by A. A. Milne
‘Telworthy—yes.’ And then, with a note of complaint in the question, ‘Didn’t I say Telworthy? This man I was telling you about——’
‘He’s dead?’ repeated George sternly.
‘Yes, yes, certainly; he died at Marseilles.’
George turned with utter relief in his eyes to his Aunt Julia. ‘Dead!’ he confirmed, nodding at her. There was just a suggestion in his voice that that was what the Mardens were like, when put to it.
‘A dispensation of Providence,’ pronounced Lady Marden gravely. ‘One can look at it in no other light.’
But one may question whether she was wholly grateful to Providence. She had never approved of George’s marriage to Olivia, and it was charitable to assume that an all-wise Providence shared her views on this matter. Even if it were true that the departure of Olivia from Marden House was not sufficient compensation for the scandal it would bring on the Marden name, yet, taken in conjunction with the opportunity afforded to Aunt Julia of saying, ‘Well, I always warned you,’ it could be faced with equanimity. And now Providence seemed to have deserted her. Well, one must suppose that it knew best.
‘Dead!’ said George solemnly again, almost as if he were a church bell tolling.
How good the calm was after the storm! How happy now ho was just to be alive, and to know that Olivia was still his—his for ever! He shuddered as he thought what a narrow escape he had had, and, shuddering, realized suddenly that all these terrible hours he had been through had been an absolutely needless torture, a mere wanton sport of Mr. Pim’s! For Telworthy had been dead all the time! He looked at that unfortunate old gentleman with a growing sense of indignation.
‘Really, Mr. Pim,’ he said severely, ‘I think you might have told us this before.’
Mr. Pim couldn’t make it out. He had been convinced that he had told them. Certainly he had told the Trevors—all except the name of the poor fellow, which had temporarily slipped his memory—because he remembered Mrs. Trevor making some comment about the dangers of fish bones, and the best way of treating a case of choking. The Trevors had been very much interested in the story, just as the Mardens had been. It was the same story.
‘But I—I did tell you!’ he protested. ‘I certainly——’ and then he stopped. For he remembered that George had interrupted him with the letter, before the story was finished, and had conducted him out through the windows immediately afterwards; wherefore he corrected himself now and said, ‘I—I was telling you. But——’
‘If you had only told us the whole story at once,’ George went on, with simple dignity, ‘instead of in two instalments like this, you would have saved us all a good deal of anxiety.’
‘But really!’ palpitated Mr. Pim.
‘I am sure Mr. Pim meant well, George,’ said Lady Marden, summing the case up judicially, ‘but it seems a pity he couldn’t have said it all before. If the man was dead, why try to hush it up?’
‘Really, Lady Marden, I—I assure you——’
George stood up and gave Mr. Pim his friendly, charming smile. ‘Well, well,’ he said, forgiving the culprit whole-heartedly, ‘I am very much obliged to you for having come down to us this afternoon. It was most good of you.’ He held out his hand and, as Mr. Pim took it, tolled once more ‘Dead!’ Then with a solemn face he paid his tribute to Propriety. ‘De mortuis—and so forth,’ he said reverently, ‘but the situation would have been an impossible one had he lived. Good-bye, Mr. Pim.’
Mr. Pim was still clutching George’s hand, the one solid thing in a world of shadows. He had said good-bye to that hand once already this morning; had said it and gone away, leaving his story, so it seemed, unfinished. What had happened to his story now? They were confusing him dreadfully; they were hurrying him. The Trevors had given him more time. At lunch he had told the story at his leisure—all except the man’s name. Telworthy! Now it came back to him.
Lady Marden, appealed to by George’s eye, held out her hand.
‘Good-bye, Mr. Pim,’ she said, a trifle severely.
Mr. Pim let George’s hand go and clutched at Lady Marden’s.
‘I am sure, Lady Marden,’ he began, ‘if I had only known——’
‘That’s all right, Mr. Pim,’ beamed George. ‘Got your hat? That’s right. You must let us drive you back to the Trevors. I expect the trap will be waiting. I like horses in the country. Hope you agree with me.’
‘Thank you, thank you, yes, but I am not going back to the Trevors. And I shall like the little walk.’
‘The Brymers, what? Well, just as you please. It’s no trouble, you know.’
‘No, no, I shall like the little walk. Good-bye, Lady Marden.’
He gave her a dignified little bow, and followed George to the windows. But at the windows he stopped for a moment, gazed up at the sky, and murmured to himself, ‘Telworthy, yes. I think that was the name.’
And so out of Marden House again.
IV
The Head of the Mardens, the special protégé of Providence, our George, came back to his Aunt Julia in the best of good spirits. Forgetting in his excitement the most elementary rules of hygiene, he kissed her loudly and, before she had recovered, patted her heavily on the back in the manner of one administering first-aid.
‘Really, George,’ she protested, ‘it was not I who swallowed the fish bone.’
‘What?’ He threw his head back and laughed heartily. ‘Well done, Aunt Julia!’ Stretching himself luxuriously he cried, ‘Ah, but this is wonderful news! It is almost worth going through what I have gone through to feel as I feel now.’
‘Quite so,’ she said dryly. She looked at him with a grim smile. ‘You realize, of course, that you are not married to Olivia?’
He turned to her vacantly, repeating, ‘Not married?’
‘Naturally, if her first husband only died a few days ago at Marseilles.’
His jaw dropped. No, he wasn’t married to Olivia. Good heavens!
‘Not that it matters,’ went on his aunt. ‘You can easily get married again. Quietly. Nobody need know.’
‘Yes.’ Then another thought came to him. ‘So that all these years we have been—er—yes.’
‘Who’s going to know?’
‘Yes, that’s true. And in perfect innocence. Still—er—yes.’
For the fact remained that even now he was not, had never been, married to Olivia. Even if Mr. Pim had told his story in one instalment, there would have been the fact. Obviously there was nothing for it now but to get married again as quickly as possible—thank Heaven that his duty was absolutely clear this time; Heaven be thanked also that this time duty coincided with desire—but still the fact remained, a cloud in the glorious blue which had been vouchsafed to him so suddenly. They had lived together for five years unmarried!
For, as he had protested truly to Olivia, he did not think only of the scandal. There need be no scandal now, yet he was still distressed. Right or wrong, his moral standard was there, and he lived up to it. No man can do more. As he would have put it, they had ‘sinned innocently’, nor would he have agreed that if it were done innocently it could not be a sin. They had done wrong; as far as the wrong could be righted, they would put it right; and then, safely married, they would begin again, a world of happiness at their feet. But still—they had done wrong.
‘I should suggest a registry office in London,’ said Lady Marden, getting back to business.
‘A registry office, Aunt Julia?’ he questioned, surprised.
‘Easier. Quicker. Less talk.’
‘Y—yes.’
But then they would never have been married in Church! And yet Aunt Julia was right—there were difficulties in the way of a church service . . . and, after all, according to the law of the land a registry office was enough . . . and for Olivia’s sake (this was a good thought)—for Olivia’s sake, it must be done as quietly as
possible . . . still, he would have preferred a church. Perhaps if they went into a church together after the registry office, just to solemnize the proceedings a bit; there were always services going on in the London churches—they could sit for a moment in the Abbey. . . .
He nodded happily to himself. Yes, that was what they would do.
‘A registry office, yes,’ he agreed cheerfully.
‘Better go up to town this afternoon. Can’t do it too quickly.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He became the man of affairs again. ‘We can stay at-an hotel—Baker’s—I’ll send them a telegram——’
‘George!’ exclaimed Aunt Julia in amazement.
‘What?’
‘You will stay at your club.’
Once again he remembered that he was not married to Olivia.
‘Quite so, Aunt Julia,’ he agreed hastily.
‘Better take your solicitor with you to be on the safe side.’
George looked at her in surprise. Was so much chaperonage really necessary?
‘To the registry office, I mean,’ she explained.
‘Oh yes. Yes, undoubtedly.’
He sank into thought. And as he thought, his face softened, and there was a tender look in his eyes, very winning, a tender smile at the corners of his mouth. Olivia was his, undisputed. A day or two of unpleasantness, and then his for ever! That was the one great fact in the world.
‘Well, I must be getting along, George,’ interrupted Lady Marden. ‘Say good-bye to Olivia for me. And those children? Of course, you won’t allow this absurd love-business between them to come to anything?’
George had forgotten them. But he reassured Aunt Julia on the point at once. Most certainly he would not allow it to go on.
‘That’s right. And get Olivia out more. I don’t like these hysterics; it’s all so unhealthy. You want to be firmer with her, George.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said George firmly. But just then he only wanted to be alone with her, with his beautiful Olivia. ‘Yes, yes, you’re quite right, Aunt Julia.’ He walked with her to the door, answering her questions absently. His mind was with Olivia. His now for ever.
Chapter Twelve
Mrs. Telworthy Receives a Proposal
BUT the absurd love-business was still going on between those two children.
‘Kiss me,’ commanded Dinah, as soon as they were away from the house. Brian kissed her. It was her official defiance, childish if you like, of George’s authority. To their thinking he had betrayed Olivia. By that betrayal they were absolved of their pledge to him. So Brian kissed her. It was not a question now of ‘uncles or no uncles.’ Dinah felt that henceforward she had no uncle. There remained only her guardian, George Marden. He might forbid the marriage until she were twenty-one; so much perhaps the Law allowed him; but meanwhile she owed him no respect, no love, no duty.
‘I suppose the fact is,’ said Brian, ‘he’s never really been in love with her at all, not what we call being in love.’
‘I think he was when he was proposing to her, you know. He was a bit off his food about then. I remember wondering what was the matter with him. Of course, as soon as I saw them together——’ She broke off, and added, ‘Oh yes, he was, Brian, awfully. Not like us, of course, but still, very, very——Brian,’ she turned to him seriously, ‘it is possible isn’t it, to go on being in love with one another always?’
Brian swore that it was. In their case, not only possible, but inevitable.
‘Of course, you were bound to say that,’ she said wistfully.
‘Then why did you ask me?’
‘Oh well, I had to.’
‘What’s the matter, darling?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing. Let’s sit down.’ She curled herself up on the grass, and Brian lay beside her, selecting and nibbling the more succulent stalks.
‘That’s very dangerous,’ she said, after watching him in silence. ‘I know a man—at least, I didn’t know him, but it really happened—and he got all sorts of horrible things inside him by doing that. Eggs and things which grew up.’
‘I expect he did it on Sunday,’ said Brian lazily, ‘when he ought to have been in church. It wouldn’t happen to a really good man like me.’
‘What a little you know about me really,’ she went on. ‘I’m horrid sometimes. . . . And selfish. Oh, selfish!’
‘So am I.’
‘Men are always supposed to be, aren’t they? But it’s a different sort of selfish. . . . Wasn’t it awful what I said to Olivia about nothing ever happening here? Only a beast would have said that.’
‘She understood,’ said Brian. ‘And I shall understand.’
‘Will you?’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I believe you will. I think you’re the most understanding man I’ve ever met.’
This was love only. He acknowledged it with a smile. But was he understanding? Did he understand George, for instance?
Suppose he, Brian, had to choose between Dinah and his art? Impossible! But just suppose? Suppose George were now choosing between Olivia and his God? It was not good enough merely to say that it was a false god. His own art might be false art; certainly was in George’s eyes. The point was that George believed in his God. Then what could he do but fight for Him? Brian’s God was not as George’s; it was, for instance, a betrayal of Brian’s God to paint a picture in which he did not believe. Would Brian so betray Him for Dinah’s sake? It was horrible.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’
‘Matter?’ he asked vacantly.
‘You’re frowning so.’ She put a cool hand on his forehead, and smoothed out the wrinkles. ‘You’re spoiling the face I love.’
He laughed and explained. ‘I was thinking of George.’
‘Oh, well!’
‘No, not like that, Dinah.’ He became very busy with the grass, pulling it up and examining it minutely. ‘I was thinking perhaps I—I hadn’t been—quite fair to him.’
‘Brian!’ Indignant surprise from Dinah.
‘Well, I mean he’s all wrong, of course——’
‘I should think so!’
‘But even if you’re wrong . . . there’s a sort of right way of being wrong. ... I mean, if you do think like that, and I suppose he does——’ He put a piece of grass in his mouth and added, unexpectedly, ‘Or am I only-being a prig?’
‘You could make out anything to be right like that.’
Brian sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you could.’
‘And why should you be fair to him; he wasn’t fair to you.’
‘No, but then I never mind that.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose he minds what you think.’ She leant over and kissed his hand. ‘Darling, that sounds beastly, but you know what I mean.’
‘Of course. And you’re quite right. He doesn’t mind. But that’s no reason for——’ he left it unfinished, and after a little silence said solemnly. ‘Do you know, Dinah, that there are weak unmanly moments in my life—this is a confession, so make a note of it—weak unmanly moments when I tell myself that it is just possible I am not invariably right about everything.’
‘I expect you’re right about that, anyway,’ smiled Dinah.
‘Thank you. In fact, at this moment I am only certain about one thing.’
‘Which is——?’
He held out his hands to her.
‘That I love you, I love you, I love you.’
Dinah felt suddenly that George didn’t really matter very much.
II
Olivia, not quite knowing how, found her way up to her bedroom and collapsed into a chair. It was difficult to get full control of herself. At one moment she would be calm, at the next a sudden remembrance of George’s Heaven-be-thanked face, of Mr. Pim’s bewilderment, of Lady Marden’s mixed reception of the good news, would set her off again. ‘It isn’t funny,
it isn’t funny, it’s very serious,’ she would say to herself, biting her lower lip in a determined effort not to laugh, and then, when that was useless: ‘Anyhow, it isn’t really funny; it’s only like sitting down on your hat.’ But as a relief from tragedy, even from mere drabness, the sight of another sitting on his hat is exquisitely funny, coming with an irresistible force to the subtlest sense of humour.
It was the sight of her face in the glass which turned her thoughts at last to the serious business of life. ‘Oh, my dear, you are plain; no wonder he wanted to get rid of you,’ she murmured, and proceeded to make herself more worth keeping. A powder-puff is a devastating weapon in the hands of a woman. You or I, my dear sir, would powder our noses and merely look foolish. A woman powders her soul. ‘Now I am all right,’ she says, returning the puff, and looks it, and we worship her. ‘Now, I am all wrong,’ we should say with equal conviction, and look it, and be laughed at. For there is no merit in the actual powder. Our masculine noses (to mention them again) get along quite comfortably without it.
Olivia, reassured about herself, went to the window. There was Mr. Pim! She stood against the curtains watching George, the perfect host, speed him from Marden House. ‘Good-bye, Mr. Pim, you will never come into our lives again. But do I thank you for coming into them this once, or don’t I?’
She sat down to think it out. How did she stand with George now? What difference to their relations did the discoveries of this afternoon make?
She knew now the whole truth about him. But was it the whole truth? Is it the whole truth about a man to say that he is a coward, because in one crisis he behaves like a coward? Our life is not made up of crises. For every one of us there is a test too severe; we can only pray that we shall not be called upon to meet it or, meeting it, may fight and lose alone. Most of us are fortunate; we can go on from year to year, hiding the truth about ourselves from our friends; perhaps we are more fortunate still in that the truth about our friends remains hidden from us—if it be the truth. But to some the test comes in the presence of those whom they love the most; their souls are bared to their friends, who turn away, shrinking. Yet is it the real man whom we have seen, or that unworthy substitute who is waiting his chance with all of us?
