CHAPTER 16
I TELL JULIAN_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
Is any man really honourable? I wonder. Hundreds, thousands gotriumphantly through life with that reputation. But how far is this dueto absence of temptation? Life, which is like cricket in so many ways,resembles the game in this also. A batsman makes a century, and, havingmade it, is bowled by a ball which he is utterly unable to play. Whatif that ball had come at the beginning of his innings instead of at theend of it? Men go through life without a stain on their honour. Iwonder if it simply means that they had the luck not to have the goodball bowled to them early in their innings. To take my own case. I hadalways considered myself a man of honour. I had a code that was rigidcompared with that of a large number of men. In theory I should neverhave swerved from it. I was fully prepared to carry out my promise andmarry Margaret, at the expense of my happiness--until I met Eva. Iwould have done anything to avoid injuring Julian, my friend, until Imet Eva. Eva was my temptation, and I fell. Nothing in the worldmattered, so that she was mine. I ought to have had a revulsion offeeling as I walked back to my rooms in Walpole Street. The dance wasover. The music had ceased. The dawn was chill. And at a point midwaybetween Kensington Lane and the Brompton Oratory I had proposed toEversleigh's cousin, his Eva, "true as steel," and had been accepted.
Yet I had no remorse. I did not even try to justify my behaviour toJulian or to Margaret, or--for she must suffer, too--to Mrs.Gunton-Cresswell, who, I knew well, was socially ambitious for herniece.
To all these things I was indifferent. I repeated softly to myself, "Welove each other."
From this state of coma, however, I was aroused by the appearance of mywindow-blind. I saw, in fact, that my room was illuminated. Rememberingthat I had been careful to put out my lamp before I left, I feared, asI opened the hall door, a troublesome encounter with a madhousebreaker. Mad, for no room such as mine could attract a burglar whohas even the slightest pretensions to sanity.
It was not a burglar. It was Julian Eversleigh, and he was lying asleepon my sofa.
There was nothing peculiar in this. I roused him.
"Julian," I said.
"I'm glad you're back," he said, sitting up; "I've some news for you."
"So have I," said I. For I had resolved to tell him what I had done.
"Hear mine first. It's urgent. Miss Margaret Goodwin has been here."
My heart seemed to leap.
"Today?" I cried.
"Yes. I had called to see you, and was waiting a little while on thechance of your coming in when I happened to look out of the window. Agirl was coming down the street, looking at the numbers of the houses.She stopped here. Intuition told me she was Miss Goodwin. While she wasringing the bell I did all I could to increase the shabby squalor ofyour room. She was shown in here, and I introduced myself as yourfriend. We chatted. I drew an agonising picture of your struggle forexistence. You were brave, talented, and unsuccessful. Though you wentoften hungry, you had a plucky smile upon your lips. It was ameritorious bit of work. Miss Goodwin cried a good deal. She ischarming. I was so sorry for her that I laid it on all the thicker."
"Where is she now?"
"Nearing Guernsey. She's gone."
"Gone!" I said. "Without seeing me! I don't understand."
"You don't understand how she loves you, James."
"But she's gone. Gone without a word."
"She has gone because she loved you so. She had intended to stay withthe Gunton-Cresswells. She knows them, it seems. They didn't know shewas coming. She didn't know herself until this morning. She happened tobe walking on the quay at St. Peter's Port. The outward-bound boat wason the point of starting for England. A wave of affection swept overMiss Goodwin. She felt she must see you. Scribbling a note, which shedespatched to her mother, she went aboard. She came straight here.Then, when I had finished with her, when I had lied consistently aboutyou for an hour, she told me she must return. 'I must not see James,'she said. 'You have torn my heart. I should break down.' And she said,speaking, I think, half to herself, 'Your courage is so noble, sodifferent from mine. And I must not impose a needless strain upon it.You shall not see me weep for you.' And then she went away."
Julian's voice broke. He was genuinely affected by his own recital.
For my part, I saw that I had bludgeon work to do. It is childish togrumble at the part Fate forces one to play. Sympathetic or otherwise,one can only enact one's _role_ to the utmost of one's ability.Mine was now essentially unsympathetic, but I was determined that itshould be adequately played.
I went to the fireplace and poked the fire into a blaze. Then, throwingmy hat on the table and lighting a cigarette, I regarded Juliancynically.
"You're a nice sort of person, aren't you?" I said.
"What do you mean?" asked Julian, startled, as I had meant that heshould be, by the question.
I laughed.
"Aren't you just a little transparent, my dear Julian?"
He stared blankly.
I took up a position in front of the fire.
"Disloyalty," I said tolerantly, "where a woman is concerned, is in theeyes of some people almost a negative virtue."
"I don't know what on earth you're talking about."
"Don't you?"
I was sorry for him all the time. In a curiously impersonal way I couldrealise the depths to which I was sinking in putting this insult uponhim. But my better feelings were gagged and bound that night. The onethought uppermost in my mind was that I must tell Julian of Eva, andthat by his story of Margaret he had given me an opening for making myconfession with the minimum of discomfort to myself.
It was pitiful to see the first shaft of my insinuation slowly sinkinto him. I could see by the look in his eyes that he had grasped mymeaning.
"Jimmy," he gasped, "you can't think--are you joking?"
"I am not surprised at your asking that question," I repliedpleasantly. "You know how tolerant I am. But I'm not joking. Not that Iblame you, my dear fellow. Margaret is, or used to be, verygood-looking."
"You seem to be in earnest," he said, in a dazed way.
"My dear fellow," I said; "I have a certain amount of intuition. Youspend an hour here alone with Margaret. She is young, and very pretty.You are placed immediately on terms of intimacy by the fact that youhave, in myself, a subject of mutual interest. That breaks the ice. Youare at cross-purposes, but your main sympathies are identical. Also,you have a strong objective sympathy for Margaret. I think we maypresuppose that this second sympathy is stronger than the first. Itpivots on a woman, not on a man. And on a woman who is present, not ona man who is absent. You see my meaning? At any rate, the solid factremains that she stayed an hour with you, whom she had met for thefirst time today, and did not feel equal to meeting me, whom she hasloved for two years. If you want me to explain myself further, I haveno objection to doing so. I mean that you made love to her."
I watched him narrowly to see how he would take it. The dazedexpression deepened on his face.
"You are apparently sane," he said, very wearily. "You seem to besober."
"I am both," I said.
There was a pause.
"It's no use for me," he began, evidently collecting his thoughts witha strong effort, "to say your charge is preposterous. I don't supposemere denial would convince you. I can only say, instead, that thecharge is too wild to be replied to except in one way, which is this.Employ for a moment your own standard of right and wrong. I know yourlove story, and you know mine. Miss Eversleigh, my cousin, is to mewhat Miss Goodwin is to you--true as steel. My loyalty and myfriendship for you are the same as your loyalty and your friendship forme."
"Well?"
"Well, if I have spent an hour with Miss Goodwin, you have spent morethan an hour with my cousin. What right have you to suspect me morethan I have to suspect you? Judge me by your own standard."
"I do," I said, "and I find myself still suspecting you."
He stared.
&n
bsp; "I don't understand you."
"Perhaps you will when you have heard the piece of news which Imentioned earlier in our conversation that I had for you."
"Well?"
"I proposed to your cousin at the Gunton-Cresswells's dance tonight,and she accepted me."
The news had a surprising effect on Julian. First he blinked. Then hecraned his head forward in the manner of a deaf man listening withdifficulty.
Then he left the room without a word.
He had not been gone two minutes when there were three short, sharptaps at my window.
Julian returned? Impossible. Yet who else couldhave called on me at that hour?
I went to the front door, and opened it.
On the steps stood the Rev. John Hatton. Beside him Sidney Price. And,lurking in the background, Tom Blake of the _Ashlade_ and_Lechton_.
_(End of James Orlebar Cloister's narrative.)_
Sidney Price's Narrative
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 19
