Chapter XXVI

Somewhere she came across a quotation: "Regretting not yesterday, nor fearing to-morrow." Like a reveille, it called her to that defiant courage of which her father had once stuttered to tell. The reiteration of it braced her like a tonic. "I don't regret yesterday, and I'm not going to fear to-morrow." She was going to begin again. And this time she was going to begin right. She was going to cut out all vulgar ambition, and all imitation of others, and the indolence that prevented her from reading aught but the easy and pleasant. "This time I shall do what Henry tried to make me do. In fact, I shall write for an audience of one--Henry. Or two, perhaps--Henry and me. I shall write what he would have approved. To that end, I'm going to study not only books, but men. Daddy said I must do that, too. So, as soon as possible, I'm going to get out of this cloistered existence and experience the world." It was an inspiring notion. She could feel glad about all that had happened, for it seemed as if one thing in her life--and that the most important thing left to her--was purged of its alloys, and in its direction trued.

Though two years had passed since she had left Henry, she had no real doubt of her love for him. Certainly his figure had gone behind a curtain before which she could dance and laugh and play her part, even sometimes stopping to ask herself, "Have I then ceased to love you, Henry?" but the thought of him was always hazily present, and often, very often, he emerged vivid and solid into her dreams, and she who had questioned her love before would wake up with her sadness, and be satisfied with it.

But _his_ love, what of that? For a long time she had dreaded lest it had faded. Surely it must have done. She had been so disastrously ignorant in those days, so _illiterate_; and her beauty was something in which she had never believed. Why should Henry still care to remember her? Of course, he had said on the ship that night: "Don't profane my love by thinking that." But any one infatuated would have believed so much. Since her good-bye letter he had never written. What was there to show that his passion had stood the test of years? She would never know if it had; for notwithstanding her oft-repeated words, "Time is big," she did not really believe they would ever meet again.

Still, she loved. Quietly, and without wreck. She had just idealised him in her memory. No doubt he had had faults, but she had never seen him except in the rapture of love; she was surprised how little she knew of his real character. To her he was now the idealised portrait of one who would have understood her dreams, guided her work, and received the full measure of her love.

"I am going to reach through to him with a book. It may be twenty years before it is published--it may not appear till after my death; but one day it'll get to him."

So now to work unremittingly, and to live abundantly.

Lowered to a complete self-distrust by the unthinkable press-cuttings, she began her studies with "An English Course for Middle Forms," "The Story of Ancient Greece, Simply Told," Saintsbury's "Short History of English Literature," and "An Introduction to Philosophy." And the initiation of this reading, especially the brain-teasing philosophy, pleased and flattered her. As she pursued it she could almost feel the refining of her brain, and the strengthening of her ratiocination. It made her think of a flower that was opening late.

She had continued to write to Roger, whose return to England had been delayed, and his replies had spoken no more of love, though their tenderness was as implicit as ever. And now he surprised her with a letter sent from London, saying that he had arrived, and, at his request, was to be transferred to a convalescent home at Brighton. "I shall have all the days to myself. Couldn't I meet you, say at Ditchling, on Thursday?"

This letter, in the days of her rejection by the world, filled her with pleasure. She felt affection, nowadays, for any one who had always liked and admired her. And in the rush of her enthusiasm she wrote:

"Of course. I'll meet you there where first we met. Isn't that out of a song? On the King's Highway, where it runs across Ditchling Common, by the bramble bush. At three o' the clock."

Hesitation, before she sucked the envelope, asked: "Haven't I been a bit too gushing? Offering to meet him like that in that sentimental place. No." The flap went down irreparably. "I've let him do all the gushing so far, and now he's come back I ought to make a fuss about him.... I've been mighty high and proud all along, and Lord knows I had nothing to be stuck up about."

This lifted the memory that she had hoped to dazzle him with her fame, and once again the words of the shattering paragraphs troubled her breath, but she recovered herself by repeating: "I don't regret yesterday, and I don't fear to-morrow."

Soon she must give to Roger her final answer, "Yes" or "No." It surprised her that, though she did not love him, the idea of being engaged to him was full of thrills. Or did the thrills lie in just being engaged, rather than in being engaged to Roger? ... Not altogether.

She must think it out thoroughly, and not let her nature gallop her into any more blunders.

Let her get her motives into the light, one by one. To assist clearer thinking she took an empty postcard and pencil, and drew a bisecting line, printing FOR on its left and AGAINST on its right.

For? She sucked the pencil, pushing it far back on her tongue. She would be perfectly frank with herself. Recent rough handling, like recent reading, had polished away a cloudiness from her brain.

The first and lowest motive was the desire to be an engaged person, with all the notoriety it brought, and the snub for any who had laughed at her.

This she refused to note on the card. But she doubted if this disciplinary refusal amounted to writing it out of her nature.

Secondly, she would rather be married than an old maid. She liked Roger, and would never be in love with any one else, because she was in love with a memory. A girl didn't always get a second chance, unless she was exceptionally beautiful and fascinating. Already she was over twenty-one.

She wrote "Not O.M."

Thirdly, if she married she would rather be rich than poor. Roger's was a splendid offer.

She wrote "S.O."

Then she wanted opportunities for full and varied living. Who more than Roger could give her these? Think of the fun it would be, fighting political battles by her husband's side, and if he got on (as he certainly would, being the sort), what might she not see of government and pomp; diplomacy, intrigue and the pageantry of Courts?

She wrote "Life."

Then, of course, she wanted to experience caresses and passion, and was not displeased to find that, after the idealisation of Henry, the thought of Roger's embraces were more stirring to her than those of any man she had ever seen or could imagine.

She was in some doubt what word to write here, for "Love" was not the true word, and "Passion" was crude. She put three dots.

And what really was her attitude to Roger himself, apart from his position and all that he could give her? He was such a magnificent creature that she would be enormously proud of him as a husband. And she wanted to marry something big, not "a poor little soul." His little poses she could always forgive; indeed, she would have to, whomsoever she married, since she had never met a man who wasn't decorated with them.

She wrote "Very proud of him."

Examining these tabulated reasons she was appalled at their selfishness, and sucked her pencil again, while she thought: "But isn't there some motive which is a bit nobler?" She knew there was, and it came into the light. That creed of gentleness, which her father had offered, had been saturating her nature during the last two years, and the disillusion of recent weeks had helped it on its way. Strange how mixed one's motives were! There was joy in the thought that since Roger loved her as passionately as she had loved Henry she would save him from her suffering by giving herself to him.

For this item she wrote, "Not to hurt."

On the AGAINST side she could only write, "Not real love."

But if she waited to write different from that she would never marry.

There was the position. Now one could only intermit thought, and wait for what would happen.

On the Thursday afternoon she dressed with care. Wisdom told her that she had to compete with the famous photograph, and that its beauty was now to be regretted, for it enlarged her deficit. But her glass, before she left it, assured her that if she came second in the competition it was no dishonourable second.

Anticipation trembled in her as she passed through the "toll-gate" on to Ditchling Common. She had but to turn the curve in the road and she would probably see Roger. She saw him, walking up and down by the blackberry clump, and waved a hand. Immediately he advanced towards her, and she studied his figure as that of one who _might_ be her husband. Roger had no photograph to contend with; now that he was older, wider, browner, and perfectly dressed, he was even in excess of her thoughts.

"Coo, he's sure to be disappointed in me," she was thinking.

But there was no disappointment in his face; rather, beneath all his dignity, was he grinning a little sheepishly. He put out his hand.

"And how's Daphne?"

"Daphne's all right, except that she has an objection to being called Daphne."

Roger flushed, lest he had begun by offending her, but parried with a smile:

"Miss Bruno, am I to say?"

"Don't be silly. You know what I mean. Those who really like me call me Duffy."

His smile broadened.

"I have dared once or twice to write so much. And I confess I was primed up to call you by it; but when I saw you my courage leaked away."

"Why?"

"Because you--you are older and more terrifying."

"You're a fine person to talk about being terrified of anything. Besides, I'm nothing like you, I'm frightened to death of you."

"Is that so?" asked he, with his enigmatic grin. "Well, where are we going? How long have you got?"

"As long as I like. You seem to forget that I've come of age since you went away."

"Well, let's walk for a bit, and see where we arrive."

They started towards Ditchling. The guiding of the conversation lay with Daphne, for Roger was apt to turn inwards (probably to a rehearsal); and she saved it from the sloughs by asking him scores of helpful questions about himself.

It was a warm afternoon with the sun unobscured; and at last he suggested that they sit somewhere on the grass. He led the way off the road and up the slope towards the trees. At any rough or steep place he held out his hand, enjoying the action, as she could guess, both from his love of gallantry and the touch of her hand. But he was shy of choosing where they might sit together, and it was she who finally declared herself too fagged to go farther, and promptly sat down. Roger spread his length beside her. Then there was silence. (No doubt he had gone in to the dress rehearsal.) He stared at the two windmills on the skyline of the Downs; and when he spoke again it was without bringing his eyes away.

"Duffy"--he cleared his throat--"I don't know whether it's fair to speak to you like this the first time we see each other.... And I'm determined to consider you first in everything.... I didn't intend to say anything at all this first day, but somehow your letter consenting to meet me alone made me hope I might----" He turned now towards her, but she was looking at the close grass by her crossed feet. "Duffy, you know what I mean. For nearly four years I've had no doubt of my love for you. I never worried about girls till I met you; my dreams were all of success and fame. But when I saw you the second time at that ball, looking absolutely divine, I was routed instantly.... And all through the war I never doubted. It was always glorious to think of you, to picture you, and to look at your photograph, and to hear the chaff of the other fellows when it stood on my camp-table. Duffy, could we be engaged now?"

She had no answer, continuing to look at the grass; but as Roger said no more, pity obliged her to speak.

"But we don't really know each other--only by two years' letters. And you can't know me from letters. One only shows oneself at one's best in letters."

"As I've always told you, I'm old-fashioned enough to believe that somewhere there's a woman made for every man. And I know you are mine."

She smiled at him.

"And as I've always told you, you're an incurable romantic."

"Perhaps I am."

"But perhaps I'm not so sure of my--my love for you. Roger, I think I ought to tell you: I was very fond of some one else some time ago, and I've never quite forgotten."

She had turned to look straight at him as she said this, and saw the pain knit his brow and narrow his eyes.

"When was this?"

"Two years ago."

"And did he ask you to marry him?"

"No."

"Why? Was he a fool?"

Daphne kept silence.

"Do you expect he will ask you to marry him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He has married some one else."

Roger said nothing more. And Daphne, frightened by the pause, heard herself inquiring:

"Couldn't we have a month's companionship together? I'll see you every day if you like--and if you wouldn't mind asking me again in a month's time----" She began to be a little afraid lest he scorned to be temporised with. "I'm very fond of you--and proud of you."

To this he gave long thought, unwittingly lowering and raising his jaw.

"Yes," he decided. "I want you so badly that I would rather have you if I were only second best--but I haven't had a chance with you yet."

They spent nearly every day of that month together; and she could only be pleased to see him working to win her love with all the care and watchful labour he might have given to carrying a kopje in South Africa. It was doubly to be valued from one who prided himself on his haughtiness. He was courtesy, consideration and generosity. A merry humour he had always had, and it made him good company. He had bought a car, now familiar sights on the roads, and taken her long, luxurious drives.

As the time drew nearer when she must speak again, indecision harrowed her. This time it would be final; Roger would not go on petitioning for ever. Sometimes she felt she was looking forward to saying, "Yes"; sometimes, when a glimpse of his egotism made her doubt, she would feel that she was caught gasping in a stream, since it would be impossible, after all his kindness, to send him cruelly away.

It fell that he proposed to her again before the month was finished. A late afternoon as she came downstairs, dressed to drive with him as far as the foot of Ditchling Beacon, where they were going to climb the Downs, her father stepped out of his study and intercepted her.

"I suppose you had better see this," said he, and handed her a press-cutting. There was something dramatically despairing about his gesture and his return to the room. She followed him, glancing at the slip of paper on which the cutting was pasted. It named a journal of which she had never heard, _London Carnival_. Type and paper were poor, and the paragraph was signed, "Our Cynical Spectator."

"On the Dissipated Habits of a Great Critic's Criticism," ran the headline; and the smaller print said:

"Criticism, like Charity, should sometimes live at home. But perhaps a happy marriage between these two, and a dwelling together in the same house, is impossible. There's such a difference in temperament. And that, no doubt, is why the criticism of the great Mr. Tenter Bruno (as, to be sure, we have observed in the case of other punishing critics) roams abroad, and seldom spends a night at home. Indeed, we might almost say that in his house, Charity, timid maiden, has secured her divorce from brutal Criticism--with custody of the child.

"The child, in this affecting tale, is Miss Daphne Bruno, the great man's daughter; and only the great man's charity could have allowed her nonsensical little book, 'Madame Rolland,' recently published, to see the light of day. It was a tactical error, of course, for whatever reviewers may be saying in print, those writers who have been lashed heretofore by the great Bruno are enjoying a mild hilarity. We have studied some of the notices, and detect a praiseworthy doubt of the propriety of securing points against Mr. Bruno by lunging foils at his daughter. For ourselves, we are less squeamish, and judge it all to the good of literature that every book should be submitted to the unhampered attacks of criticism, and especially those that only win their publication by the glamour of a famous name. For these have entered with a spurious ticket."

"Oh, Daddy! ..."

Such a note of pain rang in the words that her father came towards her and took the cutting out of her hand. He had known all along that he should not have shown it to her, but had been quite unable to forego a display of his honourable wound.

"No, darling," he hurriedly enjoined, "don't take it seriously. It's just a low papermaking copy. Nobody who matters reads it, and those who do forget it in ten seconds."

"Oh, it's awful!" she said.

"No, no. If you're going to be an authoress, you must get used to ridicule."

"But, Father, I'll write at once, and say you knew nothing about it. Your reputation's much more important than mine."

"Dearest, it's all stuff and nonsense. I showed it to amuse you, not to distress you. You certainly shall not write. People might say that I inspired your denial. And if they think I'm going to disown my daughter----"

His brain condemned the poor heroic; and when Daphne was gone, he stood disquieted to think that vanity could put a stick in a man's hand with which to strike what he loved.

Daphne went out of the house with a head dulled, as by a blow, into confused thinking. In vain she commanded herself to get the thing in proportion--to see that the paragraph was only a drop in the ocean of that day's print, and already forgotten by any one less interested than herself. The very memory of the words would flutter her heart for a sick second.

And when she met Roger and his car by the Royal Oak, she could not keep up the gaiety of her greeting. Throughout the drive, after formal answers to his remarks, she would relapse into the worrying memory. And she knew that he had observed her depression and was respecting it.

At Ditchling they left the car, and climbed the pleasant turf of the Downs. It was one of those gracious afternoons that, by discordance with melancholy, increase it; an afternoon of sunlight on the great cheeks of the hills, and wide shadows in their hollows, and clear views to the highlands in the north, where the pine-woods were darkly blue under a private cloud.

After a speechless climb, she agreed in mock-merriment to Roger's suggestion that they rest for a while and enjoyed the view. She sat down in the shelter of some tall gorse, saying formally: "This is quite like old times, isn't it?"

Roger did not acknowledge this remark, but, sitting beside her and idly picking the grass, inquired:

"My darling, what's the matter with you?"

In that unauthorised "My darling!" sounded a real pain; it was manifestly the outburst of a heart charged with love and sympathy.

"Me? Nothing," assured Daphne, with a quickly acted smile. Not wholly acted, however; because that note of love had been potent to sound retreat to her shadows. Being loved like this by Roger was the sunniest place in her life.

"You're miserable. You've been miserable ever since you appeared. I can't bear you to be miserable."

"It's nothing, really." To show which, she picked up a small snail-shell and threw it in front of her. "It was only one of those horrible press notices; rather more pitiless than usual."

That Roger was throbbing with his love for her she knew by his low-pitched answer:

"I wish I could find any one that would hurt you."

"But they're right," corrected Daphne. She felt quite happy now in the sunny place. "Rather salted, but right."

"Right or wrong, I shouldn't care.... But they're not right. No one who ridicules you could be right. You don't know what you are. You're--there's no one fit to hold a candle to you. It sometimes amazes me that you're so innocent of what you are. If only you could see yourself as I see you! My darling, I never can see any one who seems so beautiful as you, just because you're the model by which I test everybody's beauty. If another woman's eyes are not the same colour and shape as yours, they're imperfect. If her nose is a different shape from yours, or the lines of her figure, they're so far wrong.... Oh, but I forgot, I've no right, till you give it to me, to talk to you like this...."

His closed fist was lying on the turf by his side, just between himself and her; and Daphne, unable to answer him with words, laid her open hand on his.

"Duffy! That means----! Oh, my darling!" He put his arm about her waist and pulled her gently towards him. "Then may we be definitely engaged to one another?"

She turned her face towards his, smiled, and nodded.

He kissed her, but without passion, as if he would not hurt her by too quickly taking all his privileges.

"Are you happy, darling?"

"Yes.... I think it's wonderful that you, of all people, with the whole world to choose from, should love me. And in spite of all you say, I still can't see why it is.... I'm awfully proud of it, really."

"And you love me?"

This was to be met with a smile.

"I think so. I want to be close to you. I want to be happy with you, and to make you happy, and help you in your career. And I want you to kiss me."

"Darling!"

This time he gathered her close, and pressed his lips on hers with all the passion that first he had withheld.

"My beloved!" he said, as he drew back his head to look down upon her face. "And you can't see what you are! Why, every time you look up at me, as you did a second ago, with your huge eyes, you make me mad for need of you. I feel I can never have you close enough--that even hugging you is a poor apology for all that I would have--that though you are as close to me as you are now, you are still too many miles away."

Again he hugged her, and Daphne, in this embrace which seemed never likely to end, found her thoughts running fast; she was already picturing with delight the announcing of her engagement to her father and the others at home; the congratulations that would come from all who knew her; the inspiring future that stretched before her, with election fights and luxurious living. She was bewildered to have reached this point, but excited; and because excited, happy. And when he released her, she said:

"Do you mind if we go home? I'm so longing to tell everybody."

Roger grinned, as might a staid elder amused by a child.

"Yes. Let's go back." He jumped up and helped her to her feet. "Fancy to think we came up this hill unengaged and go down it engaged. I wonder what we are going down to." He accompanied their downward steps with a chain of such romantic utterances, and then inquired: "But what do I do next? Not having been engaged before I don't know. Do I come back with you and ask your father's permission? I'm all for doing the proper ceremonial things. I've always believed in ceremony. Not, though, that I should let you go if he refused."

"Daddy won't refuse. But let me tell him, will you? Don't you come in at all. I know how to deal with him. I'm sure you'd make a mess of it."

He drove her, as by newly acquired right, to the gates of Old Hall House, and she, escaping before he could kiss her good-bye, hurried excitedly up the drive. Letting herself in, she saw Miss Carrell standing in the lamp-lit hall.

"Is Father at home?"

Her voice trembled, and she was grateful for the half darkness.

"No, dear. But he's back to dinner. He can't be long."

"Oh, all right."

She rushed up to her room and dressed with trembling hands. Once dressed she did not know what to do. Her head and cheeks were so burning that she was moved to study them in the glass and trace the visible effects of such heat. It had tinged them with wine-colour. When she heard her father's key she gave him full five minutes by the bedroom clock, during which her heart seemed to beat a million times, and then walked downstairs and burst into his room. He was sitting in his arm-chair dragging on a slipper.

"Please come in," said he.

"Father, I'm engaged to be married."

Mr. Bruno's hand left the slipper, and his foot trod down its heel. The surprise jerked him out of his whimsical port.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Talking about being engaged. I got engaged this evening."

"Got engaged? But I didn't know any one was in love with you."

"Of course you didn't. I didn't proclaim it from the house-tops."

"Good God! First you write a book without my permission, and now you say you've got engaged...." Mr. Bruno perceived that he was recovering the authentic note of badinage. "I am too old--too old to stay the course with you."

And indeed he was confused. Here was his daughter, whom a few hours earlier he had hurt, coming in radiant with news of her betrothal. To think that her movements were so far from him was pain. The pain was sharpened by this unexpected sentence that their days together were to be numbered. But badinage must screen it all.... It would hide, too, for her sake, any mention of the American boy.

"Whom are you engaged to?"

"To Roger Muirhead, of course."

He shook an uncomprehending head.

"Don't you remember? He came to tea with us at St. Leu two years ago."

"But how long have you known him?"

"Oh, since he was fourteen. Off and on."

"Has he got any money to keep you with?"

"Money? Heaps. He's got a motor-car."

"Who is he? What's his father?"

"Sir Roger Muirhead."

"No? The excellent old merchant who has managed to combine capitalism with radicalism and religion! Good gracious, Duffy, and is his boy in love with you? Let's see, didn't he do something they made a song about in the war?"

"Of course he did."

"And you're engaged to him?"

"Yes, please. If I may."

"You're sure you're not married to him?"

"No, darling. Only engaged. That's to say, if you'll let us be."

He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. Then he stood up.

"Well, well. I suppose one kisses you on these occasions. But I must see this Roger of yours. And you're not to be married for a year, do you see? You must have experience of each other. And we must have the war over and Owen back."

"Oh, that'll be all right. I don't particularly want to get married."

But Mr. Bruno wasn't listening. After looking at her with a smile, he said:

"And has Apollo come for Daphne at last? I trust that, like your Greek original, you were not too encouraging, but fled from him into the woods."

Daphne concealed a start. This chance sally, evoking a picture of Roger (who was rather an Apollo) as he came seeking her under the Montmorency trees, was so astonishingly appropriate that for a minute she dethroned hard reason and wondered with him if, after all, there were a destiny behind these things.