel at the first restaurant a five-pound note, ten shillings to a street-player with a black band over his eyes and a bit of cardboard on his chest which said " I was in Gallipoli ", and now one pound to the poor man who had given her help in putting on her coat.
    Her automobile was very beautiful. She said to Henry that it had been designed specially for her. He said " If only I had money." After all, it would not do to say to Pauline that he was in love with her -- so that she might get free for him -- till he was able to give her the sort of comforts she was used to. He would get on, he was certain of that, but it might take years. He took a deep breath at the thought of the years.
    " Oh, money," she said, " well, that's nothing, truly. Those who are well-off don't seem to me very different from those who are poor. Poor persons seem to be more interesting and better company, while those who are well-off are unhappy and badly-dressed—at least ", she said, " that's my experience of them. But then, men with millions and men who are very poor have such a number of points in common. They have the same interest in money, they have the same fear of being requested to give it to their friends -- and they are equally certain to have no money on them. The man I am married to is like that, you see".
    " Like what ?"
    “Well, he has no money on him -- ever. Didn't you see tonight I had to let him have a pound to get back with ?
    She was looking out of the window. She put her coat round her, and then took a deep breath, and in this deep breath was all the unrest of the earth. Henry saw now that it was not in his power to do anything for her. It was like some slow disease, putting her to death by degrees.
    "Oh, well," she said. Her voice was bright and hard now. " All married persons are probably the same." She took a long look at Henry without interest. " What is your name ?" She was not waiting for his answer.
    The automobile came to a stop outside the new night club.
    "Oh dear," she said, "It will be very slow. All night clubs are much the same.

63


 

---

6 . TALK WITH A GREAT MAN.

    Miss Trudgeon was dusting Chelsea ornaments. She took them up, gave them a rub over with a duster, and then put them down again, It was the first time she had done this, but it had become automatic.
    Every day in the existence of a woman in such a position was the same. It was necessary to make oneself kind, unprotesting, ready to do any little bit of work, however uninteresting, without ever getting tired of it.
    Lady Paravane, for whom she was working as one of the family, was walking in the garden, cutting off the dead flowers and putting them in a basket.
    At their first meeting she had not seemed in the least interested in Miss Trudgeon. Her air had been one of "You will probably do as well as anyone ;" with a long deep breath as if she had given up hope, a turning away of the head from questioners over-interested in her private troubles.
    There was such an unhappy end-of-summer look in Lady Paravane's eyes. It was clear to anyone that her existence was at an end, dead and done. But at least some sort of existence had been hers.
    And that was what made Lady Paravane different from Miss Trudgeon. Miss Trudgeon almost let two Chelsea ornaments -- Two Lovers -- go down on the floor. They were so beautiful, and they were Lady Paravane's, whose existence was over. Miss Trudgeon had not even a past. It was hard, cruel; everything was against her ; she had no rights.
    Lady Paravane had her memories, they were with her all the time. She was walking in the garden, with her long, grey, warship feet and her garden basket, cutting off the dead flower heads. She was not ever completely by herself ; trouble was walking by her side.
    But here was Miss Trudgeon, in this strange house where even the servants seemed to be united in a secret agreement to say nothing, not talking to Miss Trudgeon or to one another. It was as if they were waiting for something, feared but certain to come.
    After the ornaments had been dusted, Miss Trudgeon made a start to put black cloths over all the looking-glasses, which made them seem like great open holes against the wall. Lady Paravane had given her orders to do this.
    In addition, Lady Paravane had said she was to put away all the camera pictures. They were to be put in the small drawer in the polished black table which had been pointed out. Miss Trudgeon was interested in the last picture, which was in a thick silver frame.
    There was something so young, so full of force and interest about that face. There was a sort of care-free attraction, but naturally you would not ever get a young man to have his picture taken with rough hair and a shirt open at the neck like that.
    If he had let himself be taken like that, he would not be "the right sort of young man. And so Miss Trudgeon was certain that it was a picture of a painting.
    She was a woman of experience, she said to herself, and had a knowledge of young men. It was strange that she had this idea, because there had been no men in her experience, young or old.
    The face in the frame went out of Miss Trudgeon's mind. She went on picturing to herself the young man who was in love with her. She had to do this, because there was no young man, and there had not ever been one. How was it possible, when her complete existence was given up to living with another woman ?
    He would come straight into the room and say . . .
    At that minute Cobham came in with a well-ordered, uninteresting little meal on a tray.
    From this room one had a view of the carriage-way. At half-past one an automobile came up to the door. Miss Trudgeon was watching, but she was unable to see very much because the window curtains of the automobile were pulled down, and when the driver got the door open, two men got out and went quickly into the house. The automobile went away and all was quiet again.
    Later she saw Lady Paravane walking n the garden with a man. He was tall and gave the effect of being uncommonly strong. Miss Trudgeon would have said to herself that he had a ‘military air', because these were words which were very pleasing to her.
    Lady Paravane seemed to be talking now ; she had become bright and interested as if she were questioning this man about something.
    When someone came in at the door, Miss Trudgeon was unable to go on watching the two persons in the garden because she had to give a smile at the man who had come slowly into the room.
    He said, "Possibly you will be able to do something for me."
    Miss Trudgeon gave hum a kind smile ; she was used to doing things for others, that was what she was for -- helping.
    You see, I am in the Air Force."
    He said no more for some time.
    " Yes ?" Miss Trudgeon was waiting for him to go on.
    " What is to be done about this shocking noise ?" he said.
    Miss Trudgeon gave him a long look.
    " What noise ?"
    The house was as quiet as a place of the dead ; it got on her nerves. She was not certain if he was being bitter or not.
    " It is shocking," he said. "It will send me off my head."
    Miss Trudgeon had a feeling of fear. It came down on her like a sudden dark cloud. She had not ever been in such fear before.
    And then he went on talking again. At first his voice seemed far away, a dead voice being pulled back by his inner self from the far distance. And then it came nearer and seemed less strange.
    He was talking to Miss Trudgeon. Would she get married to him ? They had not been friends for long, but he was certain that he was in love with her.
    Miss Trudgeon was all attention. Her fear went from her. It was all very strange, but it was something of which she had had complete knowledge even before it had taken place.
    He said, "May I take you away from all this ?" He gave a look round the room. Everywhere there were black cloths over the looking-glasses. "All these things " he said. "They are all wrong for you -- you who are quiet, and kind, and very beautiful."
    He took a seat by her side. He put his head in his hands. "If only the end was near."
    Miss Trudgeon was not certain if he was crying ; she gave his arm a soft touch.
    "The end of what ?" she said.
    "This war, this shocking war."
    "But the war came to an end fifteen years back."
    His head was no longer down. He took a long look round the room as if attempting to get clear about what he saw, and then he came to the picture, the last picture which Miss Trudgeon had not put away. He took it up so that he was able to see the face in it.
    "Then you are truly dead," he said, "and I am dead."
    He got up and took the end of the black cloth folded over a glass, pulling it away. He sent the picture in its thick silver frame straight at the glass. Crack ! -- it was broken across. He was laughing. The house was no longer quiet.

*  *   *

    A number of things went out of Miss Trudgeon's mind. She was trained to put things out of her mind, and she made an attempt to give no thought to what had taken place.
    The medical man coming quickly in from the garden with Lady Paravane, the driver and the two gardeners fighting to keep poor Paravane down to get him into the automobile and take him back to where he would be in safe keeping. Miss Trudgeon would have been happy to put what Lady Paravane had said about it later out of her mind.
    "Miss Trudgeon, it seems only right, in view of the fact that you have seen this sad thing, to give you the story of my son's past."
    And Lady Paravane was shaking as if attempting to put away the death which was in her heart.
    "He got married to a hospital worker in the War," she had gone on, "She was not seen again after an attack on the town. We take it that she is dead, but there was no sign of her. No one ever came across her body, and my poor son went off his head.
    "My son's mind seems to have come to a stop at the day when she said she would get married to him. Naturally, everyone in the Hospital lets him keep his belief, or the shock of the knowledge that fifteen years have gone by and, with it, all chance of coming across the girl again, would be death to him. We keep everything from him; we do not even let him see himself in the looking-glass."
    Lady Paravane's voice seemed to have no more power. Lifting her eyes in a tired way as if everything was at an end and she was going away for ever, she said, almost as an afterthought : "Whenever he is in a room with a woman, he gets the idea it is this woman he was married to, and so he puts the same question again."
    It was the last time Miss Trudgeon saw Lady Paravane. She got a note saying that her help would not be needed any longer, and the window curtains in the rooms on the top floor were pulled down till Miss Trudgeon had gone.
    The woman she did work for after that kept a number of little Pomeranian dogs. They were not very different from the Chelsea ornaments, because every day in the existence of a woman living with another was the same, even when it was different. But now, Miss Trudgeon had the feeling that she was not quite so much herself.
    She had a memory which was with her all the time. At least something had taken place ; Lord Paravane had made her an offer.

72

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