And Now Goodbye

by James Hilton

  “Provided you’re happy in what you’re doing…I like that picture over there, don’t you? They picked it up at a sale the other day—they’re always picking things up. That’s why the place is in such a glorious muddle. I don’t believe they ever ‘furnished’, as people say. I imagine they just began with an almost empty room and let things accumulate.”

  “Not a bad way. Better than going to a shop and buying vanloads of standardised stuff all at once.”

  She was leaning against the mantelpiece with her heels on the fender-rail when suddenly she slipped and caused a little clatter of fire-irons. The noise awoke him from the almost trance-like gossip in which he had been taking part; it was as if both of them, more or less unconsciously, had been talking hard to obscure the fact that they were alone in someone else’s studio at half- past one in the morning, and would soon be saying good-bye, never to meet again.

  He looked at his watch. “Really, I ought to go. It’s very late.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is…Oh, you haven’t seen that photograph of Isaac. It’s in their other room—I’ll get it for you.”

  She rushed away and reappeared a few seconds later with a cabinet-sized photograph of a rather fleshy, genial-looking man, obviously a Jew, with a high domed forehead and deep-set eyes that more than made up for coarse features in the lower part of the face. Howat studied it closely and with a certain willingness to be impressed. “Yes, he’s an interesting-looking man,” he said at length.

  She was standing near him, gazing over his arm at the photograph. “He—he’s a musician,” she responded, with a sudden stammer in her voice.

  I know—I can believe ii. He felt a warm spring of sympathy rising in him, and beyond it, a tinge of whimsical envy; the girl, he realised, was fond of this man in a way which it was not given to many men to experience; and he had a vague sensation of desire, of desire to share the rays of such eager, comradely affection. He felt, amidst the flurry of that desire—I wish she were my daughter; and then he thought of his own daughter, cramming away at her text-books, and rejecting all in life that did not assist in her melancholy progress from matriculation to ‘inter’ and from ‘inter’ to ‘final’; he thought, dispassionately: Mary’s a rather unattractive girl, she’ll probably never marry, it’s just as well she is keen on degrees and things. Yet why, be reflected, was there such a tremendous difference, between his own daughter’s ambitions and this girl’s musical career in Vienna, between his daughter’s Latin verbs and the German lessons he had given to Elizabeth Garland? He felt that there was a difference, absolutely and in kind; but why? The answer eluded him, and was lost, anyhow, in a renewal of desire as he laid the photograph on the table and began buttoning his overcoat. Oh, I wish she were my daughter, he kept thinking, and as he saw her clear unswerving eyes still fixed on the photograph, he thought further: There’s something in you that means all that I’ve been meaning, all those ideas I’ve been trying to spread, everything I’ve been groping for in a blind way for years…

  “Well,” he said, smiling at her.

  She moved back to the mantelpiece and stood again with her heels on the fender-rail. “Must you go?” she said, casually.

  “Well…it’s late, isn’t it?”

  “I’m going to make myself some coffee before I go to bed.

  “I think perhaps—”

  “It’s probably too late for you to find a taxi in the streets. There’s a telephone in the other room—I could ring for one when you wanted it.”

  “Well…”

  “Take off your coat for a few minutes. I’ll light the fire. After all, they told me to make myself comfortable, didn’t they?”

  She knelt on the rug to strike a match, and the gas-fire lit with a loud pop. When she rose he saw that her eyes were wet with tears. “I’d—I’d much rather—you didn’t go till—till I’ve made you some coffee,” she said, in a level voice.

  “All right,” he answered cheerfully. He took off his overcoat and almost flung himself into one of the deep armchairs that lay about. “I agree with you,” he added, with a sort of forced nonchalance, “this room does make one feel at home. You’ll have a job to turn me out of it if you’re not careful.” He laughed and she laughed also, and then went out to the little kitchenette that adjoined the studio.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE — SATURDAY MORNING

  He lounged by the fire while she made coffee. A certain outward excitement died down in him, and he began to feel very cosy and tranquil and quietly talkative, so that when she brought the coffee and sat opposite him at the other side of the fire, they both plunged into chatter about the concert and music and other topics as casually as if the time and the place had been utterly normal. He felt, as he sat there, that he would like nothing better than for such a thing to happen after every long day of his life—to talk thus, and drink coffee, with her at the other side of a fire. It was something else in life that he had missed, and was now enjoying with all the more relish because till then he had never even guessed its existence—this pleasant comradely domesticity of two persons sitting up late to talk together after everyone else had gone to bed. A dreamy tenderness enveloped him as he gazed across at her; and gradually, in the midst of that tenderness, there grew in him the thought that she was beautiful. Like the lovely figurehead of a ship, he had imagined formerly, but now he imagined much more—she seemed to him rather like every beautiful thing there ever was or had been in the world—like Brahms, Raphael, William Blake…

  They talked for over half an hour before he said he would have to go. “Really, I must—it’s nearly half-past two, and I don’t believe there’s a night-porter at my hotel. I assure you I don’t want to go a bit—I’m so comfortable here.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, I’m hating the thought of going out into that cold street, but it’s got to be.”

  “I’m hating the thought of you going.”

  “Yes, it’s lonely for you by yourself. You’re not nervous, are you, in a strange place?”

  “No, no…” She seemed all at once filled with regret too intense even to try to conceal. “I’ll go then and ring for a cab for you.”

  She hurried away and he heard her switch on the light in some further room. Left alone, he had a disconcerting vision of Browdley as it would await him on the morrow, of his prim and comfortless study, of the routine of weeks and months and years reaching into the future, of being an old man some day. Such thoughts induced him in a gloom which was all the harder to endure after his previous serenity—come now, he thought, as she returned, let’s say good-bye and get it over quickly. “I think I’d better go down and wait in the street,” he said, “the man will never find his way through that narrow entry. No, you mustn’t come with me, it’s far too cold. Don’t bother to come down even—I’ll let myself out. Thanks for the coffee. And remember what I said—if there’s ever any way I can help you, write and tell me…The very best of luck…Good-bye, Elizabeth…Goodbye, my—my dear girl…” He did not look at her while he was speaking—come on, come on, he urged himself, don’t linger and make it all more difficult…

  Those few words; that quick handshake; and he was down the stairs, feeling for the door-catch. In another moment the door closed behind him and he stood shivering in the night air. He felt chilled and numb, with a little pinpoint of misery somewhere inside him that was expanding with every second. The world hung still and silent; it would take a minute or two, no doubt, for the cab to arrive. He paced up and down a short stretch of pavement, trying not to think, not even to feel.

  Then, in the darkness of the yard whence he had come, a patch of light shone suddenly; he stared round, and saw her standing at the doorway. Never had his whole being swung into keener ecstasy than at such a reprieve—a few pitiful seconds snatched from an eternity ahead. He went back, trying to seem rather offhand and casual. “You shouldn’t,” he began, but he could hardly control his voice, “you shouldn’t have bothered to come down. It’s too co
ld for you to stand here. Do please go back. The cab will be up in a minute—there’s really no need—”

  “Come here,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve. Dimly he wondered, and when she drew him into the little lobby at the foot of the stairs, the wondering grew to a tingling excitement. “That cab,” he stammered, “I must keep a lookout for that cab…

  “It won’t come…Howat, I never rang for it…I couldn’t—I found I couldn’t…Are you very angry with me?”

  The world dizzied about him, and he took her closely into his arms with all his senses brimming over. He did not and could not speak, but he knew bewilderedly that he had wanted her like that. After a moment, and without a word between them, they climbed the stairs and stood again in that warm, companionable room; it seemed full of welcome now. He took her to him again and the sweetness of her body streamed into his, and made him feel like a youth about to conquer the world. She clung to him with that strange, simple intentness that was in the way she talked and looked; he still could not think of any words, but she said to him, in a calm whisper: “I do love you so much, Howat. I can’t help it. It began all the time you were giving me those lessons—all the time you weren’t taking any notice of me. Of course it was absurd—that’s what I told myself then—but now it doesn’t seem absurd any more. It’s everything else that seems absurd now.”

  “Yes, yes—I know.” His mind was tremulously aflame at her confession, but especially at her mention of those earlier meetings; somehow the realisation that her love had come spontaneously and long before his, lifted him to a supreme pinnacle of rapture. “My dearest child…” he began, and meant to say such infinities of things, but found he could not progress beyond those few words. They drew away from each other then, and she went on talking in abrupt but still calm sentences. “Howat, I couldn’t help it. I. tried, but it was no use. And I’m glad now that this has happened—yes, I’m glad, even if you aren’t.”

  “But I’m glad too.”

  “Are you? You don’t think you’ll begin to hate me as soon as you get back to Browdley?”

  He said then, only just audibly: “Impossible to do that—impossible…And as for Browdley—”

  She watched him in gentle silence, and he saw the future dissolving into new backgrounds of such impossibilities. He felt as if he were sitting in the stalls of a theatre, seeing the curtain rise on the strangest and newest of plays, the play of the life which he himself had yet to live. He returned her gaze incredulously, and the thought came to him: Every day and night for so many years I have praised God with my lips, but now for the first time I praise Him with all my heart. He sank into a chair, silenced with thankfulness, and she came to him then; she sat on the arm of the chair and drew his head against her small firm bosom. “How tired you must be, Howat,” she whispered. That enchantment of her bodily nearness soothed him; he did feel tired, but somehow eager as well, and he knew that he could rest, because she understood utterly both his eagerness and his tiredness. He closed his eyes and visions crowded on him—of music and painting and poetry and all the beauty of line and contour; a hundred sensuous images took meaning, while tunes raced through his mind with sharp unlooked-for harmonies; the whole world seemed on fire about him, while he, at its centre, found peace on the breast of this girl. “I can’t go back,” he stammered, huskily. “I can’t…Do you realise that? Do you realise what you’ve done?”

  “If I’ve done to you what you’ve done to me, then I’m glad.”

  “But I can’t go back now! Do you realise that?”

  “To your hotel? Well, it doesn’t matter. You can stay here. We can talk. I’m not sleepy.”

  “It’s—it’s more than that I mean. Much more. I’m thinking of Browdley…Oh, Elizabeth, I wish I’d known you years and years ago!”

  “Before I was born, that would have been!”

  “Yes, I know. It’s monstrous, I admit—a child like you and a man of my age. With a wife—children—and—and a chapel! My God, a chapel—think of that! Tell me, how much does all this mean to you? How long will it last? I want to know—is it just a fancy—the sort of thing you feel in the mood for after Brahms? How much exactly does it mean?”

  She touched his forehead and then his hair with ’her fingertips. “Everything, Howat. There’s only one thought in my mind, and that’s how much I could be to you if you wanted me. Howat, I’m not afraid.”

  “You’re not afraid!” He drew her to him exultantly and kissed her in the flush of splendour that her words had evoked. “Elizabeth, do you mean that-absolutely? You strange girl—you’re so cool and calm all the time, and it’s all so marvellous—the most marvellous thing that’s ever happened to me. Do you think I could dare to let it go now?”

  “Not if you feel certain that it’s everything. I’m certain, in my own case, because I’ve never felt anything like it before. That makes it so simple. But you, of course—”

  “And do you think I ever have, either?”

  She gave him a single fearless glance that made him certain that there was nothing in his life beyond her instant comprehension. “Haven’t you?” she said softly, and he shook his head, knowing that she would understand how true it was. Never before had there been in him this curious ache that made him feel almost raw with tenderness at the sight of her fingers stretched out on the arm of the chair or the delicate curving of her nostril or the little side-tooth that wasn’t quite in line with the others. He said, abruptly: “You were right when you said I’ve not been happy. I’ve had some bad times. Did you ever hear about my two boys? One died when he was twelve—he would have been clever, I think, especially at music. The other, the elder, wasn’t so clever, but he was a dear fellow—a bit wild at times, but there was no harm in him—oh, no real harm at all. He didn’t like Browdley, and he was rather bored at home—we got him a job in a bank, but he wouldn’t stay—he went off to Canada then—I haven’t had any letter for three years. Perhaps I’ll see him again sometime.”

  “You were very fond of him?”

  “Yes.” He added, fiercely: “He went off because he couldn’t stand it. The routine of the bank, and then the routine of home life—the chapel services and everything else—I can see now, I ought to have taken his part more than I did. He told me, before he left, that he couldn’t stand it. And I can’t stand it now, either. The very thought of it turns me cold—to leave you and go back to that life—my God, I can’t do it, Elizabeth. Do you think I ought to?”

  “Do you think I want you to?”

  “But ought I—ought I?”

  “I don’t think I’m ever sure what other people ought to do, Howat.”

  “That being more in my line of business, eh?” He laughed sharply. “It used to be, but it isn’t any more. I’ve found myself out. I see my chance now, just as you see yours. I want to take it—oh, I want to take it so much—”

  “And I want everything that you want—everything you could possibly want.”

  “I want you—I want—oh, my darling, we’ve only our two lives and they belong to us more than to any other person—shall we run for those lives of ours?”

  “I know what you mean, Howat. I feel it, too—I feel it just like that—it’s curious and rather dreadful, yet it makes me very happy.” She stooped and laid her cheek against his. “I’ve thought of it all, as well as you—probably long before you did, really even to working out details. During dinner while we were talking I kept thinking of it all, though it seemed such absolute nonsense then.” She smiled and went on softly: “I was imagining the two of us in Vienna together. Some big comfortable room with a piano in it, where you could compose when you felt in the mood, and I could fiddle away. And again later on, while I was making the coffee, I thought of it—a room perhaps something like this, though with a real fire for preference, and all kinds of interesting people dropping in at odd times to see us, and then afterwards, when they’d gone, being by ourselves—and drinking coffee—and talking—oh, plenty of talk—there’d always be tha
t, wouldn’t there? Howat, I can see it just exactly as it ought to be—why couldn’t it all happen to us?”

  He turned to her with a look of worship; he too was entranced by the imagined picture of that room, and as for the music he would compose, it was in his cars already. “It shall happen,” he whispered, and there stole over him again that divine tenderness for her, making him aware, even had he not earlier guessed it, that there was still something more; it was not enough to have found the meaning of love, since on the very crest of discovery a further peak swung into view.

  He kissed her and whispered again, with this new certainty of desire: “It shall happen,” and felt her tears warm and then cool upon his face.

  Later he began to tell her about his early life at Kimbourne…

  It was early in the century when he had first arrived there. He was sixteen then, a tall thin youth wearing a grammar-school cap of exuberant hues that aroused the liveliest conjectures in the little Kentish village. His father, after losing money in rash speculation, had been killed in the South African War, and his mother had survived her husband by barely a year, having tried vainly in the meantime to retrieve the family fortunes by running a seaside boarding-house. The lawyer who wound up the estate had not known quite what to do with Howat; he thought him a nice-looking and decently-educated youth, but rather young to be flung into the world entirely on his own; clearly it would be a good thing if he could be got into a family for a few years; he would probably earn his keep, at least, as soon as he was put to work. It so happened that about that time the lawyer was visiting a client of his, a Mr. Coverdale, who was noted as a very religious and philanthropic person; he mentioned Howat’s case, and Coverdale suggested that the boy should come along to Kimbourne, at any rate for a short holiday.

  Howat walked from the station on a blazing June afternoon. Coverdale’s house was about a mile out of the village a pleasant detached property with verandahs and low windows and a big garden full of flowers; the path from the garden gate to the porch was through an avenue of tall hollyhocks. Howat was hot from the walk, and he was also very shy. The house seemed grand to him after the miserable boarding-house basement, and he felt shyer than ever when a rather plump and cheerful-looking woman introduced herself as Mrs. Coverdale and asked him if he had had tea. He said no, and she took him into a room which, to his rather faltering eyes at that first sight of it, seemed entirely full of girls.