The Bachelor

by Stella Gibbons

  “Is a bad thing to do.”

  “Of course it is but she can’t help it; she’s always been like that. And Miss Burton and I would so like to have you back.”

  She narrowed her eyes in a teasing smile and shook her head.

  “The house is so quiet and dull without you.”

  “Is too quiet for me, Mr. Kenneth. I say so.”

  “But—Vartouhi—won’t you come back just to please me? I’m so damned lonely,” burst out Kenneth, leaning forward and looking at her pleadingly.

  She continued to smile as she returned his gaze but gradually the smile lost its mockery.

  “I am varry sorry, Mr. Kenneth,” said Vartouhi softly. “Is a bad thing to be lonely. You are so good and kind, too also.”

  “I don’t feel it. When I think of that chap dancing with you I could wring his neck.”

  “You are jalous,” she said, nodding. He could not tell what she was thinking.

  “Damned jealous,” he said recklessly, finding a strange relief in making the confession.

  “Raoul is jalous too also. He say some day he will kill me,” and she put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “He probably means it, too,” he said. “You mustn’t take any chances with him, Vartouhi. I don’t like the sound of him at all.”

  “I am not frightened,” she said, and lit a third little dark yellow cigarette.

  At last he realized that she meant what she said; she was not coming back to Sunglades with him; and he became very depressed. He had been so sure she would return that the idea of going back the next day without her had never entered his head, and now that it had he could hardly bear to face it. He grew more and more silent and filled up his glass again and again, although he told Vartouhi with a brief smile that too much of this stuff was not good for little girls and would not let her drink more than two glasses.

  She did not mind; she seemed content to sit gazing about the room at the women’s clothes and smoking, with a calm expression on her face that increased her Oriental look and made him unhappier because it pointed the differences between them; her race and his own, her youth and his maturity, her casual cheerfulness and his own deepening conviction that his life was half over and had never been a proper life anyway. He kept on thinking bitterly about Connie; how she had bullied and bossed him when he was a child and interfered in all his affairs with women (except a few about which she had never known), when he was older. But he had been a fool to let her. Yes, a fool he thought, staring gloomily at Vartouhi.

  “It’s nine o’clock, dear,” he said at last rather thickly. “Time we were getting along, I’m afraid.”

  “You call me ‘dear,’” observed Vartouhi, with a pleased glance.

  “Well! D’you mind?”

  She shook her head.

  The density of the black-out was increased by a slight mist which had accompanied a warmer air following the rain, and he could not persuade or threaten a taxi to take them back to Mornington Crescent. They had to go by tube, and his depression was increased by the glare of the lights and the noisy crowds and the fact that they both had to stand and no one offered Vartouhi a seat. Thank God this must be over one day and then one will be able to run a car again and get about like a human being, he thought, looking down at the top of her head as she stood by his side. Upon my word, life isn’t worth living nowadays, thanks to that damned house-painting Austrian.

  The train stopped at Mornington Crescent.

  As they stepped out of the station into the still, damp, silent blackness, he took her arm.

  “Is varry dark,” she said in a subdued voice.

  “Beastly, isn’t it. Never mind, I’ve got you.”

  “I like to see.”

  “By Jove, so do I! Never mind,” and the beam of his large and efficient torch suddenly illuminated the blackness, “we’ll soon be home.”

  Home! Spoken to her, the word sounded warm and comforting, and suddenly he wished passionately that they were going home together; not to Sunglades but to some dear impossible home of their own, where she could have all the rum little hats and beads she wanted and he could potter about the garden and take care of her. (Not that she seemed to need it.) He began to play with the thought as they walked slowly on through the blackness, occasionally pausing while he flashed the torch on a house or wall for her to tell him whether they were in the right road. They would get on like a house on fire, he was sure, and she would make a grand little wife; she was so brave and so sensible too, in her own queer way. She was the dearest little girl he had ever known, and to-morrow he would have to go back to Sunglades without her.

  He was tired and unhappy and his brain was confused by what he had had to drink and by their slow dreamlike progress through the thick darkness which pressed in mistily on all sides beyond the ray of the torch. There was a smell of young leaves in the air and once the light flashed on the garden of a bombed house where a scanty old may-tree was covered in green buds. Suppose I asked her to marry me? he thought. By God, I’ve a good mind to. That would give Connie something to think about, and it’s the only way I could get her to come back with me tomorrow. The idea was so amazing and new that it sobered him for an instant, and immediately his cautious bachelor habits began to argue against it. But its very strangeness increased the nightmare feeling induced by alcohol and the darkness, and soon the thought began to turn into a definite impulse to then and there propose to her.

  “Listen!” said Vartouhi suddenly, and stood still, pressing closer to his side.

  “What’s the matter, dear? Frightened?” He tightened his hold on her arm.

  “Some person is following us, Mr. Kenneth, I think.”

  He shook his head but they stood for a moment, intently listening. There was not a sound save the traffic, muffled and subdued by distance and the mist. Kenneth sniffed the air distastefully and recognized a faint familiar smell. What was it? Wet plaster and charred wood and rubble; yes, but it was more than all those. It was the unmistakable smell, sour and chill and frightening, of bomb-blasted ruins. They must be near the waste land. He put his arm round Vartouhi and held her close.

  “It’s all right, dear. I’m here.”

  They went slowly on. Dense darkness enclosed them on all sides except where the dimmed beam of his torch lit up the damp pavement, and the fresh scent of the coming spring mingled with the strange odour of the ruins. He had never known Vartouhi to be silent for so long and presently he pressed her arm again and asked:

  “Still hearing ghosts, eh?”

  “Yas, I think so, Mr. Kenneth. And I am sleepy, and is easy to kill a large strong man if you come behind him, creep, creep, very quiet and put a knife in his back, high up.”

  “By George!” he exclaimed. “You’ll frighten me if you say things like that!”

  “Is true, Mr. Kenneth. In my country we do that.”

  “Well, no one’s going to do it here,” he said firmly, but just at that moment he thought he did hear stealthy steps pacing along behind them. He did not pause in his steady walk but listened keenly, and presently he was sure; under the now cheerful tones of Vartouhi’s voice as she talked about Bairamia there was the sound of footsteps almost, but not quite, keeping time with their own. His heart began to beat a little faster. They were some way now from the main road and the mist was getting steadily thicker. It would be so easy for someone to strike in the darkness and get away across the waste land before anyone even knew of the blow. It was a damned unpleasant situation and he wondered how much farther they had to go.

  “Are we nearly there?” he asked, grasping the torch more firmly.

  “I think so we are, Mr. Kenneth; I have not been out in the black-out here before.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but how’s that? Don’t you ever work late at that beastly hole?”

  “There was the moon when I did, Mr. Kenneth—oh!” The sentence ended in a cry, as Kenneth turned quickly round and flashed the torch behind him. A man’s dark face, blink
ing in the glare, stared dazedly out of the mist.

  “Anything I can do for you?” demanded Kenneth, taking a step towards him.

  “Is Raoul!” exclaimed Vartouhi, beginning to laugh. “Oh, we thought it was some wicked per-son!”

  The man said nothing for a minute. The collar of his khaki overcoat was turned up and his heavy chin was thrust down into it. He did not look more than twenty and his small eyes were dark and dull under thick brows.

  “Guess I scared you,” he drawled at last. “’Lo Peggy. Got a light?” to Kenneth. His voice sounded stupid and tired and while he spoke he was peering beyond the circle of light made by the torch as if to try and make out Vartouhi’s face. He slowly put his hand in his pocket and brought out a packet of Lucky Strikes from which he took one, putting it clumsily between his lips, while never taking his eyes from the dim shape that was Vartouhi.

  “You are out too late,” she said teasingly, from the darkness beyond the torch’s light. “You will be punish again.”

  “I’ve got leave,” he muttered, putting his head down to reach the burning lighter Kenneth was holding out to him. Vartouhi had taken the torch and was idly sweeping its beam across the railings and up to the sky, leaving the two men in darkness except for the tiny flame from the lighter.

  “Don’t do that, Vartouhi!” said Kenneth sharply.

  Raoul drew in his dark cheeks and blew out smoke.

  “Are you coming to see me?” Vartouhi went on in the same mocking tone. “Is late and I can-not talk to you to-night, I am varry sleepy.”

  He shook his head with a gesture that hardly moved his smooth massive throat. He was still watching her.

  “Good night,” said Kenneth curtly, shutting the lighter and returning it to his pocket. He resumed the torch from Vartouhi, who had ceased to play with it, and took her arm again.

  Raoul made a sudden movement, it was hard to see whether of his shoulders or his arms, and Kenneth had such a quick impression of danger that he involuntarily moved forward a pace himself. Then he let the torch shine upwards on the dark, savage young face.

  “Good night,” he said again, but the boy took no notice.

  “Good night, Peggy,” he said. “Same time to-morrow, huh?”

  Vartouhi shrugged her shoulders. “I will see.”

  “Same time,” he insisted, leaning forward a little.

  “I will see, I will see. Do not bother.”

  They both ignored Kenneth; he might not have been there.

  “Come along, Vartouhi,” he said authoritatively, “you’ll get cold hanging about here,” and he moved quickly away, almost pulling her with him.

  The young man did not move. He stood still with the red tip of his cigarette glowing, and let the darkness flow back over him, meeting the darkness in his own mind, in silence. Kenneth could not hear any sound of his footsteps, although he listened intently, and presently he thought that they must have left him behind.

  “Was only Raoul,” said Vartouhi, her gaiety entirely restored. “Is a silly boy.”

  Kenneth grunted. A damned dangerous young gangster was how he would have described him; the sort of rebel no amount of Army discipline could tame. A woman-killer if ever there was one, thought Kenneth, so disturbed that his usually sluggish imagination was working. She mustn’t see him again.

  I’ll marry her and take care of her—if she’ll have me, his thoughts went on. She can’t go on like this, she’ll come to a sticky end sooner or later, just because she’s such a child in some ways and yet so attractive to men. A nice life of it I’m probably letting myself in for!—she’s twenty-eight years younger than I am and a foreigner with a horde of relations. And God knows what Con will say. Still—I’ll ask her. The fact is I’m in love with her and want to take care of her and I shan’t be happy until I’ve got the right to. Here goes.

  He drew in his breath: but all he said, in a growl, when it came out again, was:

  “What on earth does that fellow want, hanging round here?”

  “He is always hang round here, Mr. Kenneth. He say he likes places where the bombs have been.”

  Kenneth said nothing, but awaited further interesting revelations. The argument between his love and his common sense was still going on.

  “He likes the black-out too also. Always he is asking me to go in those bomb houses with him in the black-out.”

  “Young blackguard! I hope you——”

  “He say it would be a good place for us to kiss in.”

  “Yes, yes, all right, I don’t want to hear about that. Er—do you let him kiss you?”

  “Cannot help,” said Vartouhi with a shrug. “Is varry strong and rude too also.”

  “But do you like to kiss him?”

  “No, no. Make me laugh.”

  “Er—is there anyone you do like kissing?”

  “I like to kiss my nice Medora,” said Vartouhi promptly. “But is too much kissing in England.”

  “A man, I meant, not a child or your sisters.”

  He awaited her reply with uneasiness, but his own conflict was over. His next question to her would be a proposal.

  “Oh no, Mr. Kenneth. I do not like kiss men at all.”

  Kenneth gave a sound between a laugh and a groan and said, stopping short in their walk and looking down at the dim glitter of her hair:

  “Vartouhi, will you marry me?”

  He could not imagine what she would do or say in answer. She might laugh or refuse to believe he meant it or—anything. She was the most unexpected creature in the world and whatever she did was bound to be surprising. The darkness and the confusion in his head from alcohol and their sinister encounter with Raoul all made the situation seem so fantastic that he felt as if he were in a dream, with prudence and common sense banished to the waking world.

  “You ask me marry you?” exclaimed Vartouhi, her voice shrill with surprise, also stopping, and gazing up at him. The light of the torch shone on her shabby trench coat, with a bunch of primroses which he had bought for her pulled through one of the buttonholes, but her face was in shadow.

  “Yes,” he said gruffly.

  “Yas!” said Vartouhi at once, and he heard a brilliant smile come into her voice. “Yas, I will marry you, Mr. Kenneth. Is a varry good thing and I am varry please. So will my father be, and all my sisters and my mother and my nice Medora. Oh, how please they will be! You are a good kind rich man with a big house and——”

  “Oh Vartouhi,” he exclaimed, interrupting the flow of words which came with such a strong increase in her accent that they were almost unintelligible, “don’t talk like that! Don’t you—love me at all?”

  Only the darkness gave him courage to ask such a question. He had never felt lonelier in his life.

  “Oh yas, Mr. Kenneth,” she answered, more quietly, “I love you varry much. You are so kind. I will be good wife to you,” she ended softly, looking up at him through the mist.

  She could not have said a sweeter thing and one that would have comforted him more. He grasped her arms gently and stooped his face to hers.

  “Dear little girl,” he muttered. “May I kiss you?”

  She nodded, and he took from her an embrace as fresh and hearty as a child’s. He heard her murmur some words to herself and said, still with his arm about her:

  “What’s that, darling?”

  “Is what we say in Bairamia when we are promise to marry. I give you my heart and my honour. Bless be our bridal bed and children born of you and me.”

  He kissed her again, too moved to speak. His loneliness had gone and suddenly he was very happy. He had vaguely imagined what fun it would be if they were engaged, with Vartouhi delighting him by playing about like a kitten, but he had not hoped for more than that. Now it seemed as if he might gain a wife who could give him the frank and abundant love he had always longed for. At the back of his mind there was the faintest uneasy hope this his sisters might not overhear Vartouhi repeating the Bairamian betrothal vow, but he dismissed the idea.
Dammit, it’s no worse than the Bible and our Marriage Service, he thought.

  “You say it,” said Vartouhi, gently shaking his arm.

  “Oh, must I? All right, then. Er—I give you my heart and my honour—is that right?—er—blessed be our bridal bed and the children born of you and me,” he ended, very quickly and almost in a whisper.

  “Now we are engage,” said Vartouhi, with a pleased giggle and took his arm again and resumed their walk. “We are almost at the house, too also. Mr. Kenneth——”

  “Kenneth. You can’t call me ‘mister’ now, you know.”

  “What shall we do next, Kenneth?” she inquired in a business-like tone. “When you like me to marry you? Soon or a long time away?”

  “Oh—er—soon. Very soon. Would you like that?”

  “Yas. I shall tell the people at the milk bar and come away back to Sunglades with you to-morrow morning. Is a good thing?”

  “Very good, dear. I’ll call for you here at eleven o’clock with a taxi and we’ll be home in time for lunch.”

  They went on to make those first mutual plans to which a new engagement adds such delightful colouring. He found that she was as sensible as he had always believed, in spite of her odd way of looking at things and the disconcerting frankness of speech that was so startling when once her national reserve had been cast aside. With every moment that passed, the prospect of their future contentment seemed more assured; and when he parted from her, on her own doorstep, after another kiss, if he was still a bewildered man he was also an increasingly happy one.

  The names of his sisters had not been mentioned between them.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Miss Fielding was in the little workroom with a dictionary and grammar of Dr. Stocke’s native tongue, having snatched a moment’s respite from her wearisome household duties to pursue her studies, when the telephone bell rang. She exclaimed impatiently as she took off the receiver; she had already been interrupted once by a call from Kenneth announcing that he would be home to lunch and was bringing Vartouhi with him. As if this were not disconcerting enough here was somebody else bothering.