Clutching their programmes as drowning men clutch straw, they passed on. The primary ordeal was over.
“Oh Lord, I’m sweating already,” said Tom with a red-faced grin. “I’m off to get me bill-head crammed.”
“Take me with you, for the Lord’s sake,” said Jack.
“Y’re such an owl of a dancer. An’ y’ have to do it proper here. You go to Mr. George.”
“Don’t desert me, you swine.”
“Go-on! Want me to take you back to Auntie? — Go-on! I’m goin’ to dance an’ sit out an’ hold their little white hands.”
Tom pulled a droll face, as he took his place in the line of glove-buttoning youths who made a queue on the Governor’s left hand, where his daughter stood booking up duty dances. Jack, galvanised by the advent of the A.D.C., ducked through the crowd to Aunt Matilda’s side.
He was always angry that he couldn’t dance. The fact was, he would never learn. He could never bring himself to go hugging promiscuous girls round the waist and twiddling through dances with them. Underneath all his carelessness and his appearance of “mixing,” there was a savage physical reserve which prevented his mixing at all. He could not bear the least physical intimacy. Something inside him recoiled and stood savagely at a distance, even from the prettiest girl, the moment she seemed to be “coming on.” To take the dear young things in his arms was repugnant to him, it offended a certain aloof pride and a subtle arrogance in him. Even with Tom, intimate though they were, he always kept a certain unpassable space around him, a definite noli me tangere distance which gave the limit to all approach. It would have been difficult to define this reserve. Jack seemed absolutely the most open and accessible individual in the world, a perfect child. He seemed to lay himself far too open to anybody’s approach. But those who knew him better, like Mrs. Ellis or his mother, knew the cold inward reserve, the savage unwillingness to be touched, which was central in him, as in a wolf-cub. There was something reserved, fierce and untouched at the very centre of him. Something, at the centre of all his openness and his seeming softness, that was cold, overbearing, and a little angry. This was the old overweening English blood in him, which would never really yield to promiscuity, or to vulgar intimacy. He seemed to mix in with everybody at random. But as a matter of fact he had never finally mixed in with anybody, not even with his own father and mother, not even with Tom. And certainly not with any casual girl. Essentially, he kept himself a stranger to everybody.
Aunt Matilda was in green satin with a tiara of diamonds. “The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know,” was Jack’s inward comment as he approached her.
Aloud he said:
“Would it be right if I asked you to let me have the pleasure of taking you in to supper later, Marm?”
“Oh, you dear boy!” simpered Aunt Matilda. “So like y’ dear father. But you see I’m engaged on these occasions. We have to go in in order of rank and precedence. But you can take Mary. She says she has hurt her foot and can’t dance much.”
Mary took his arm, and they went out on to the terrace. There was clear moonlight, and trees against a shadowy, grey-blue sky, and a dark perfume of tropical flowers. Jack felt the beauty of it and it moved him. He waited for his soul to melt. But his soul would never melt. It was hard and clear as the moon itself.
“It is much better here,” he said, looking at the sky.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” said Mary. “I wanted so much to sit quietly and talk to you. It seems so long, and you looked so wild and different this morning. I’ve been so frightened, reading so much about the natives murdering people.”
Mary was different too, but Jack didn’t know wherein.
“I don’t believe there’s much more danger in one place than in another,” he said, “so long as you keep yourself in hand. Shall we sit down and have a real wongie?”
They found a seat under the overspreading tree, and sat listening to the night-insects.
“You’re not very glad to be back, are you?” asked Mary.
“Yes I am,” he assented, without a great deal of vigour. “What has been happening to you all this time, Mary?”
“The little things that are nothing,” she said. “The only thing” — she hesitated — ”is that they want me to marry. And I lie awake at night wondering about it.”
“Marry who?” asked Jack, his mind running at once to Rackett.
They were sitting under a magnolia tree. Jack could make out the dark shape of a great flower against the moon, among black leaves. And the perfume was magnolia flowers.
“Do you want me to talk about it?” she said.
“I do.”
Jack was glancing rather fiercely down the slope of the black-and-white garden, that sloped its lawns to the river. Mary sat very still beside him, in a cream lace dress.
“It’s a Mr. Boyd Blessington. He is a widower with five children, but he is an interesting man. He’s got a black beard.”
“Goodness!” said Jack. “Have you accepted him?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Why do you think of marrying him? Do you like him?”
“For some things. He is a good man, and he wants me in a good way. He has a beautiful library. And as he is a man of the world, there seems to be a big world round him. Yes, he is quite somebody. And Aunt Matilda says it is a wonderful opportunity for me. And I know it is.”
Jack mused in silence.
“It may be,” he said. “But I hardly fancy you kissing a widower of fifty, with a black beard and five children. Lord!”
“He’s only thirty-seven. And he’s a man.”
Jack thought about Monica. He wanted Monica. But he also couldn’t bear to let Mary go. This arrogance in him made him silent for some moments. Then he turned to Mary, his head erect, and looked down sternly on her small sinking figure in the pale lace dress.
“Do you want him?” he asked, in a subtle tone of authority and passion.
Mary was silent for some moments. “No-o!” she faltered. “Not — not — — ”
Her hands lay inert in her lap. They were small, soft, dusky hands. The flame went over him, over his will. By some curious destiny, she really belonged to him. And Monica? He wanted Monica too. He wanted Monica first. But Mary also was his. Hard and savage he accepted this fact.
He took her two hands and lifted them to his lips, and kissed them with strange, blind passion. When the flame went over him, he was blind. Mary gave a little cry, but did not withdraw her hands.
“I thought you cared for Rackett,” he said suddenly, looking at her closely. She shook her head, and he saw she was crying.
He put his arm round her and gathered her in her lace dress to his breast. She was small, but strangely heavy. Not like that whip-wire of a Monica. But he loved her heaviness too. The heaviness of a dark magnetic stone. He wanted that too.
And in his mind he thought, “Why can’t I have her too? She is naturally mine.”
His soul was hard and unbending. “She is naturally mine!” he said to himself. And he kissed her softly, softly, kissed her face and her tears. And all the while Mary knew about Monica. And he, his soul fierce, would not yield in either direction. He wanted to marry her, and he wanted to marry Monica. Something was in Mary that would never be appeased unless he married her. And something in him would never be appeased unless he married Monica. His young, clear instinct saw both these facts. And the inward imperiousness of his nature rose to meet it. — ”Why can’t I have both these women?” he asked himself. And his soul, hard in its temper like a sword, answered him: “You can if you will.”
Yet he was wary enough to know he must go cautiously. Meanwhile, determined that one day he would marry Monica, and Mary both, he held the girl soft and fast in his arms, kissing her, wanting her, but wanting her with the slow knowledge that he must wait and travel a long way before he could take her, yet take her he would. He wanted Monica first. But he also wanted Mary. The soft, slow weight of her as she lay silent and
unmoving in his arms.
They could hear the music inside.
“I must go in for the next dance,” she said in a muted tone. He kissed her mouth and released her. Then he escorted her back to the ballroom. She went across to Aunt Matilda, as the dance ended. And in her lace dress, the small, heavy, dusky Mary was like a lode-stone passing among flimsy people. She had a certain magnetic heaviness of her own, and a certain stubborn, almost ugly kind of beauty which in its heavy quietness, seemed like a darkish, perhaps bitter flower that rose from a very deep root. You were sensible of a deep root going down into the dark.
A tall, thin, rather hollow-chested man in a perfect evening suit and with orders on his breast, was speaking to her. He too had a faint air of proprietorship. He had a black beard and eyeglasses. But his face was sensitive, and delicate in its desire. It was evident he loved her with a real, though rather social, uneasy desirous love, as if he wanted all her answer. He was really a nice man, a bit frail and sad. Jack could see that. But he seemed to belong so entirely to the same world as the General, Jack’s father. He belonged to the social world, and saw nothing really outside.
Mary too belonged almost entirely to the social world, her instinct was strongly social. But there was a wild tang in her. And this Jack depended on. Somewhere deep in himself he hated his father’s social world. He stood in the doorway and watched her dancing with Blessington. And he knew that as Mrs. Blessington, with a thoughtful husband and a good position in society, she would be well off. She would forfeit that bit of a wild tang.
If Jack let her. And he wasn’t going to let her. He was hard and cool inside himself. He took his impetus from the wild sap that still flows in most men’s veins, though they mostly choose to act from the tame sap. He hated his father’s social sap. He wanted the wild nature in people, the unfathomed nature, to break into leaf again. The real rebel, not the mere reactionary.
He hated the element of convention and slight smugness which showed in Mary’s movements as she danced with the tall, thin reed of a man. Anything can become a convention, even an unconventionality, even the frenzied jazzing of the modern ballroom. And then the same element of smugness, very repulsive, is evident, evident even in the most scandalous jazzers. This is curious, that as soon as any movement becomes accepted in the public consciousness, it becomes ugly and smug, unless it be saved by a touch of the wild individuality.
And Mary dancing with Mr. Blessington was almost smug. Only the downcast look on her face showed that she remembered Jack. Blessington himself danced like a man neatly and efficiently performing his duty.
The dance ended. Aunt Matilda was fluttering her fan at him like a ruffled cockatoo. There was a group: Mary, Blessington, Mr. George, Mr. James Watson, Aunt Matilda’s brother-in-law, and Aunt Matilda. Mr. Blessington, with the quiet assurance of his class, managed to eclipse Mr. George and Jim Watson entirely, though Jim Watson was a rich man.
Jack went over and was introduced. Blessington and he bowed at one another. “Stay in your class, you monkey!” thought Jack with some of the sensual arrogance he had brought with him from the North-West.
Mr. Blessington introduced him to a thin, nervous girl, his daughter. She was evidently unhappy, and Jack was sorry for her. He took her out for refreshments, and was kind to her. She made dark-grey startled round eyes at him, and looked at him as if he were an incalculable animal that might bite. And he, in manner, if not in actuality, laughed and caressed the frail young thing to cajole some life into her.
Mary danced with Tom, and then with somebody else. Jack lounged about, watching with a set face that still looked innocent and amiable, keeping a corner of his eye on Mary, but chatting with various people. He wouldn’t make a fool of himself, trying to dance.
When Mary was free again — complaining of her foot — he said to her:
“Come outside a bit.”
And obediently she came. They went and sat under the same magnolia tree.
“He’s not a bad fellow, your Blessington,” he said.
“He’s not my Blessington,” she replied, “Not yet anyhow. And he never would be really my Blessington.”
“You never know. I suppose he’s quite rich.”
“Don’t be horrid to me.”
“Why not? — I wish I was rich. I’d do as I liked. But you’ll never marry him.”
“Why shan’t I?”
“You just won’t.”
“I shall if Aunt Matilda makes me. I’m absolutely dependent on her — and do you think I don’t feel it? I want to be free. I should be much freer if I married Mr. Blessington. I’m tired of being as I am.”
“What would you really like to do?”
She was silent for a time. Then she answered:
“I should like to live on a farm.”
“Marry Tom,” he said maliciously.
“Why are you so horrid?” she said, in hurt surprise.
He was silent for a time.
“Anyhow you won’t marry Boyd Blessington.”
“Why are you so sure? Aunt Matilda is going to England in April. And I won’t travel with her. Travel with her would be unspeakable. I want to stay in Australia.”
“Marry Tom,” he said again, in malice.
“Why,” she asked in amazement, “do you say that to me?”
But he didn’t know himself.
“A farm — ” he was beginning, when a figure sailed up in the moonlight. It was Aunt Matilda. The two young people rose to their feet. Jack was silent and rather angry. He wanted to curl his nose and say: “It isn’t done, Marm!” But he said nothing. Aunt Matilda did the talking.
“I thought it was your voices,” she said coldly. “Why do you make yourself conspicuous, Mary? Mr. Blessington is looking for you in all the rooms.”
Mary was led away. Jack followed. Aunt Matilda had no sooner seen Mary led out by Mr. Blessington for the Lancers, than she came full sail upon Jack, as he stood lounging in the doorway.
“Come for a little walk on the terrace, dear boy,” she said.
“Can’t I have the pleasure of piloting you through this set of lancers, Marm?” he retorted.
She stood and smiled at him fixedly.
“I’ve heard of y’r dancing, dear boy,” she said, “and your father was a beautiful dancer. This Governor is very particular. He sent his A. D. C. to stop Jimmie Short reversing, right at the beginning of the evening.” — She eyed him with a shrewd eye.
“Surely worse farm to hurt a gentleman’s feelings, than to reverse, Marm!” retorted Jack.
“It wasn’t bad form, it was bad temper. The Governor can’t reverse himself. Ha-ha-ha! Neither can I go through a set of Lancers with you. So come and take me out a minute.”
They went in silence down the terrace.
“Lovely evening! Not at all too hot,” he said.
She burst into a sputter of laughter.
“Lor! m’dear. You are amusin’!” she said. “But you won’t get out of it like that, young man. What have y’ t’say f’ y’self, running off with Mary like that twice!”
“You told me I could take her, Marm.”
“I didn’t ask you to keep her out and get her talked about, m’dear! I’m not a fool, my dear boy, and I’m not going to let her lose the chance of a life-time. You want her y’self for one night!” She slapped her fan crossly. “You leave well enough alone, we don’t want another scandal in the family. Mr. Blessington is a good man for Mary, a God-send. For she’s heavy, she’s heavy, she’s heavy for any man to take up with.” Aunt Matilda said this almost spitefully. “Mr. Blessington’s the very man for her, and a wonderful match. She’s got her family. She’s the granddaughter of Lord Haworth. And he has position. Besides they’re suited for one another. It’s the very finger of Heaven. Don’t you dare make another scandal in the family.”
She stopped under a lamp, and was leaning forward peering at him. Her large person exhaled a scent of artificial perfume. Jack hated perfume, especially in the open air. And
her face, with its powder and wrinkles, in the mingled light of the lamp and the moon, made him think of a lizard.
“D’you want Mary yourself,” she snapped, like a great lizard. “It’s out of the question. You’ve got to make your way. She’d have to go on waiting for years. And you’d compromise her.”
“God forbid!” said Jack ironically.
“Then leave her alone,” she said. “If you compromise her, I’ll do no more for her, mind that.”
“Just exactly what do you mean, compromise her?” he asked.
“Get her talked about — as you’re trying to,” she snapped.
He thought it over. He must anyhow appear to yield to circumstances.
“All right,” he said. “I know what you mean.”
“See you do,” she retorted. “Now take me back to the ballroom.”
They returned, in a silence that was safe, if not golden. He was inwardly more set than ever. His appearance, however, was calm and innocent. She was much more ruffled. She wondered if she had said too much or too little, if he were merely stupid, or really dangerous.
He politely steered a way back to the reception room, placed her in a chair and turned to disappear. One thing he could not stand, and that was her proximity.
But as she sat down, she clutched his sleeve, cackling her unendurable laugh.
“Sit down, then,” she said. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?” And she tapped his tanned cheek, that still had a bit of the peach-look, with her feathery black fan.
“On the contrary, Marm,” he said, bowing but not taking a seat.
“Lor’, but you are an amusin’ boy, m’dear!” she said, and she let go his sleeve as she turned to survey the field.
In that instant he slipped away from her disagreeable presence.
He slipped behind a stout judge from Melbourne, then past a plumed woman, apparently of fashion, and was gone.
What he had to do was to reconnoitre his own position. He wanted Monica first. That was his fixed determination. But he was not going to let go of Mary either. Not in spite of battalions of Aunt Matildas, or correct social individuals. It was a battle.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 412