“It’s not all we do. It’s only part of it.”
She frowned. “Well it’s the sort of thing I don’t like.”
Marcus was huffed. Mr. Burnaby was right about one thing. Women were conventional. They didn’t like things that weren’t obvious, things that were unusual.
They went back in silence towards the flat rock where they had lain admiring the view. At first they walked a little further apart than before, but gradually they drew closer again. Marcus was glad that she had been worried when he failed to answer her. Of course she had admitted that she liked him, but he construed her anxiety as a proof that the admission was genuine.
“What do you say?” Hazel asked. “Shall we eat our lunch now, or shall we go on a bit first and have it later?”
Marcus looked at his watch: it was a quarter past twelve. “Let’s go on,” he said. “If we’re going to climb the other mountain we don’t need to go right down. There’s a sort of saddle in between, and there seems to be a stream in the middle. We could have lunch by the stream.”
“Right oh,” Hazel responded, and they set off once more.
The stream had not appeared very distant, but it took them an hour to reach it. On the way they had to cross a bog. Whether it was really dangerous or not they didn’t know: suddenly they found themselves in it, but they were deluded by the fact that the ground always looked firmer a few paces ahead. Instead it got wetter and wetter. In the worst places they were jumping from one tuft of reeds to another; even so they sank in well above their ankles. They felt that if they were to stop for a moment, they would sink right down and be unable to go on. When at last they came to firm ground Hazel’s legs were black, while Marcus’s trousers were splashed up to the knees with the dark peat mud.
At the stream they both took off their shoes and socks and washed their feet. They rinsed their socks and spread them out in the sun to dry. After this they sat down and began to undo their parcels of sandwiches. Suddenly Hazel stopped and looked across at Marcus, “I wish you’d give it up,” she said.
“Give up what?” he inquired uneasily.
“Give up whatever you’re doing—give up Mr. Burnaby.”
Marcus didn’t answer at once. For the moment there was nothing he would have liked more. He had a vision of going back home, living an ordinary, normal life. He had never spent more than a fraction of his salary. He had plenty of money saved. Perhaps he would go to Queen’s like Hazel. He might even take medicine. After all he was still only twenty-three: it was late, but not too late, to start. Of course he’d have to do a lot of swotting first, but he felt certain that if he did decide on such a course Hazel would help, and with her help he felt he could accomplish almost anything. He stared at the idea and it dazzled him. They would go through Queen’s together. Year after year they would be companions, comparing notes, taking the same exams, residents in the same hospitals—and perhaps after that. . . . Perhaps when they were both through she might think of marrying him. After all it need not interfere with her career. He imagined a brass plate:
marcus brownlow m.b.
hazel brownlow m.b.
He had not spoken and Hazel’s voice broke in on his daydream. “Could you not, really? Please do. I’m sure it’d be better. I don’t know what you do do, but there’s something queer about it. I don’t like it. I somehow feel it’s something not quite right.”
Right and Wrong. The dream was shattered. If it was a question of right and wrong, there could be no doubt as to what his duty was. He would have to stay with Mr. Burnaby. He looked at his duty stretching away coldly in front of him like a corridor in a prison. “What do you think matters in life?” he asked presently. “Contributing to the general happiness—the greatest good of the greatest number—or being happy oneself?”
“I never see how you can know what’s going to be the greatest good,” Hazel responded practically. “We’d a mistress at school who was always talking about it. I think your own happiness counts for a good deal, but I think you’re more likely to be happy if you’re doing some sort of useful work.”
“And if I told you we were doing work that might change the outlook of the whole world—might, if it came off, make everyone in the world more happy?”
Hazel looked completely disbelieving. “Well, of course, I’d have to say go on, though I must say I don’t see how telepathy, or whatever it is, is going to make the world so much happier.”
Marcus sighed. “I wish I could tell you. Suppose—mind you I’m not telling you—only suppose that I said we might be on the verge of a discovery that might take all the unhappiness out of dying.”
“I wouldn’t believe you,” she told him promptly. “You might think you were, but, but. . . . You know, Marcus, all those things have turned out to be frauds. They don’t stand up to the scientific tests—all the big scientists are against them. We’re not really anything, you know—just bundles of cells that act and re-act with each other. It’s horrid to think of, but it’s true.”
“Perhaps we might be able to prove that it wasn’t true.”
“But you can’t go against science,” she insisted. “I know spiritualists and people say you can, but it’s just a sort of weak-mindedness, shutting your eyes to the facts.”
Marcus felt that he had said too much. He had no right to be talking about his work. “I was only saying if that was what we are doing.”
“Oh well,” she answered, “when you won’t tell me what you’re doing I obviously can’t say if I think it right or wrong. Not that I’ve any business coming poking my nose in—just it seems such a pity, such a waste. A waste of you, I mean.”
Marcus looked at her without speaking. “Oh, I wish, I do wish things were different,” he brought forth at last.
“It doesn’t seem to have made you very happy,” she pointed out suddenly, “and they could be different if you liked. Are you sure it’s not just a matter of having enough strength of mind to break with this Mr. Burnaby man?”
“I could never be happy if I did,” he assured her. “It’s to give up everything for the sake of what we’re doing, for the one thing that really matters, that takes the strength.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “In that case there’s nothing more to say. Come on, let’s eat our lunch.” She glanced at the two packets of sandwiches, both lying open, but still untouched on the rock between them. “I tell you what,” she went on more cheerfully, “we’ll eat them turn about: first we’ll each have one of yours and then one of mine—it’ll make it more interesting.”
The idea pleased Marcus. There was a queer, almost sensual pleasure in sharing the food with her. He felt that it brought them closer together. They munched away, smiling at each other from time to time, in a friendly picnic spirit. “If only the whole of life was like this,” Marcus said. “I’d like to go on like this for ever.”
“One long lunch. You’d burst.”
“One long picnic,” Marcus returned. “Being here with you all the time, and nobody else for miles and miles.”
“You’d get bored. So would I too. I don’t mean I’m the slightest bit bored now,” she added hastily. “I’m not. I’m loving it all, but I know I’d get fed up doing it every day and all the time.”
“I wouldn’t get fed up,” Marcus insisted.
When they had finished the sandwiches Hazel peeled the orange and divided it into two. “No, you should take it all,” Marcus protested. “I didn’t bring one. It’s not fair.”
“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “Do you think I’m going to sit guzzling it all by myself?”
He didn’t really want to refuse. The fact that it was hers, that she had been carrying it all morning, that her hands had been touching it a moment before, made it even more pleasant to him than the sandwiches.
Afterwards they lay
down on the bank and drank from the stream. “Do you think it’s clean?” Marcus enquired.
“I don’t care,” Hazel answered. “This time next year perhaps. . . . Maybe I’ll have all sorts of ideas about germs and things—and liver flukes from sheep. Now I just don’t care.”
“I wonder where we’ll both be, this time next year.” Marcus couldn’t help sounding a little melancholy. He made an effort to be cheerful. “Ah well! Gideon wouldn’t have chosen either of us.”
“Gideon? I can’t remember who Gideon was.”
“He chose his men by the way they drank. He rejected all the ones who knelt or lay down to drink. He only took the ones who lapped the water out of their hands.”
They waded across the stream, carrying their shoes and socks. On the other bank they dried their feet on Marcus’s handkerchief. Then they began to climb the second mountain. It was called Slieve Gull, Marcus suddenly remembered.
On the way home Hazel asked about The Garrison. She wanted to know what size the rooms were, how they were furnished, was it not very cold and draughty in winter-time? Marcus knew that she hoped for an invitation to see over the house, but he was afraid to give it: at last she made the suggestion herself. “I wish you’d let me see through it. I’ve always wanted to see inside it and I’ve never had the chance before.”
Marcus tried to put her off. “There’s nothing to see. I don’t think you’d find it very interesting.”
“I love seeing through houses,” Hazel replied, “specially old ones.”
“It’s not really old, not very old, at least. It was built during the Napoleonic wars as a garrison for soldiers.”
“I know that,” she responded sharply. “Will you take me over tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Burnaby wouldn’t like me to,” Marcus answered reluctantly.
“I think he’s a horrible man,” Hazel said. “It’s not as if I was going to do the place any harm. He hasn’t anything to hide, has he?”
“I don’t think so.” Marcus hesitated. He felt bound in justice to defend Mr. Burnaby. “He never actually said I wasn’t to show anyone over.”
“Then it’s you I think’s queer. It’s you yourself won’t show me over it.”
Marcus received this in complete silence. He didn’t want to blame Mr. Burnaby. His very refusal was dictated by the fact that he understood Mr. Burnaby: yet he couldn’t say, even to himself, why Mr. Burnaby should object to her seeing over the house. He just felt he wouldn’t like it. But perhaps he was wrong: perhaps after all Mr. Burnaby wouldn’t mind, or wouldn’t mind very much: perhaps there would be no harm in doing what Hazel wanted.
“I know what it is,” Hazel said. “You’re just scared stiff of him—that’s it, isn’t it?”
“I’m not scared of him at all,” Marcus told her gruffly. “What would I be scared of?”
But he knew he didn’t sound convincing; Hazel wasn’t convinced. “Of course you’re scared of him—and that just proves what I say. It can’t be good for you, living all the time with someone you’re scared of.”
Marcus didn’t contradict her again. He suddenly realized that he would have been quite willing to show her the house if there had been no possibility of Mr. Burnaby ever suspecting he had done so. It was not then any moral obligation to Mr. Burnaby that was governing his behaviour, but plain funk. Yet he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps he was afraid because he knew he would be in the wrong and could not expect any support from his conscience if he had to meet Mr. Burnaby’s accusations. He walked along frowning, staring at the ground and kicking viciously at loose stones on the track.
Hazel was the first to speak. “Don’t,” she said. “I think you’re quite right—and I’m being awful. I should never have asked you. It was awful cheek in the first place—but it was just that I wanted to see it so much. It seemed like a sort of adventure going over it when the Abbot was away. Of course it would be more of an adventure to go over it secretly when he was there, but I don’t think I would have the nerve for that. You see it’s always been a sort of mystery house for us—ever since we were children, and I do love mysteries. And I think you’re quite right. You’d be wrong to take me through it unless you were quite sure Mr. Burnaby would approve: it’s not as if it were your own house.”
This decided Marcus. “I’ll take you over it,” he declared. “Will tomorrow morning do?”
“No don’t, I really think you’d better not.”
But Marcus now was quite determined. “I will,” he said. “I will.”
“No; no don’t. I don’t really want to any more.”
“But I will. Do please come. If I can’t do that. . . .” ‘What is my love worth,’ he meant, ‘if I can’t risk Mr. Burnaby’s anger for you?’ But he didn’t quite like to say as much—or didn’t like to annoy her by mentioning the word ‘Love’ again.
“No, no.”
“Please do.”
They went over it all once more, but this time each used the arguments the other had used before. In the end Hazel gave in. After all she did want to see the house.
CHAPTER XXVII
WHEN Marcus awoke the following morning it was raining heavily. He had arranged to call for Hazel at half-past ten, and for a few moments he wondered if she would want to come out. It might be better to wait till it was fine to show her over The Garrison. Immediately he remembered her remarks about “Roaming in the Gloaming,” the half-implied suggestion that at such a time his love-making might be more acceptable. He hoped that it would go on raining all morning. He would try to persuade her to put off her visit till the evening. He would make two meetings out of one. He would see her home in the twilight. Perhaps then she might let him hold her hand for a little; perhaps she might relent even further and let him kiss her. Why shouldn’t she after all? She had said that she liked him. Had girls such very different feelings from boys? In any case, whether she let him touch her or not, it would be very sweet to say good-night to her in the dusk—a long, loitering, tender good-night. . . .
But when he woke up more completely, he realized that Hazel was hardly the sort of girl to change her plans merely because it was raining. He’d have to tell her how much better the house looked on a sunny evening, how dismal it seemed on a wet day.
Though Marcus knew exactly how long it took to reach the village he set off shortly after breakfast, and arrived half an hour too soon. He had intended to put in the time wandering about the shore and the harbour, but he couldn’t resist walking past the house where the Morleys were staying. Mr. Morley, gazing out at the rain, caught sight of him, and tapping on the window beckoned to him to come in.
In the sitting room he found Mrs. Morley. She was knitting, with a newspaper spread out in front of her on the window-seat. Hazel was again reported to be upstairs and due down in a minute or two.
“Powdering her nose, or something,” Mr. Morley observed with a man to man air. “A woman always needs at least half an hour’s preparation before she can venture out of doors. You and I just put on our hats and there we are—ready for anything.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” his wife retorted. “In any case, Hazel and Betty are making the beds at the moment—your bed included. One of the maids here has had to go home in a hurry,” she explained to Marcus. “So we’re all trying to help.”
“I’m afraid I’m early again,” Marcus said apologetically. “Our clocks are often a bit slow so I thought I’d better come in good time to make sure.”
“Oh we’re glad to see you,” Mr. Morley assured him. “Too early’s not a bad fault. Have you looked at the papers this morning?”
“They’re not in yet,” Marcus told him. “They come in the bus at twelve o’clock.”
“I know ours does,” Mr. Morley replied. “That one’s a day old, but I thought you might have s
ome way of getting them sooner. What did you think of yesterday’s news?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t read the paper yesterday.”
Mr. Morley looked surprised. “Dunlops are down again. I thought you’d be keeping a pretty close eye on things with Mr. Burnaby away—looking after his affairs and so on.”
Marcus was taken by surprise. He was inclined to forget his reputation as a stock-exchange expert at second-hand. But the situation was becoming familiar. When he went home his father’s friends often questioned him about the prospects of different securities. He had become accustomed to putting them off, and was even, he gathered, acquiring a reputation for being deep and discreet. On this occasion, however, he was off his guard. “Oh no, I don’t bother,” he responded in some confusion, and added rather lamely, “You see I’m on holiday too. I don’t bother with the markets when I’m on holiday.”
Mr. Morley, like the rest, merely assumed that he was being evasive. Mr. Morley was accustomed to evasiveness in business. His interest immediately increased. He prepared to cross-examine Marcus. A formidable gleam came into his eyes. Marcus recognized it with apprehension. Luckily Mrs. Morley had not been listening. Quite innocently she came to Marcus’s rescue. “It really is a dreadful day!” she exclaimed. “I’m sure you’d both be better to stay in the house this morning. Hazel’s got the beginnings of a cold, and if she goes out she’s sure to make it worse.”
“That’s what I was thinking too,” Marcus agreed. “I could easily show her over some other time. It’ll probably be fine in the evening and the house looks far better when the sun’s out.”
“Over The Garrison?” Mr. Morley queried.
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