Chapter V: Part TWO: I (3)

His eyes were fixed on the floor, about a foot in front of me, and his hands were clasped behind him. My eyes followed his, instinctively, and I saw a leaf there—a little leaf that I had forgotten to pick up. I couldn’t pick it up now.

I had known this was coming sooner or later, but I was not ready. It was as though I was paralysed and struck dumb—I could not say anything at all.

And then he looked up suddenly and our eyes met. His were all alight—those pale blue eyes of his behind the steel spectacles. I had never seen them like this before, and his voice shook now when he spoke.

‘I don’t suppose it is any use,’ he said. ‘I never thought it was. But I had to tell you—it can’t hurt you to be told.’

I said:

‘I am sorry.’

He said:

‘Don’t be sorry. There is nothing to be sorry about. I am glad I met you. My life was very empty before I met you. It can never be so empty again.’

And I felt suddenly:

‘What is this I am doing? What am I pushing away?’ I felt that it was wonderful to be wanted like that—and that Hugo did not want me—and I said: ‘Forgive me. I will marry you if you want me.’

It was funny, I think, that I said, ‘Forgive me.’ I didn’t know then why I said it—I just heard myself saying it.

Walter came up to me and kissed me. He did it awkwardly—very stiffly, as if he did not know how—and I thought how Hugo did not kiss me on the night of Guy’s party, at Yearsly by the Jasmine Gate. And I knew as he was kissing me that I had made a mistake.

I felt very cold, and I shivered—perhaps because I had shivered with Hugo at the Jasmine Gate. But that had been different, quite.

Walter said:

‘Don’t be afraid, my precious. I will try to be what you want.’

And I thought:

‘Does he understand after all? How much does he understand?’

XXII

I went the next day to tell Mollie. It was a Saturday, I remember, and it had rained; all the streets were wet.

Walter had stayed with me all the evening before, and I asked him not to come the next day. I felt that I must have a day in peace, without him, or anyone.

I sat in my room all the morning, and tried to read. In the afternoon I went out and walked about.

The trees were all green now, but it was not warm. Clouds had come up in the night, and the sky was still grey.

I meant to go to Mollie in time for tea; I was on the Embankment by half-past four, but I did not go in; I went to a tea shop instead, a little restaurant, not far from Mollie’s flat, where we had had lunch together very often before. I sat a long time over my tea. I shrank somehow from seeing Mollie and George; he would be there too on a Saturday afternoon. They might be out of course, but I did not think so, for it had been arranged before, or half arranged, that I should go there this afternoon.

I went out again, on to the Embankment; I walked along by the river, westward, past the Addingtons’ windows, towards the power station. The sun was beginning to go down, and the sky was all pink now, behind the four chimneys; the broad stretch of river where it bends, beyond Battersea Bridge, was pink too; a mist was coming up, with the tide, I suppose, from the sea, and the colours were dimmed and obscured by the greyness of the mist. A man came along with a stick, and lit the lamps, one lamp, and then two, and then three; it was quite light still, and the lamps looked small and rather foolish; I wondered why they lit the lamps so soon.

There was an old man selling flowers by the corner of Battersea Bridge; I had never seen him there before; he looked a very poor old man; I bought a bunch of narcissi from him; it cost a shilling.

I thought:

‘That is expensive, for a bunch of narcissi.’

I thought:

‘It is no good; I must go in and tell them; it is too late to go back; I must tell them now what I have done.’

I knocked on the door, and rang the bell. The woman from below opened it; she often did, and I went up.

There was a knocker on the door of Mollie’s room; it was the first door one came to in their part of the house. I knocked on the door with the knocker and walked in.

They were sitting beside the fire, George in his arm-chair, and Mollie on a cushion on the floor. There was tea on the table, pushed back again against the wall; they had finished tea, and were reading; the grey cat was with them, on the hearth-rug.

It was comfortable, and familiar, and homely. There were blue curtains in this room too, but there were patterns on them, blue and white, and the cushions on the chairs were red; it was a homelier room than Hugo’s, and the chairs came mostly from their old home in Manchester, ordinary sort of chairs, not straight deep shapes like his. There was a Persian carpet that had been in Manchester too, the ordinary blue and red sort of carpet, a pinkish red like the cushions; Hugo said they did not match it quite, and Mollie said she would change them, but she never did; and we got to like the cushions that did not quite match, and we would not have liked to have them changed.

‘We thought you were not coming,’ said Mollie, looking up from her book. George pulled up another chair for me.

I threw the bunch of narcissi into Mollie’s lap:

‘A peace offering,’ I said. ‘I meant to come sooner; I started out quite early after lunch.’

‘You’ve had tea?’ asked Mollie, and I said, yes, had.

George had his pipe; he always had; he took it out of his mouth, and held out his book.

‘Have you read it?’ he asked. ‘Awfully good!’

I looked at the book; it was Aksakov’s _Memories of Childhood_; I had not read it; I turned over the pages, and read bits of it, here and there. I said:

‘I came to tell you, really, that I am engaged to Walter Sebright.’

I did not look at either of them, only at the book.

‘What?’ said George, sitting up sharply.

Mollie said:

‘Oh, Helen!’

They were both looking at me; I knew it and pretended not to see. I felt as though I were going to cry, and was determined not to.

‘Do you mean that, Helen?’ Mollie asked very gently.

I said:

‘Yes; are you surprised?’

She said:

‘Yes; very much surprised; I didn’t expect it at all!’

I looked at George, but his face was turned away; he was staring at the fire, bending forwards, away from me.

I said:

‘Won’t you congratulate me, either of you?’ and my voice sounded odd, and jerky, even to myself, ‘Won’t you give me your good wishes?’

‘Yes . . . oh surely, all good wishes . . .’ Mollie said, ‘but . . .’ She hesitated and I saw her look at George. . . .

‘If you are going back now, I will go with you,’ George said abruptly.

He knew, of course, that I had not meant to go back then, for I had only just come. Mollie looked at him again, surprised, I thought, and anxious.

I nearly said: ‘I am not going back!’

But I wanted to get away, and somehow, too, I had to do what George wanted.

I said:

‘Yes, I am going back now; but you needn’t come.’

He got up from his chair and went to get his hat it was hanging up on the landing, outside the door. I stood up too. Mollie took both my hands in hers.

She said:

‘I wish you happiness with all my heart, you do know that, my dear!’

I nodded; I felt I could not speak without crying, and I did not want to cry.

George was waiting for me outside, at the top of the stairs; he waited for me to pass and then followed me down.

We crossed the road to the pavement by the river, and turned Eastward, towards the bridges and the trams. We passed the two bridges, and Oakley Street, where my bus for Kensington would run; we did not, either of us, think about that. We were walking very quickly, along the river; the lamps were all lit now, broad streaks of light lay out in front of each, across the wet pavement and the road.

‘It isn’t true, what you said just now?’ George asked at last.

I said:

‘Yes; why should it not be true?’

‘I can’t believe it is true!’

‘You mean that no one would want to marry me?’

‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t mean that.’

We walked along without speaking; we were nearly at Chelsea Bridge now.

George stopped walking, and turned round:

‘Does Hugo know?’ he asked.

I said:

‘No. I haven’t seen Hugo.’

He leaned his elbows on the stone parapet and looked straight in front of him, across the river.

‘You know, Helen,’ he said, ‘you must not do this; you can’t understand what you are doing; you haven’t thought.’

I said:

‘I am tired of thinking’

‘I know it is not my business; you can say it is nothing to do with me; but it is; Hugo . . . and you are the best friends I have; I can’t stand by and see you . . . and Hugo messing up your lives . . .’

His voice was very low; I had never heard George’s voice like this.

I thought:

‘How he loves Hugo! Why do we love him so?’

I said:

‘I thought you liked Sophia?’

He said:

‘I do like her.’

‘And you like Walter Sebright too; you said you did.’

‘I do,’ he said, ‘I like him too, but not for you.’

I said:

‘That is for me to judge.’

He said:

‘No, not now; you don’t know what you are doing. You are unhappy and angry, and . . . oh Helen, why do we beat about the bush? You and Hugo love each other far too well to marry other people? You know that . . . I know it . . . and Hugo knows it too!’

I said:

‘I don’t think Hugo does.’

‘He does . . . . I know he does. Give him time, Helen. He will never care for anyone as he does for you.’

I said:

‘He leaves it to you, to say!’

‘Can’t you wait a little while? Six months, or three months even . . .? That is not very long to wait . . .’

I said:

‘I am sick of waiting. I don’t know even, that I want Hugo, now.’

George was silent; I knew how hard it must be for him to say these things, and I wanted to hurt him. There were sea gulls walking in the mud, at the edge of the river. They rose up in a cloud in front of us, calling and flapping their wings.

I said:

‘It is good of you to consider Hugo so much, but I don’t think he would be grateful to you.’

I said it in a hard, horrible voice.

George clasped his hands together; he clasped and unclasped his fingers, and said nothing at all.

I said:

‘I suppose you think I should wait for ever, on the chance of Hugo’s wanting me some day? You don’t mind what happens to me?’

I can’t bear now to think how I spoke to George; it was as though a devil was in me. I did not mean what I said, and I knew that I did not mean it; I would have waited for Hugo always, if I had thought he would want me ever; but I did not think so. That was not George’s fault.

George said:

‘I did not mean that, Helen. You know, surely, that I did not. Do you think I should have said all this, if I did not mind what happened to you?

‘It is not fair to Sebright,’ he said abruptly, ‘to marry him like this.’

I said:

‘That is his affair, and mine; you had better leave it alone.’

We walked on again; past Chelsea Bridge, and along Grosvenor Road. There was no parapet here, only railings, and the river showed through the iron bars, with the lamplight on it. Across the water, where the wharfs and warehouses are, there were more lights, and a noise of hammering. A train went past with lighted windows, across the railway bridge. I did not ask George to leave me; I did not want him to go. Twice I looked round at him.

‘Why does he mind so much?’ I wondered. ‘It is wonderful to mind so much about other people.’

I said once:

‘It is very dark for April.’

He said:

‘Yes, it is getting late.’

Lorries went past us, a train of lorries, with iron girders on them. There was a Salvation Army meeting at the corner of a street.

I said:

‘I should like to be religious.’

George said:

‘So should I.’

I wished already, that I had been kinder to George. I knew how hard it must have been for him to say all that to me. I was grateful to him for caring about it at all.

We had left the river now, and were walking through streets with more warehouses and yards. We came out soon to Westminster, and crossed the wide space in front of the Houses of Parliament. We stood and waited for a bus.

George said:

‘Forgive me, Helen. I am afraid I have made it worse. I am sorry, if I have.’

I wanted to say:

‘Forgive me, George. I love you for what you said. It was dear and brave of you to say it. It was like you, George.’

But there were people all round, near us, and my bus was coming, round the corner, and across to where we stood.

I only said:

‘It’s all right; you haven’t a bit. Good-bye.’

I held out my hand, and George took it.

Then I climbed up on to my bus, and went up the steps to the top. I turned round to wave to him again, but he did not see me. He was standing quite still, where I had left him, staring in front of him at the road.

XXIII

I did not write to Hugo. George told him, and Guy wrote to me at once.

‘Congratulations and good wishes,’ he said; that was all.

Cousin Delia asked me to bring Walter down to see her I said I would, the next week-end.

Hugo wrote later:

‘Helen dear, I hope you will be happy. I hope you have chosen right. Other people cannot judge for you, not even we, who have known you best.’

I thought:

‘He does not mind. He does not like Walter, but he does not mind.’

Walter took me to see his mother. She looked old to be his mother; much older than Cousin Delia. She had light blue eyes like his, and fair hair. Her hair was not so grey as Cousin Delia’s, but her face was much more lined. She was small, and like a bird, with quick, nervous movements. She was dressed in purple; a purple silk bodice, with a high collar, up round her chin. She was very neat and slim, and her face was pink, like a soft apple.

She lived in a high house, with steep, dark stairs. There were Indian things in the room; weapons, and powder horns, and inlaid tables. Walter’s grandfather had been in India; he was an Indian merchant who traded in rice. There were water-colours on the walls, of cottages, and churches in green trees; old-fashioned, rather charming pictures, but the room was dark all the same; the curtains were dark and heavy, and there was too much furniture; I felt very much a stranger in that room.

Mrs. Sebright kissed me in a fluttering, half-frightened way.

‘My dear, I am so glad to meet you,’ she said. ‘Walter has talked to me often about you. I should like to have seen you before.’

She made me sit down in a big chair; it had a chintz cover with purplish flowers on it; faded, dull sort of flowers.

‘I must look at you,’ she said, ‘you must let me look at you, my dear!’

She put on her spectacles, and looked at me. It was natural that she should want to look, but I felt embarrassed.

‘Yes, you are very pretty, very pretty indeed! Walter told me so. Walter is always right.’

She gave a little nervous laugh.

‘We must make friends now,’ she said; ‘you see, it seems so strange to me, that I do not know you at all. Walter has been such a good son to me, such a devoted son, and good sons make good husbands, so they say. . . . I am sure my Walter will. You are a fortunate young lady, my dear, though I say it, and I am sure you will do your best to deserve him.’

I said I hoped I should. I liked her for thinking so much of Walter; she was so naive, and so single-hearted; the attitude of my friends would have been inconceivable to her.

And I thought:

‘She knows him much better than they do, after all.’

She said:

‘You must tell me all about yourself. Your parents are dead, I believe?’

I told her that my father was dead, and my mother had married again.

‘Poor dear, poor dear, so you were all alone?’

I told her about Cousin Delia and Yearsly.

I said:

‘I was with her long before, after my father died.’

‘Ah, yes; and you had cousins there, to play with, I believe?’

I said:

‘Yes; two cousins—Guy and Hugo.’

‘They must be almost like brothers to you now?’

I said:

‘Yes; almost.’

‘Walter knows them, I think? He knew them at Oxford.’

I said:

‘He does not know them very well.’

‘They would not be quite Walter’s type, perhaps . . . you see, Walter is so clever, he does not care much for people who are not . . . but he will, of course, my dear, later on, if they are your cousins. He has a most affectionate nature, and I am sure they are very nice young men!’

I suppose I did not respond, for she added quickly:

‘I did not mean, of course, that your cousins were stupid, Walter has never said such a thing to me, oh, not at all, but I thought from what he told me that they were . . . just . . . not quite like Walter . . . he has, of course, a quite exceptional brain.’

I said:

‘Oh no; my cousins are not like Walter; but I love them very much; I hope he will be friends with them, more, later on.’

I did not mind what Mrs. Sebright said; I did not mind what Walter had told her about them.

I thought:

‘She feels about Walter as I do about Hugo; I am glad that some one feels about him like that.’

Walter came in then. He had left me alone with his mother for a talk. He stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder, and looked at me.

‘Wasn’t I right, Mother?’ he asked softly. ‘Isn’t she all I said?’

He looked flushed and happy; his eyes were shining; I wished he would not wear those black steel spectacles.

Grandmother went to call on Mrs. Sebright. Grandmother was the only person who seemed really pleased at the engagement.

She said:

‘I like your young man. He has brains and character. You might have done worse. You won’t be well off, not at all well off; but that does not matter; we all value money too highly, and you will have enough when I die,’

I don’t know what she said to Mrs. Sebright, or Mrs. Sebright to her, but she was not displeased.

She said:

‘A good woman, I think, but a fool; he must get his brains from his father. Stupid women often have clever sons; perhaps the clever men marry them. She will not trouble you, Helen, she won’t interfere, but you must be kind to her, and attentive.’

I said that I would try. I was grateful to Grandmother for being pleased at all.

XXIV

Guy and Hugo were not at Yearsly that week-end; they were sorry they could not come, Cousin Delia said.

She welcomed Walter, giving him both her hands, and looked at him hard, as his mother had looked at me; but she did not ask him questions. Some people said that Cousin Delia was hard to talk to, for she never asked you the ordinary things; she did not ask people how their relations were, as some women always do. She took people as they were, and left them alone; and she talked, when she did talk, about anything that was in her mind, or yours, at the moment.

She showed Walter some gems, Greek gems, in the library; he told her about them, their dates, and where they were made. He did not say they were decadent, or ‘too late,’ as I expected. He was polite to Cousin Delia, and treated her with respect.

He said:

‘She is not at all like her sons.’

I said:

‘Oh, Walter, I think her so like them both.’

He did not get on very well with Cousin John; that did not surprise me; Cousin John might seem dull to anyone who did not know him well.

I took him to Joseph and Mathew, and the Elliots at the farm. He was awkward with them all, and did not know what to say. They shook hands with us, and wished us joy, but they were not hearty, and as we turned away, I heard Elliot say to his wife:

‘I aye thought it would have been Mr. Hugo!’

I don’t think Walter heard what he said.

I took Walter to the Temple, and into the High Wood. He made love to me and kissed me, and called me pretty names; I would not have thought he could say the things he did, and I was glad he did; but I did not show him the Happy Tree, nor the Frog Pond, nor the Jasmine Gate.

XXV

Cousin Delia came to see me in my bed, as she used to when I was little.

She said:

‘Dear Heart, are you happy?’

I said:

‘I don’t know, Cousin Delia. Ought I to be?’

She said:

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t; but some people are. It is better to be happy.’

I said:

‘Yes. I know it would be better.’

She stood beside my bed, and looked across it at the window, and the branches of the trees. There was a moon outside and we could see the branches; I had pulled the curtain back.

She said:

‘Poor Hugo; I am thinking of my Hugo.’

I said:

‘You need not be sorry for him.’

She looked down at me.

She said:

‘No? Need I not?’

I said:

‘No. Be sorry for me; and Walter.’

She said:

‘Walter has got what he wants. Not many people get that.’

I said:

‘No, not many people; I know that; and I don’t think Walter really has.’

She said:

‘Dear Heart, don’t be impatient; don’t decide too soon.’

I said:

‘I have decided.’

She bent down and kissed my forehead.

She said:

‘I like your Walter; and he is very happy.’

XXVI

Walter took me to see his sister Maud. She was the headmistress of a school at Lessingham; a County Secondary School.

We travelled by train for nearly two hours; we were to spend the night with Maud, at the school.

We sat opposite to each other in the train; we had two corner seats.

I thought:

‘It will be like this when I am married to Walter. We shall travel together always. How funny that will be!’

Walter had bought me newspapers at the station. He bought a lot of them and put them on the seat beside me; there was _Vogue_, and _Colour_, and the _Daily Mirror_; and I laughed.

I said:

‘I should not have thought you would buy papers like this. Have you ever bought any of these before?’

Walter laughed too.

He said:

‘No, of course not; I have never had any one to buy them for, before.’

He had no newspaper himself; he did not read them; he had told me that before. He took out a German book, _Der Hittitische Kult_, and began to read it, but soon he put it down. I was looking at him, and now he looked at me.

He said:

‘Not even that, when you are here. I wonder if you know how much that means?’

He leaned across, and took my hands in his.

He said:

‘Perhaps, you will make me human. Perhaps I shall be quite different when I am married to you.’

I bent forward too and kissed his forehead; I felt curiously moved.

I thought:

‘Perhaps, he really needs me; perhaps I have something to give him that he really wants . . . beyond mere falling in love.’

I felt that there were depths in him I had not fathomed.

I thought:

‘Can I do it? Am I what he thinks me?’

And then I thought:

‘Perhaps I shall love him more than any one, in time.’

People got into the train at the next station. Walter talked to me about his sister Maud.

He said:

‘I hope so much you will like her’; and I felt behind his words, the hope, more doubtful, that she might like me.

He said:

‘She is a very remarkable woman; she took a I.I. at Cambridge, you know, that is not common for women, and she did it all herself. She was only seventeen when my father died. She was at school then, of course, and insisted on staying on. My mother would have taken her away, I think, and gone to live in the country, but Maud was right. She said it was better for us all, to keep her on at school, and at college too; she would earn more in the end, and of course she was right. She paid her own way with scholarships, all the way up, just as I did afterwards, and she helped with me too. She kept me up to the mark, and my mother too. My mother was inclined to spoil me. She thought I was delicate and that the work at St. Paul’s was too much for me, but Maud insisted on my working hard, and again, I am sure she was right. She is not so gentle as my mother, of course, nor so affectionate, but I admire her very much, and I am grateful to her.’

I said:

‘I don’t expect she will approve of me!’

Walter hesitated.

‘Not quite, at first, perhaps, but you mustn’t mind that. She does judge people on their merits, really, in the end, though sometimes she is prejudiced at first.’

I was afraid that I should not like Maud, and I was sure that she would not like me.

XXVII

Maud was waiting for us in her ‘Private Room.’ We came to it through long corridors with notices on the walls, and a place with pegs, and rows and rows of hats and coats. There was a smell of disinfectant, and ink, and books. It was different from the smell at Ellsfield, but reminded me partly of that.

The ‘Private Room’ was pleasanter. There was a big window with green serge curtains, and a table with a green serge cover, and lots of books on it. There were daffodils on the table in a green, ‘art pottery’ jug, and reproductions of pictures by Watts on the walls, in broad, dark oak frames.

Maud came forward to meet us. She was tall and fair; she seemed much taller and more powerful than Walter; she looked healthier, and more athletic. Her hair was parted in the middle, and pushed forward, very neatly, with little combs behind each ear. She was wearing a very clean, well ironed, white silk shirt, with a dark blue tie, a tie-pin, and a long, navy blue serge skirt; she had pince-nez, rimless ones, fastened by a fine, black cord.

She smiled in a bright, business-like way, as though she were accustomed to smiling.

‘My dear Walter, how do you do? How do you do, Helen?’

She kissed us both, brightly too, and led us back to the tea-table, which was waiting by the hearth-rug. There was no fire, though the day was rather cold; the kettle was boiling on a brass spirit lamp, on the table.

‘Your train must have been late,’ she said, as she made the tea. ‘I expected you a quarter of an hour ago. Fortunately, to-day is my “free day,” and I have an hour and a half, quite free, after tea.’

She made us feel that it was our fault that the train was late, but that she forgave us.

Walter murmured an apology, and she smiled again:

‘It is of no consequence, none whatever. I have kept myself entirely at your disposal this afternoon. I had to take the chair at a staff meeting between three and four; we have a staff-committee now, you know, Walter, to decide on internal questions of policy in the school, slight variations in curriculum, and so forth, as far as our governing body will permit: it meets on Saturday afternoon. I find it a useful experiment. I find that it encourages keenness in the staff, more especially the younger members, if they feel they have some say in the management of the school. I have, of course, a casting vote myself, but I seldom use it. It is surprising to find how often we are unanimous, or practically so. Sugar, Helen and milk?’

She gave me sugar and milk, without waiting for my reply, and handed me the cup.

‘Let me see,’ she went on, ‘where were you at school? Walter did tell me, I believe.’

I said:

‘Ellsfield, in Surrey; Miss Ellis’s school.’

‘Ah yes, of course! They do not take the Higher Certificate there, I think? There was some discussion about it at the last Headmistresses’ Conference. Miss Ellis takes, shall we say, an independent line?’

I said:

‘I don’t think they did many examinations. I believe Miss Ellis didn’t approve of them.’

‘Quite, quite; and not many of the girls would go on to the Universities, I suppose?’

‘Some did, I think; oh, several did. You could go if you liked.’

Maud smiled.

‘No compulsory abstention,’ she said, ‘but not unduly encouraged, I suppose. Of course here we have quite the opposite idea. We train our girls to regard a University training as the natural culmination of their education. Under present conditions they cannot always afford it, but it is surprising how many can, when once the girl and her family are made to feel it the natural and proper thing. There ought to be more scholarships, of course, for Oxford and Cambridge are too expensive for most girls of the class who come to us, but the Provincial Universities are now excellent. A number of our girls go to Birmingham and more still to the University College here.’

I said:

‘It must be very convenient to have a college here.’

‘Yes, a good departure, quite good. Standard not very high yet, but that will come. I thoroughly approve of this movement for increasing the number of University Colleges in Provincial towns. By the way, Walter,’ she went on, ‘I want to speak to you about that last regulation of the Board of Faculties and Arts, about the P.Q.T. External Examinations, you know the one I mean, 1346; I think it is on the new schedule.’

She took up a bunch of papers from the table beside her and began to look through them.

‘Here it is,’ she said, and began to read it aloud.

It was something about the qualifications necessary for anyone going in for some particular examination; it conveyed nothing, of course, to me. Walter said something about its not making much difference, and she interrupted him:

‘I entirely disagree with you, Walter. Take the case, for instance, of a girl in the Vth Form who had already passed 3y and 6b in the Higher Certificate; her position would be quite anomalous!’

‘But do many girls pass 3y and 6b, and nothing else?’

‘Not many, but some do. In any case it ought to be made quite clear; would such a girl be eligible, or not?’

‘You see,’ she said, turning to me, ‘so many of our girls take the London University External degree, and as Walter is now a Member of the University, I always apply to him in my difficulties.’

Walter said:

‘I am afraid I can’t be any use to you over this, Maud. I really have nothing to do with the External Examinations. You had better apply to the Secretary of the Board of Faculties, direct.’

There was irritation in his voice; he held out his cup.

‘May I have some more tea?’ he asked.

‘Certainly, certainly. I did not see that you had finished; and, Helen, let me give you some more. You did say milk and sugar, I think. Walter, please give Helen some cake. Yes, I think I had better apply to the Board of Faculties direct. It is always best to go to the Fountain Head. But you must support me on the Board, if the question is raised. Helen must excuse us talking so much shop,’ and she turned brightly to me: ‘We Academic people have so much shop to talk, and so little opportunity.’

Walter said:

‘I find plenty of opportunity!’

‘Ah, but you are at the Fountain Head! That is one of the advantages of University life over that of a school. It has that advantage, undoubtedly. But what is Helen most interested in? We must make friends, mustn’t we? Now that we are to be sisters-in-law!’

Walter said:

‘Helen is interested in a great many things. Literature and pictures, and music . . . aren’t you, Helen?’

I felt like a child, being discussed and drawn out by grown-up people.

I said:

‘Yes. I am interested in that sort of thing, chiefly, I suppose.’

‘I see,’ said Maud, artistic. ‘Well, that is a very important side of life. I always teach my girls to appreciate Art. We have lectures on Art, every alternate week, in the Winter terms, with lantern slides; and literature too; three of our girls took A.A. in the English Literature paper of the L.L.U.’

‘Helen is a great dancer too!’

Maud gave a little laugh.

‘The lighter side,’ she said, ‘that we can hardly call Art!’

I wondered why Walter had said it. I thought he might have known that Maud would not count dancing ‘Art.’

‘It can be Art,’ said Walter doggedly. ‘Have you seen the Russian Ballet?’

I was surprised that Walter should have seen it himself.

Maud laughed again, her quick, business-like laugh.

‘I am afraid I have no time for Ballets,’ she said:

‘Helen will not find much time to dance when she is married, I am afraid. I am afraid Academic life will seem a little strange to you at first. We are poor, dull people you know, my dear, but we have our good points, if you take us as you find us! And now, would you like a walk round? We have extended the playing field since you were here last, Walter, and there are some new books in the Classical Library.’

Walter and I were not alone all the evening. There were prayers for the boarders, and supper in a big dining hall, only two tables, at the end in use, for the day girls were not there.

In the morning we went to church with Maud and two other mistresses, and the boarders.

We were alone for a little, in Maud’s room, before lunch.

‘When did you go to the Russian Ballet?’ I asked.

And Walter said:

‘When you said you liked dancing; in the tea-shop near the British Museum. I went the next evening.’

I took his hand.

I said:

‘That was dear of you. Did you like it?’

He said:

‘I don’t know if I liked it really. Not very much, perhaps, but I liked to know what you liked . . .’

He hesitated, and smiled shyly.

‘I thought it made me understand you better.’

I felt, somehow, nearer to Walter after that visit. I felt that there was an understanding between us in relation to Maud. He did not say it and I did not say it, but I felt that he was on my side, and not on hers; that he was resisting what she stood for, and defending me.

I had dreaded the meeting with Maud, and now it was over I did not mind her; I was not afraid of her: it did not seem to me that she would count.

XXVIII

We were to be married in July, as soon as Walter’s term ended. Grandmother had arranged that, I think, with Walter.

Cousin Delia said:

‘Wait a little. Wait till the Autumn, or even Christmas.’

Mrs. Sebright said July seemed rather soon.

Walter said:

‘Why wait, now it is settled?’

I let them arrange it as they liked. I felt all the time quite passive, as though things happened, and decisions were made, quite separately from me; it was not my business to interfere; I just watched.

And I thought:

‘Now this is happening, now that. Now she is engaged to be married. Now she is looking for a house. Now they are getting clothes for her. Now, sheets. Soon there will be a wedding in a church. And what then?’

It was as though I were watching it all from a long way off.

We found a house in Hampstead; number seven, Edinburgh Terrace. It was a stucco house, semi-detached, with a garden back and front, and a high flight of steps up to the front door. There was a stucco wall between the road and the garden in front, and a straight path that sloped up from the gate to the front door, so that the house itself looked high up, higher than it really was. There were lilac bushes at the side of the house, where the back door was, and a trellis gate that led through to the garden behind. There was a verandah at the back, with iron steps leading down to the back garden. The gardens were oblong strips of grass, neglected for some time. The whole terrace had been built, I should think, about 1850; it was old-fashioned, and a little dilapidated; much more attractive, I thought, than more modern houses, and Walter thought it cheap.

I wanted to have the outside of it painted; it had been painted a sort of cream colour once, and I wanted it white, and the windows and door bright green. It was the sort of house that ought to be white and green.

Walter said he thought it would do as it was. We could decorate it inside, and then see how much money we had left. We had five hundred pounds to spend on decorating and furniture; Mrs. Sebright said that would be ample; Grandmother said we must do the best we could with that, and that she would make up the extras. I could see that she did not think it would be enough.

Cousin Delia came to see the house. She stood on the steps and looked at the front garden.

She said:

‘You should grow roses here; red roses, I think. Richmond, or General Macarthur; and a pond in the middle, perhaps.’

I said:

‘Will roses grow in London?’

She said:

‘Oh surely they will! Do you think they won’t?’

Cousin Delia seemed always a little lost when she came to London; a little bit as though she were walking in a dream.

She said:

‘It would be dreadful, of course, if the roses would not grow.’

I showed her the rooms inside; upstairs and down; She said:

‘It is a nice little house. You shall have the “Little chair,” from Yearsly. It would go well, I think, in that drawing-room. Your chairs must be small, for these rooms.’

She said that the paint on the stairs would not do. It was dark brown paint, and very ugly, but Walter thought we should leave it.

She said:

‘It is all wrong, that brown paint, you must have it taken off.’

Mrs. Sebright said we must have the drains relaid. I had thought we might leave the drains.

Maud came up from Lessingham to see the house. She said we should have the paint inside green.

She said:

‘It saves work; white paint gives far more trouble.’

But I did not want green paint inside.

In the bedroom, she said:

‘You can have a nice fumed oak suite, in here. There are excellent fumed oak suites at the Army and Navy Stores. I have furnished the bedrooms in our teachers’ hostel with their suites. Well made, and in very good taste.’

Walter said:

‘Helen does not like fumed oak.’

‘Oh really! I thought every one liked fumed oak now. What does Helen like?’

They always talked of me as though I was not there.

Walter said:

‘She likes old furniture. Old mahogany and . . . and walnut.’

Maud laughed:

‘Oh, of course,’ she said, ‘we should all like old walnut best, I imagine. I am afraid Helen will find that a professor’s salary will hardly allow of furnishing in that style!’

She smiled at me, in what I think she meant to be an encouraging way.

She said:

‘Helen will soon learn, I am sure. A poor professor’s wife can hardly expect to live in the way she has been accustomed to; even clothes, for instance, the cost of clothes will have to be considered,’ and she glanced at mine, ‘but I feel sure that Helen will soon learn. We must all help her’; and she smiled again.

I began to hate Maud. I wondered if she wanted to make it all seem horrid.

I said:

‘We can have packing-cases with chintz frills. Sophia Lane Watson has those in her room and they look very nice. I would rather have that than fumed oak.’

‘Rather too, what shall we say? . . . Bohemian, perhaps, to live in packing-cases. I am sure you will have ample for your needs, if it is laid out carefully, with foresight, and consideration.’

Mrs. Sebright gave us a sideboard; it was a big mahogany sideboard that had belonged to Walter’s grandfather.

It was ugly and took up a great deal of room; and she gave us a portrait of his grandfather too, the India merchant; Walter was not at all like him. I could not say I did not want them, but they spoiled the rooms.

I thought:

‘It is only the dining-room, after all; we shall not sit in it very much.’

George and Hugo came to see the house when it was almost finished. Mostly they liked it, but Hugo said:

‘Oh, must you have that sideboard?’

And I saw George nudge his elbow, to stop him speaking about it.

I said:

‘I rather like it. It belonged to Walter’s grandfather, who was a merchant in India. It is interesting to have it, I think.’

Hugo said:

‘Oh, yes . . . yes, of course! If there is a reason for it, that is quite different!’

He looked at the portrait of the grandfather, a big portrait in oils, badly painted, but he said nothing about it.

He said:

‘That room upstairs is awfully nice! that drawing-room, with the steps down to the garden, and I am sure you can make the garden awfully nice.’

I had hardly seen Hugo, since I had been engaged; only once or twice, at parties; at Campden Hill Square, and at Mollie’s. I did not want to see him much just then.

He gave me an alabaster bowl; old white alabaster; I think it was Chinese. I put it on the drawing-room chimney-piece, in the middle, and straight silver candlesticks, from George and Mollie, on either side. Walter thought it looked rather bare. He thought it would have been more convenient to put a clock there, but he didn’t mind about things like that.

We had old walnut furniture in the drawing-room, after all, for Cousin Delia and Cousin John gave me a walnut cabinet, a beautiful thing, like one at Yearsly, and Grandmother gave me a writing-desk, Queen Anne walnut too.

XXIX

Cousin Delia came with me to buy sheets.

It was June now, and the house was nearly ready. We were to be married on the third of July.

She bought a great many sheets, and bath towels, and pillow-cases. We were sitting facing each other, beside the counter, on two high chairs; and then, quite suddenly, when we had nearly finished, I felt that I could not marry Walter; I felt terrified at what I was doing; I felt as though I was caught in a trap.

I don’t quite know what did it, but I think it was the sheets. Cousin Delia was feeling them in her fingers, and she told me to feel them. They were very fine and soft, and I liked the feeling of them, and then I thought of them on a bed, and me in bed, and Walter; and I realized that he would sleep with me, and be as close to me as that; I had not, somehow, thought of that before, and I felt it was impossible; I could not go to bed with Walter.

I said:

‘Cousin Delia, I don’t think I want any sheets.’

Cousin Delia looked at me, and I think she knew what I was feeling, for she did not ask me why. She waited a minute or two, and then, when the shopman came back, she said, quite quietly:

‘I think we will leave the sheets for to-day. Send me the bath towels and the face towels; that will be enough. We can send them back afterwards, if we want to,’ she said to me, and she took me into the tea-room which was in that shop.

We sat in two basket chairs, very low, with cushions in them, in a corner, away from the door. There were little white cloths with green shamrocks round the edge on the tables, and a band was playing, a string band, with women in green uniforms playing. A waitress came round with a big tray of cakes, very gorgeous cakes, that you took with a fork.

I kept saying to myself:

‘It can’t be true. I can’t be going to marry him, really, in two weeks. This cannot be going to happen to me, this horrible thing!’

I wished that the band would stop playing and let me think.

I looked at Cousin Delia; she was looking at me. She put out her hand and let it rest on mine.

‘Dear Heart,’ she said very gently, ‘it is not too late. Don’t do this, unless you are sure.’

I said:

‘I want to think. I don’t know what I am doing. I didn’t until just now.’

XXX

I went to Walter that evening after dinner. I went out alone, and to his house. I asked to see him, and was afraid I should see his mother, but she was upstairs, in the drawing-room, and he came down alone.

He came into the dining-room; there was a smell of fish there, but the dinner was cleared away. There was gas alight in the room, over the table; the maid had lit it when she showed me in; it had lit with a loud report, like a gun.

He came up to me and took my hands.

‘What is it?’ he asked me quickly. ‘What has happened?’

I said:

‘It is all a mistake. I cannot marry you. I am sorry.’

He said:

‘Why not?’

I said:

‘What do you mean?’

‘It is all my fault. It is not fair to you either. I don’t love you enough or in the right way, at all.’

He said:

‘You will love me in time. I know you will. I know you don’t yet; not as I love you.’

I said:

‘I am afraid not. That is why I have come. I ought not to have let it go on so long. Somehow, I did not understand. I don’t think I shall marry any one, ever at all. I don’t think I ever could!’

And then I cried; it was stupid; it was the last moment in the world to cry, but a sob came in my throat, and then another, and I sobbed out loud, and Walter took me in his arms and comforted me.

And it was over. I had meant to be cold and firm, and I could not. I felt so frightened; frightened of life, and of myself, and he was very kind. He seemed much older than me, and much wiser; he seemed just then all I wanted him to be.

He took me back to Campden Hill Square, and said good-bye to me on the step as he had said it that evening in March, that seemed now, long ago.

He said:

‘It will be better when we are married. Only two weeks more to wait now.’

And I knew then that it was bound to come; that I must go through with it; and I did not know whether it was a mistake or not.

XXXI

We were married on the third of July, at St. Mary Abbots Church.

Those two weeks of waiting were terrible, but they passed, as everything does, in the end.

I thought:

‘Twelve days . . .’ then: ‘Eleven days . . .’ then: ‘Ten . . .’ and then: ‘Four days . . . three days . . . two days . . .’

I thought:

‘It must feel like this if one is diving from a high bridge, from a railway bridge, down into a river.’

—I don’t know why I thought of a railway bridge, but I did—‘It must feel like this, while one is waiting to jump.’

And I thought:

‘It must feel like this if one is going to be hung; counting the days, and knowing, quite for certain, that something terrific will happen to you in the end.’

And then I thought:

‘It has happened to other people; to Cousin Delia, and to Grandmother, and to people I pass every day, in the street.’

And I thought:

‘If they have gone through with it, I can.’

Nunky came up with Cousin Delia, to dress me for the wedding. I had a white satin dress, like all brides’ dresses, and a veil that had been Mary Geraldine’s wedding veil, and roses from Yearsly, golden and white.

There was a red carpet, and a great many people. Guy and Hugo were there, and Mollie and George, and Anthony Cowper, and Ralph Freeman, and his sister, and Sophia, and the Lacey girls, and Faith Vincent, and vague cousins of mine, and cousins of Walter’s, and Mrs. Sebright, of course, and Maud; and there were two uncles of Walter’s; one was a schoolmaster in the North of England, and one, a solicitor in the West; they came to London on purpose for the wedding, and I liked them, particularly the schoolmaster; and there were people that had to be asked, friends of Grandmother’s, and friends of Mrs. Sebright’s.

Cousin John gave me away, and Mr. Furze was the best man, and Mr. Vincent, from Yearsly, came up on purpose to help with the service.

My relations sat on one side of the church, and Walter’s on the other; there were more of mine.

There was a good deal of music. Guy had chosen a chorale that they sang at the end; but Mrs. Sebright chose the hymns. None of that seemed to matter very much; and afterwards there was a party and a cake, at Campden Hill Square.

Walter was dressed in a tail coat; he looked quite different; it made it seem queerer, somehow, and more like a dream.