On her way home to Sunglades, as the bus rushed through the black-out lit only by the splendid spring stars, Betty’s thoughts were very pleasant. I really believe he means it, she mused. She certainly does. Oh, I do hope it comes off! Why didn’t I notice all this before? I suppose because I’ve so seldom seen them together. Dear Rick! I’m sure she’s just the girl for him. I never felt that about any of the others. (A saying of an old school-friend who was now the mother of four sons, Mother’s candidate never wins, drifted through her mind and she smiled.) Such a contrast to that other little savage! That must be what attracts him, poor darling.
The weather continued cold and uncertain, and what with hurried preparations to receive a semi-invalid and the disturbance of the household routine caused by Vartouhi’s departure, life at Sunglades grew steadily more disagreeable. Miss Fielding had been bolstering up her courage by facing her fear of having to meet Kenneth with the news; asking herself why she so disliked the prospect; and discovering that there was no solid reason except Kenneth’s known dislike of change. And of course he had liked Vartouhi ; he always liked pretty young girls, and he had made it plain that he enjoyed her being in the house; he had remarked to his sister more than once that she livened things up. In fact, when Miss Fielding came to recall certain small incidents that she had overlooked at the time they occurred, and added them to the incident of the bottle of scent at Christmas, she became convinced that something not unlike a flirtation had been going on between her brother and Vartouhi, and that the bedspread incident had been—or would have been—if the bedspread had ever reached Kenneth—the beginning of a serious “affair.” The more she thought the matter over the more she congratulated herself (taking the long view) on having got rid of the girl.
She decided not to tell Kenneth about the bedspread and she warned Miss Burton not to tell him either, taking it so much for granted that her cousin would do as she was told that she did not even exact a promise. It will be quite enough, decided Miss Fielding, if I tell him she was poking about in his bedroom and spat at me when I caught her at it. He would not expect me to forgive that.
So there was really no need to be nervous about facing Kenneth and Miss Fielding was beginning to feel more cheerful when her spirits were again cast down to the earth by Dr. Stocke’s announcement that he feared he must leave his kind friends on the following Friday week. The last of his talks would be delivered to the Reconstruction Council on Thursday, and the following day he would leave for the north of England on the first stage of a journey to Argentina, in which somewhat stony ground he next proposed to scatter the seeds of international goodwill. He would have been at Sunglades exactly a month.
Miss Fielding was much disappointed. She had hoped for a stay of three months at the least, and reminded him that he said himself he had not had time to investigate half the reconstruction schemes that he wanted to. But Dr. Stocke was adamant, and gave many irrefutable reasons why he should go, among them the honest one (for complete, even over-scrupulous, honesty was a curious charm in his otherwise charmless character) that he thought it best for his Work to leave England sooner than he had intended as the German Embassy in his native capital was being most disagreeable and suspicious about his son’s exploit and had even hinted that he, Gustav Stocke, was a pro-Allied sympathizer engaged in secret Anti-Axis propaganda—“I, who think they are all fools,” concluded Dr. Stocke, swelling with indignation and looking more Nordic than ever.
Miss Fielding found some comfort for herself in comforting her friend, but his decision remained unchanged, and she was very sad. It might be years before she saw him again, she said; without false shame, for he made no secret of his liking for her, proclaiming it loudly several times a day. No, no, Dr. Stocke brightly assured her, they would meet again before the year was out; and with this promise she was obliged to be content.
Alicia was not surprised that her friendship with Richard had suddenly taken a leap forward in intimacy, for her friendships with men often did that, but she was surprised at the gaiety and serenity with which it progressed. Never a cross word or a bad mood marred the happiness of the next few days. They met after work and sat in cheap cafés over bad coffee, and talked; or they walked out in the lengthening evening light to Blentley or Cowater, with bags full of the sketchy food to which Richard was inured, and sat on tree-trunks in the woods, listening to the song of the thrush and looking at the celandines glistening in the fresh green grass as darkness slowly came down over the countryside, and were silent.
Heretofore, Alicia had drawn a line between happiness and love. She was happy, for a little while, when she was steering a boat on a breezy, sunny day or dancing to a good band or laughing over a wisecrack with Crys or watching a good film. Love, represented by the feeling she had for H., and the man at the three-day party, had nothing to do with happiness. It was a troubling and imperious feeling, one whose appeasement was associated for her with secrecy, and transiency, and haste. She had always looked ahead, even in hours of passion, and thought: One day this will be over; and the prospect had had to be faced, as, when the time came, the break had had to be organized.
But when she was with Richard she was happy, and in his arms (in which she very soon found herself) there were only laughter and peace. The delight that she had experienced as the boat flew over the sunlit water with the rushing breeze, the dreamy pleasure of dancing across a shining floor—all these sensations were now blent with what she felt when she was with Richard. For the first time, happiness had become one with love.
She supposed that sooner or later he would suggest that they should become lovers, and in her new happiness she was content to wait for him to speak, although she, with her bitter experience of “affairs”, would almost have been content to go on as they were. As soon as an “affair” had reached its natural climax, it began to move towards its end. And they were so happy! They were such friends! She did not even want to think about their friendship ending.
However, as a modern young woman should, she was prepared to acquiesce meekly in his dishonourable proposal and to delight in the short midsummer of the sweetest and tenderest “affair” she had ever known. It was therefore with feelings so confused and thrown out of their orbit as to take her breath away that she found herself, some days after their meeting in the “George,” sitting on the top bar of a stile and gazing down at Richard’s fair head as he sat on the step, and listening to a proposal of marriage.
The evening was very still. It had been raining all day and now the clouds had broken up into a strange sunset that flooded all the heavens with fiery pink light although no rays or beams were actually visible. The glow was diffused, seeming to come from no particular quarter, while such few gulfs of clear sky as could be seen were of a vivid turquoise blue. The clouds still moved restlessly, changing from moment to moment in rolling masses of dark vapour penetrated now with amber light, now with rose red. In this strange pink luminance every shade of green in grass, tree and hedgerow was intensified with a distinctness and variety inconceivable in ordinary sunlight; the brilliance of the young hawthorn leaves contrasting with the glittering darkness of the holly, and the mighty elms, which were not yet in full leaf, showing shade on shade of rich green. The meadow that stretched before Richard and Alicia was green as an alpine lake, and seemed to shimmer with the intensity of its colour. To add the final fairy touch of beauty to the scene, every leaf and grass-blade trembled with its load of glittering raindrops and a delicious scent of soaked earth and young grass floated in the hushed air.
“What?” said Alicia, and nearly fell off the stile.
“I was suggesting that we should get married,” said Richard, a little more concisely. He glanced up at her and smiled. “Are you surprised? I thought you might be.”
“I’m absolutely knocked flat, darling,” said Alicia in a dazed voice.
“I don’t see any cause for quite so much amazement. I love you. I thought I had made that sufficiently clear.”
; “Yes. Oh, yes. I—I love you, too. At least, I don’t feel—but I’m perfectly happy with you,” she ended confusedly. So many thoughts and emotions were crowding in upon her that she found it difficult to speak. “But loving people isn’t the same thing as getting married.”
“It is with me,” said Richard austerely.
“Do you mean to say that every time you have an affair with a girl you ask her to marry you?” she exclaimed.
“Of course not. You are the second girl I have proposed to, and the first one I have proposed to deliberately, with my eyes open, knowing that if you say ‘yes’ we shall have a favourable prospect of many years of happiness before us.”
“Gosh!” said Alicia weakly and started to laugh, but was stopped by a sudden thought. “Who was the other one?” she asked in a quieter tone. “Vartouhi?”
He nodded. “In a moment of temporary insanity. I have never stopped thanking God that she only laughed.”
Alicia muttered something severely uncomplimentary to Vartouhi that he did not hear, and he went on:
“That’s quite over. Yes,” nodding, and standing up so that he could look down at her, “You are not being asked to accept someone on the rebound.”
He put his arm round her and drew her close. “Will you, Alicia? I think we could be very happy. That’s a rash thing to say nowadays, with the world in the state it is, but I believe we could. You see, I love you with all my heart, and all my reason too.”
She turned her cheek against his and shut her eyes.
“Being married is so serious——” she began quietly.
“Nonsense. Tremendous fun,” said the scholar vigorously.
“Suppose we didn’t make a go of it?”
“We shall.”
“Of course, we could always get a divorce——”
He shook his head. “Not with young children. That’s one of the things I disapprove of very strongly.”
“There mightn’t be any young children.”
“Nonsense,” he said again. “I’m not very healthy, I know, but I come from a big family on both sides and you come of good working-class stock. You told me your grandfather worked in a Bradford mill.”
“That’s why I’ve taken so easily to the factory. Don’t they say it takes three generations to get back to the soil or something? But seriously, Rick darling——”
“If you are worrying about money, I can earn enough to keep us both in all the essentials, and later on when the children come I can work harder and earn more.”
“I’ve got about three hundred a year of my own.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mind you keeping a hundred, but three hundred is too much—not for you, but for us, with what I shall earn. Most people live on less than that. We mustn’t be greedy.”
“Oh,” she said, and was silent. The pink light was deepening over the sky and the holly tree above their heads reflected the glow faintly upon its pale bark while its leaves glowed in lustrous green darkness. A few drops of rain fell.
“Rick,” she said at last, “I wouldn’t mind being hard up. I’d like making my own clothes and the children’s and doing the housework—I adore messy jobs and feeling one’s got to put up a good show on very little—that’s why I went into the factory after Dunkirk——”
“You wouldn’t have to do the housework. I don’t want a Frau; I want a wife and a friend. Besides, your hands are so lovely,” and he kissed her fingers.
“They’re like my mother’s,” she said, spreading them out, “she’s a real lady. She married poor Dad for his money, I’m afraid. Oh well, if I did have to do the chores, I wouldn’t mind. And I’d adore your children. But I’m frightened.”
“What of?”
“Oh—lots of things. I took such a nasty knock once before. And marriage is so—permanent.”
“That’s exactly why you needn’t be frightened. We shall have time to learn about each other.”
She hesitated for a moment, then said in a cooler tone:
“You don’t mind about my not being——?”
He shook his head. “We’re talking about marriage, not an affair, and we’re taking the very long view. You say you love me and I believe you. And I love you. The other thing doesn’t bother me at all. If it comes to that, I’m not, either.”
“Oh—well. But some people would.”
“Then let us be glad that I belong in the category that doesn’t,” said Richard. “But, mark you, I do not belong in the category that lets its wives have affairs. A wife’s best friend is her husband.”
“You mean you’d be jealous?”
“The problem will not arise,” said Richard amiably, and she had to laugh.
There was another short silence. The rain increased, then died away to a few scattered drops that shivered the brimming pools in the road reflecting the roseate sky.
“Listen, Alicia,” said Richard, giving her a little shake. “It’s time you grew up. You’re tired of running around thinking you’re enjoying life when you’re not. And you know it. What I’m offering you—and myself—is a full human life, with children and adult responsibilities and satisfactions. In addition,” his clasp tightened, “I love you with all my heart and I will not be unfaithful to you. (I shan’t have the time.) Wherever we may be, we shall have a happy home and work and love. You know that’s what you really want, and need, in your heart of hearts.”
She murmured something about being free.
“‘Whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it,’” answered Richard at once, “You aren’t free now. You’re a prisoner to restlessness and discontent and the pursuit of happiness (which is a by-product, anyway).”
“The blue-print!” said Alicia, smiling up at him but with a troubled look. “Do you remember?”
“Yes. I’m asking you to step into my blue-print. Come on!” He gave her another tender little shake. “The water’s lovely!”
But she held back from him for a moment.
“Oh Rick, it sounds such heaven, and it is what I need; you’re quite right. But I’m still frightened. I suppose”—she hesitated for a moment—“couldn’t we live together for a little while first? Suppose we don’t hit it off physically——”
“The word ‘physically’ is the idiot signature-tune of this generation,” exclaimed Richard. “More nonsense is talked about that subject than any other except freedom. No, dear heart, I see no reason for behaving in any other way than the conventional one. And all my old uncles would have fits.”
“I offer to live with you and you talk about your old uncles!”
“I do appreciate the compliment, dearest.” He kissed her fingers again. “And I do stipulate for an immediate marriage. Would the 30th of April suit you? That gives us five weeks.”
She still hesitated. Rain was beginning to fall again, showering down from the rosy sky with an appearance of indolence, as if clouds and light and the strange green fields and trees were too entranced to cease their crystal dripping and splashing. The petals of the celandines were clinging together with water and they drooped in the emerald grass.
“I love you and I want you,” said Richard suddenly, holding her close and kissing her mouth.
“All right——” said Alicia. “Yes, Rick, darling.” She suddenly began to laugh, between their kisses.
“What’s the matter? We’re going to be very happy,” he said authoritatively, arranging his coat over her shoulders to protect her from the increasing rain.
“Darling, I’m almost sure we are. Only when you kiss me it’s so much better than the adult responsibilities!”
“Look—look, a superb rainbow!” he exclaimed, standing up on the second rail of the stile the better to see. His tall gaunt figure was outlined against the magnificent fantastic sky, and she sat looking first at him and then at the bow in heaven. The delicate yellow and aerial pink and the pure turquoise blue curved solemnly across half the sky, every unnameable tint of colour shining against the smoky orange clouds. It had grown th
ere while they were in one another’s arms, and now vanished, the one end in a brilliant green hazel hedge at the opposite side of the field, and the other in a distant wood where the mists hovered low.
“Oh—a double one!” she cried.
Above the first rainbow appeared a second, like the delicate reflection of the first. Purer and more brilliant grew the colours, until even the green of tree and hedge and field and the fiery rose of the sky were subdued in wonder by the perfect loveliness of the double bow. They watched in silence until the last faint divine hues had faded into the dimness of evening.
CHAPTER 31
KENNETH OBTAINED A certificate from the doctor to take his father down to Hertfordshire by car, as old Mr. Fielding was still weak and his son feared the fatigues of the journey for him. It was a cold rainy day when they set out with the east wind blowing again, and both were subdued. To Kenneth it was melancholy to see his father, whom he recollected for forty-seven years as an invariably cheerful person, changed into a quiet, patient old man. No doubt Constance would think the change was for the better, and Mrs. Miles was already telling anyone she could get to listen how much improved poor Father was since his illness, but Kenneth felt sad.
The Mr. Fothergills were so pleased to be getting back into their flat that they so far conquered their dislike of illness as to call on their aged friend the afternoon before he left, bringing with them a small bunch of rather unripe grapes from the hothouse of their connections in Wiltshire, and gleefully calling Kenneth’s attention to the beauty of the bloom. Judson had spent the previous three days in silently airing and purifying the bedrooms. The Spode dishes had reappeared and so had the thin elegant Georgian silver. Soon Mr. Fielding and Kenneth and the two nurses would be only a disagreeable memory at 11 St. Charles’s Street.
Farewells were said in an atmosphere of false cordiality, and the car drove away. Kenneth thought it unlikely that his father would ever see the Mr. Fothergills again: if he were going to be old and live a dull life in the country they would have no use for him. Poor old boy.
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