The Matchmaker

by Stella Gibbons

  “Why did he come?” asked Mr. Waite suddenly, looking at her.

  “Oh, just to see her, I think. He knew her people quite well. He’s just back from South Africa.”

  “I take it that he is well off, then?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, so far as I know.”

  “He must be, if he can take holidays in South Africa,” with a sarcastic little laugh.

  “His firm sent him, I think,” said Alda—and of course he pounced on that, saying sharply:

  “Oh, he’s a young man, then? I thought you said he was old?”

  “An old friend, I said,” retorted Alda rather crossly. This man would never have fitted in with us, she thought; I’m glad Mr. P. turned up in time.

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “No. Just to lunch in Brighton. One of the expensive places, I suppose,” she added with a little malice.

  “I can’t understand why she didn’t bring him over to meet me,” he muttered. “If it’s any question of business, I’m the person to be informed now.”

  “It wasn’t business; he just wanted to see her,” said Alda recklessly, thinking that the sooner he realised how matters stood the better for him and everyone.

  “Are you sure they didn’t say where they were going? I was thinking—I might run over there and look in at the Ship and one or two places, and join them.”

  “They’d have finished lunch by now, it’s a quarter to three. And besides, you’d never find them,” Alda said decidedly. “Look—it’s a shame to spoil your afternoon and the children would love to see the sea. Can’t you take us to Brighton instead?”

  He gazed gloomily at her. She had honeysuckle fastened in her bosom and her hands in the pockets of her old coat as she stood there smiling at him. Since his engagement he had successfully banished a certain troubling image from his thoughts; telling himself that if a man is engaged to one woman he does not dream about another; and the discussion of all those domestic details that Jean found so tedious had helped him to fix his mind upon the future rather than upon the slightly painful present.

  Now Jean, upon whom he was unconsciously growing to depend, had failed him. That was how he thought of her behaviour. Heaven knew that he could not depend upon Alda—Mrs. Lucie-Browne—to behave sensibly, for one never knew what she would do next, but there she stood; the day was sunny and clear and all over the green country of Sussex people were playing and working in the sunshine, while fifteen miles away, glittering in blue and silver, rolled and murmured the sea. He dropped his hands upon the wheel and exclaimed:

  “Go and fetch the kiddies. We’ll go.”

  The letter to Mrs. Waite was still lying upon the table where she had pushed it aside at Mr. Potter’s entrance when Jean came slowly into the parlour that night. The long summer twilight had not yet left the sky and two moths, a little gold one and a heavy dark creature, were hovering near the lamp. Alda was moving about the room, tidying it.

  “Darling! Where have you been?” she exclaimed in a laughing, hushed tone as Jean came wearily in. “The children are only just in bed. We’ve had a day out with your fiancé.”

  “I know; I saw you,” Jean said, sitting down. “Is there any tea left? I’m parched.”

  “Help yourself. Where were you when you saw us?”

  “In the lounge of some hotel.” She pushed her hair back and drank thirstily. “I saw you coming along the Parade in his car and guessed what had happened. I’m simply dead; we had a lot to drink, too,” she added, half to herself.

  Alda stood, looking down at her. She was extremely pale and there were shadows under her eyes.

  “Was Phil very cross?” she asked, without looking up, as she poured out another cup.

  “He was, rather, but we soothed him down. He didn’t say much; it was more his manner. I think he enjoyed being with us; he gave us a very good tea and carried Meg down to the sea to paddle.”

  “It was horribly crowded, wasn’t it,” Jean murmured.

  “Yes, but great fun. The children loved it, bless them. Your Phil isn’t such a bad old stick, J. By the way, is he still your Phil? I notice you’ve shed your ring.”

  “It’s awful of me, I know.” Jean looked up miserably. “But I just couldn’t help it, darling. Oliver really does seem to like me a lot, after all, and I simply hadn’t the courage to tell him.”

  “Has he asked you to marry him?”

  “Not in so many words but—oh, Alda!—he seems to take it for granted that I will. Isn’t it frightful! What shall I do?”

  “Nothing, of course, until you see what they’re going to do,” said her friend decidedly. “Take a firm line with Phil and say you’ve a perfect right to go out with an old friend if you want to——”

  “And what about Oliver?” Jean was now leaning forward, gazing up into the gay, confident face with a slightly less wretched expression upon her own. Alda would help her; Alda knew exactly what to do.

  “(Is he Oliver? How sweet.) Oh, just string him along. See as much of him as you can without making Phil furious——”

  “He wants me to go back to London. He—he doesn’t like my being down here.”

  “Yes, I could see that,” Alda muttered, beginning to fold up the children’s outdoor clothes.

  “He says I’m buried here, and we could see so much more of each other in town. He can’t get away except at week-ends, of course, because of his job. He wants to me to go and live at an hotel——”

  “Well, why don’t you?”

  Jean stared at her.

  “But, Alda, how can I? What would Phil say? I’m supposed to be going to his mother’s next week.”

  “Say you’ve got to get your trousseau or you feel like a change or something.”

  “He wouldn’t believe me.” Jean rested her head drearily upon her hands.

  “He’d believe me quick enough; I wish I had the two of them to manage,” murmured Alda, bending over to raise the lamp wick, and the brighter glow shone upon her white throat and the slight smile of reminiscent mischief on her mouth. “I remember once when I was going about with Johnny Bradfield——”

  “And there’s another thing,” burst out Jean unhappily, and her head sank lower into her hands, “—two other things really—I’m afraid Oliver may only want me for my money, and——”

  “And what?”

  “He may not be a Christian.”

  “Oh really, J., how morbid!” cried Alda crossly; the last quality with which we associate Christianity is elegance, and Mr. P.’s clothes, his shoes, his very gadgets were so elegant that it seemed absurd to think of Mr. P. and Christianity in the same breath. One of the three writers whose books she loved and knew by heart was Jane Austen, and now, as she suddenly remembered the passage in Sanditon where another Mr. P. catches sight of the children’s bathing-shoes in the shop window and exclaims delightedly, “Civilisation! Civilisation!” she burst out laughing.

  “He’s as good a Christian as anyone is nowadays, I expect,” she added, sobering.

  “And how good is that?” without looking up.

  “Oh—kind and honest, and all that sort of thing.”

  “That isn’t everything, if—if you really do believe.”

  “Oh, J.,” sighing exasperatedly. “As if you hadn’t enough to worry about! What’s come over you? You never used to be like this.”

  “I know. It’s been coming on for years. And until I got engaged I was happier than I’d been for years, too, and now I’m wretched.”

  Alda demanded bluntly: “Are you in love with Oliver?”

  “Of course I am; I’m crazy about him; that’s what’s so awful. If I marry him I shall have to lead his sort of life, and perhaps get to hate him because he makes me lead it.”

  “What sort of a life, for goodness’ sake? (here, have some more tea and don’t talk so loud; you’ll wake the children).”

  Jean was silent. She wanted to speak of her experience in Sedley Church but she could not; the wo
rds would not come; she felt that her friend would never understand, and then, suddenly, as she sat there miserably sucking down tepid tea, she felt rebellious.

  Why should she have to be worried about Phil and worried about Oliver and bothered about what was right and what was wrong? Some of those hours spent with Oliver had been deliciously happy, filled with the violin-notes that had lately been missing from her personal life. She was suddenly, strongly tempted to do what she wanted to do, and blow the rights and wrongs.

  Alda had been watching her downcast face. She now Said more gently:

  “Lots of husbands and wives don’t have the same religious views. You could have your beliefs (whatever they may be) and Mr. P. could have his. He could be what Ronald calls a Noble Pagan.1 Ronald’s one himself, as a matter of fact, but it doesn’t worry me. He lets me bring up the children as Christians; he think’s Christianity the best of all the religions, actually, only he’s too old to believe in it.”

  “And what about Phil?” Jean said.

  Alda had been so busy arranging the religion of Jean’s husband that she had forgotten Jean’s fiancé. But she knew just what to do. She said firmly:

  “Drop him, J. You’ve always wanted your Mr. Potter and now you’ve practically got him. Don’t give Phil another thought.”

  “But, Alda—I’ve taken his ring—and accepted him——”

  “Oh, you can get out of it somehow. Keep out of his way. Go up to town to-morrow; I’ll make your excuses. You can write to him from there.”

  Jean hesitated, staring down in silence at her hand, now bare of those dim little garnets. How tempting the suggestion was! By to-morrow evening she could be in a cool bedroom in a London hotel, with the muted roar of traffic rising from the streets below; she could be far away from the insistent, silent pressure of these woods and meads that forced her to see too clearly, to feel too deeply; she could be back in the world again, dressing to dine at the Dorchester with Oliver Potter.

  She lifted her head and looked at Alda.

  “You think I’d better marry Oliver, then?” she said.

  “Of course I do, darling! Haven’t I made it clear? I know he’s just your type.”

  “More than Phil?”

  “Oh, J.! You are dumb! Of course. Why, Phil was only a stop-gap, a last chance, a—a faute-de-mieux! If Oliver wants you, for mercy’s sake snap him up while you’ve got the chance.”

  Her face glowed and her eyes were bright in the lamplight, her voice was hushed because of her sleeping children, yet rang with an imperious, compelling note as she leant forward, resting her rounded arms and sturdy hands upon the table. Jean caught her mood; her wretched look vanished; she began to laugh unsteadily, and at last she said, blowing her nose:

  “Oh, darling, I really believe you’re right! I’ll go.”

  1 Ronald was quoting Mr. Aldous Huxley.

  25

  BY TEN O’CLOCK the next morning she had gone. She awoke early after a night of heavy dreamless sleep, and hurried across to the farmhouse in pyjamas and housecoat to telephone to Oliver. (It now appeared that Oliver had spent the night at Brighton in order to be near his love, and Alda’s opinion of him improved.) While Sylvia listened in open curiosity and the Hoadleys got on with their breakfast after civilly assuring her that she was giving them no trouble, Jean arranged for him to meet her on the Froggatt road in an hour and drive her to London, and ran back across the meadows smiling at his warm approval of her decision. The day was already hot and beautiful, the sky a thick dreamy blue. A delightful prospect of action, change, gaiety, opened before her, all smiling in the light of happy love, and as Alda helped her to pack they chattered and laughed and only once sobered their voices to speak rather sharply to Jenny, who asked bluntly What would poor Mr. Waite do?

  It was arranged that Alda should send Jean’s heavier luggage after her, and soon she was saying good-bye to them all, kissing them almost impatiently with none of her usual placid kindness, and then, clutching her handbag and suitcase and hastily refusing their offers to accompany her as far as the road, she hurried away.

  They watched her out of sight. Louise was mildly interested in the proceedings and Meg was indifferent but Jenny, still slightly sulky from her snubbing, glanced at her mother. She had a fairly clear idea of what was happening and she burned with indignation on Mr. Waite’s behalf. She did not particularly like him, but yesterday in Brighton he had bought them ices and given them tea, and her strong child’s sense of justice was aroused. She described Jean to herself, in spite of the bicycles, as a beast, while even her mother did not escape condemnation.

  Alda saw Jean go with lively satisfaction. She was convinced that her advice had been for the best and that Jean had done the sensible thing, which would shortly lead on to the happy thing. She expected that there might be a slightly awkward encounter between Mr. Waite and herself, in which she would have to cover Jean’s behaviour with some airy remarks until Jean should have written to him, but she hoped that she might avoid meeting him until after Jean’s letter had arrived; and for her part she would find it pleasant to have the cottage and the children to herself again, for lately poor Jean and her affairs had definitely been a bore. She made plans for a picnic lunch while they washed up the breakfast crockery, and soon the cottage was ringing with White Sand and Grey Sand, sung in a harmonious four-part round.

  At a quarter to ten Jean left Pine Cottage on her way to meet Mr. Potter. At ten minutes to ten one of the Waite battery chickens, taking advantage of its metal grille slipping aside, escaped from its cell and set off at a smart pace on its way to freedom. At five minutes to ten it was seen and heard by Mr. Waite, who was ministering to some other chickens at the far end of the enclosure, and he, setting down his pail with an impatient exclamation, set off after it.

  It had a good start. Flapping and squawking, it led him along the grassy paths between the huts and through his own cabbage patch and into his bean row, where it paused long enough to let him nearly seize it and then set off again, half-running and half-flying, across the open fields in the direction of the Froggatt road. He had been hurrying through his morning’s tasks in order to walk across to Pine Cottage and hear what Jean had to say for herself about her behaviour of yesterday, and this interruption was therefore doubly annoying. As he came out on to the road he was swearing.

  A car was passing at that moment: a large handsome saloon which was travelling at some forty miles an hour, walking pace for such a highly powered engine; the type of car, the very make, that he had always longed to own and which he had lately indulged in hopes of possessing. He caught a glimpse of the occupants: a stoutish, prosperous-looking young man was driving and beside him, with her arm passed through his, gazing into his face, was a girl. Good heavens, it was Jean!

  They passed by while he was still gasping. They were already nearly out of sight. But there was no mistake; it was Jean. Hanging on to a man’s arm. Staring up into his face. What was she doing with a man in a car at this hour on a Sunday morning? Was this Mr. Potter, her father’s old friend, the party with whom she had had a business appointment in Brighton? Why, he could not be a day over thirty; he was younger by years than Mr. Waite, and what clothes, what a car! He must be wealthy; very wealthy indeed. And amidst the confusion of his feelings he suddenly felt strong indignation with Mrs. Lucie-Browne, who had certainly led him to believe, throughout their own excursion to Brighton yesterday, that Mr. Potter was middle-aged and of moderate means. He had had his suspicions from the first, and who had deliberately lulled them to sleep? Mrs. Lucie-Browne.

  He stood there, gazing down the road where the car had disappeared, and a dreary sensation began to creep over him. The chicken, now that he had ceased to pursue her, was wandering towards him talking to herself, and presently, without effort and almost absently, he captured her and began to walk back to his cottage. His anger was increasing. He wanted to have this business out with someone, find out what was going on, blame somebody for Jean’s disgraceful
behaviour, and he decided to go then and there and have things out with Mrs. Lucie-Browne.

  He was deeply disappointed in her. They had passed a very pleasant afternoon in Brighton yesterday and he had spent fourteen shillings and sevenpence halfpenny upon herself and her children and (he admitted it) she had seemed attractive; very attractive indeed; all the more attractive because he was not responsible for her opinions and her conduct; she was like a—a lovely and valuable brooch, that you could safely admire because it belonged to someone else and you need not worry about its getting lost or stolen.

  Side by side they had sat upon the stony beach on his macintosh, enjoying the warm salt air blowing in from the tumbling waves; they had watched workmen hammering and climbing on the big white hotels as they repaired the ravages of bombing; they had listened to the hoarse cries of men imploring visitors to come out in the Seagull or the Rose Marie; and had smiled at the long white legs and the short brown legs wandering in and out of the waves. The ice cream, the comings and goings of motor buses, all the gaiety and bustle of Brighton and its glittering sea upon a summer’s day, had been shared by himself and Mrs. Lucie-Browne, and what had she done to him? Encouraged his fiancée to go off with another man.

  He would go and have it out with her at once.

  And, pausing only to shove the subdued battery bird into its cell and slam the grille upon it he set off with a grim face for Pine Cottage.

  Alda was knitting peacefully in a deck-chair in the front garden when she heard the click of the gate. Mr. Waite, looking tall and ominous, was stalking up the path. This is it, Alda thought, and put the knitting down and called gaily:

  “Oh, hullo! Good morning!”

  It was fortunate that the elder children were indoors preparing the picnic lunch. Meg was playing about the garden but she was fully occupied with her ants.

  “Mrs. Lucie-Browne, where is Jean?” he demanded sharply, removing his hat and standing over her. He ignored her greeting.

  How good-looking he is, thought Alda, studying him while deciding what to say. He ought always to look angry; it suits him.