But she was not a fool. She was not likely to believe all that she was told. Her weak point was her faith in her own insight. A carrot of vague ill-health and unhappiness, dangled before her nose, might lead her down strange paths. Should she believe herself to be astutely getting the facts out of a reluctant confidante, she might swallow a good deal.
And she doesn’t like Jews, remembered Ianthe. She’s madly anti-Semitic. And she doesn’t like Emil. Not that I shall say anything against him, not ever, not ever! Oh, Miss Plummer, don’t ask me! I can’t tell you. I couldn’t ever tell anyone. But she’s so awfully clever, she may guess why I had to go away in a hurry in the summer, and why I’ve never been quite well since. And she’ll mill it over in her mind and look for somebody she doesn’t like, to fasten it on to. She shall say it was Emil. And Mr. Thornley won’t be here.
*
A procession was coming into the hall. The band, which had paused in the dance music, caught sight of it and struck up a lively march. All the young people from the theatre were arriving, led by Robin and Lucy. Two and two they came, their hands held high, in the royal manner. Everyone paused and stared. Somebody clapped. The applause was taken up, partly in congratulation to the players, and partly from pleasure at the agreeable sight. Robin led Lucy to the chair in which Lady Frances was sitting. He bowed low; Lucy, in her lovely dress, swept a court curtsey, and they passed on, making way for the next couple. The other guests cheered and clapped. The party flashed into life and gaiety.
Lady Frances was delighted and bowed with a beaming smile to each couple as it passed before her. Her ideas of fun were not highly developed and the dreariness of former Institute parties had not troubled her much, but she did perceive that this one seemed to be unusually nice. She thought: If Matt had been here it would always have been like this. All warmth, all gaiety seemed to have fled from Ravonsbridge, from the world, when Matt died. She toiled on as best she could, trying to carry out his wishes through the desert that life had become without him. But nobody helped her much.
Her eyes followed Lucy, who was now dancing. She greatly admired the dress — such a pretty modest dress, she thought, with a proper neck. She could not bear these vulgar dresses, with no tops, that all the girls seemed to wear nowadays, even nice girls at Hunt Balls. The costliness of the material did not strike her as extravagant; she thought it an economical dress. It would wear for ever and Miss Carmichael need never get another. Lady Frances had a pretty accurate idea of a cottager’s budget, but was extremely ignorant where the middle classes were concerned.
She wished that Matt could have seen this pretty girl. He liked pretty girls. He used to call me a bonny lassie, she thought, though I’m sure I never was, but I liked it. Oh, Matt! Oh, Matt! When will this weary life be over? When shall I get to you again?
“I don’t need to use my eyes very hard,” murmured Tish to Penelope. “I hadn’t realised … I’d always thought her, well — not plain, but quite ordinary. But fancy a girl like that having a dress like that! It’s absurd … and ridiculous to wear it here.”
“If he wasn’t so underhand,” said Penelope, “I shouldn’t think so much of it. If he said he admired her, I mean. But he never mentions her if he can help it. I’ve noticed. He goes out of his way not to say her name, if we’re talking about the Institute. He’s carefully not looking at her now! About the only person who isn’t.”
Tish saw that this was so. Charles had turned his back on the dancers and was talking to Mr. Mildmay.
“You don’t think it’s serious?” she cried.
“I think he’s very badly smitten.”
“Not Charles! He’s so fastidious.”
“Yes, but she is striking, in a way. One sees …”
“Still … he couldn’t want to …”
“I wouldn’t be too sure, Tish. If he’s as badly smitten as I think, there isn’t anything else he could do, is there?”
Tish reflected. They both knew that Charles was no Galahad, though they hoped that their mother did not. But something about Lucy, they knew not what, forbade them to class her with Charles’ other fancies. It was just possible that he might want to marry her.
“I wonder if he knows!” breathed Tish. “I don’t think he can. I’m sure it would put him right off.”
“Knows? What? Is there something against her?”
“Why, yes, there’s something he really ought to know, if he’s in any serious danger of being caught. Not exactly her fault I suppose, but very putting off.”
Tish and Penelope moved into a window embrasure and Lucy’s history was retailed.
“I should have thought it must have been her fault,” exclaimed Penelope. “I mean, a man doesn’t treat a perfectly respectable girl like that.”
Tish was inclined to agree; she had always wondered if Reilly failed to turn up because he had already got what he wanted — a view which had its supporters in Gorling. To both the sisters the story brought Lucy down to the level of those girls whom Charles might think he need not marry. But the possible consequences of telling that to Charles disturbed Tish, who had more experience than Penelope.
“Perhaps it’s as well he doesn’t know,” she murmured.
“But of course he ought to know,” cried Penelope. “You don’t want her for a sister-in-law, do you?”
“No. But if he thought … that he didn’t have to respect her … one might be responsible….”
“She can look after herself, I should think! You’re very anxious to save her from Charles. Don’t you see that it’s a case of saving Charles from her?”
“No,” said Tish, more firmly. “Supposing it wasn’t in the least her fault? I’d rather he married her than run the risk of … of causing evil, and doing damage to an innocent person. We mustn’t say anything, Penelope.”
“You’re as bad as Mamma!”
“I sometimes try to be as good as Mamma.”
Neither sister thought it likely that Lucy would be able to refuse Charles, either as a lover or a husband.
“I oughtn’t to have told you,” said Tish. “Mamma would be furious. She’d say it was gossip. I say! What is Ianthe doing?” She looked round anxiously. “I don’t see her.”
“She was sitting with the Pillies and looking like a tragedy queen.”
“She isn’t now. Oh, I see her! She’s all right. She’s down by the buffet with Miss Plummer.”
*
Lucy danced and danced. She was enjoying herself enormously. Her pink skirts flew out, she smiled at everybody, and was applauded for everything that she said. She would not have danced with Charles at all if she had not paused to speak to Lady Frances. For he, though he knew exactly where she was at any moment, also with whom she was dancing, could not bring himself to the vulgarity of cutting in, and there was no other way of approaching her. But his mother beckoned to her, as she danced past, and detained her for a few minutes to praise the Nativity Play. When she turned away he was at her elbow with his murmured request.
Nobody dared to cut in on Charles. He had Lucy to himself for the greater part of a foxtrot, and she was very soon aware of the fact that she was, in Melissa’s phrase, ‘causing emotion’ — not the light-hearted admiration which had emanated from all her other partners, but that anguished agitation which by Melissa’s creed, and her own, must never be deliberately excited unless it could be returned. To cause avoidable unhappiness was, in their eyes, to behave like a bitch.
The discovery astonished and perplexed her. She wished that somebody would cut in and take her away. Charles said nothing. His face was blank. He held her lightly and steered her adroitly through the crowd. But the emotion which she was causing seemed to flow all over and through her. She could not pretend to herself that she entirely disliked it. If her conscience would have allowed her to do so, she could have enjoyed it very much. She reflected, as she had reflected before on like occasions, that it must be fun to be a bitch. But, since she was not, she must take steps to quench this ardour. She
must not dance with him again, and it would be as well if she put him off a little by romping noisily with Robin. Both Melissa and she were adepts in the art of making themselves a trifle unattractive, if kindness and common sense made that necessary.
When the band stopped they were near the buffet. Charles, who was determined to retain his monopoly, thrust her into a chair beside Miss Plummer and plunged into the crowd by the table to get her some refreshment.
She leaned across Miss Plummer’s massive torso to greet Ianthe, who might by now be supposed to have forgiven the Ophelia fiasco. She received a pale and tearful smile.
“She’s not feeling any too well this evening,” explained Miss Plummer mysteriously. “In a minute or two I’m going to take her home and tuck her up.”
Ianthe murmured a protest and was informed that Bedfordshire was the place for her.
At this moment Charles returned from the fight round the buffet and called to Lucy.
“Miss Carmichael!”
Lucy turned, in affronted astonishment.
“Would you rather have tea or coffee?”
She asked for coffee and he resumed the struggle.
Miss Carmichael! From a man who emanated emotion like a power station. To Lucy’s way of thinking it was fantastic. At Oxford she had been Lucy to everybody; even at Ravonsbridge nobody called her Miss Carmichael except a few old sweets like Mr. Mildmay. It had never occurred to her, after that friendly afternoon at Cyre Abbey, after she had listened so patiently to all his grievances against life, that they were not now Lucy and Charles. Does he have to? she wondered. Would everybody faint if he behaved like an ordinary man? Why should there be this divinity doth hedge a Millwood? Miss Carmichael! Keep your distance, my good girl! Good heavens, what would Melissa say? Can’t keep his feelings to himself and calls me Miss Carmichael. If the gulf between us is all that wide I needn’t worry about his feelings.
She was really very angry. When he brought the coffee she smiled upon him and indicated the chair by her side. She need not, she felt, put him off by romping with Robin. He was not at all in danger of forgetting that she was just one of the Institute girls. She took more pains to amuse and interest him than she had ever before taken, aware that curious eyes were watching them, all over the hall.
There was a flourish from the band and a long cadenza. As the first bars of the Blue Danube pulsed out, Charles whispered: Please! She tossed the last shred of scruple from her, looked him in the eye, and stood up with him. She loved waltzing. She adored the Blue Danube. He was a superb dancer and he had called her Miss Carmichael. Let him look out for himself!
They took the floor and for several minutes danced there quite alone, for the rest of the gathering was unable to do anything save stand and watch them. They were worth watching. Their waltzing was extremely good, and Lucy’s rosy skirts, swinging wide, demanded an exhibition dance. Both were in a reckless mood and this fact was apparent to everybody. Round and round they went, amid a tempest of excitement and speculation. Among all the onlookers, only two watched them calmly. One was Rickie, who merely wondered how it was that he had not yet danced with Lucy himself. The other was Miss Foss, who thought it was part of the entertainment.
The Senior Staff, the Pillies, and all the Millwood tribe thought that Charles had lost his head and that Miss Carmichael was putting herself forward in a regrettable way. The Junior Staff wondered how soon Lucy would be sent packing. Emil Angera rejoiced in so un-English a scene. Owen Rees was disgusted; he had not liked that curtsey, and now he was convinced that Lucy was sucking up to the Millwoods. Ianthe decided that a dramatic exit upon the arm of Miss Plummer must be postponed until a more propitious moment. Miss Plummer hoped that poor damsel was not losing her heart to Mr. Millwood and had understood that a waltz did not mean anything. Robin and all the boys thought it a pity Charles had come to this party. Wendy and all the girls sighed over the magic wrought by tribute silk. Everybody thought that there had never been a Christmas party like this before.
Hayter watched Lady Frances and came to the conclusion that gold medals awaited a man of action. He seized Bess Turner, ignored her cries that she could not waltz, and swung her out upon the floor. They were joined, almost immediately, by Tish, who had plucked Canon Pillie from his chair, and by Penelope with Mr. Mildmay. The Millwood faction rallied from all sides. They might not be able to waltz but, by stumbling about the floor in couples, they could put an end to this ambiguous pas de deux. The swinging rosy skirts vanished in the jostling crowd and the incident was over.
Lady Anne crossed the hall and sat down by her sister. With Ravonsclere bluntness she asked if Charles was in love with that ‘gairl’.
“Penelope thinks so,” said Lady Frances tranquilly. “But I never saw anything of it till just now. It rather looks as if he was.”
“Of course, she’s very pretty.”
“She’s beautiful,” said Lady Frances. “And I don’t think it was her fault that they danced alone in that conspicuous way. The others were stupid and hung back. I think she was quite right to go on; it would have looked foolish to stop. I was a little annoyed … but not with her.”
“You like her?” hazarded Lady Anne.
“I like her very much. Charles isn’t happy or contented, you know. To fall in love and get married might be very good for him.”
“Married?”
“I don’t see why not, if they like each other.”
“But, Fanny … her background isn’t at all the same as his.”
“Not as different as Matt’s and mine were. And anyway,” said Lady Frances, “there is too much background about Charles. What he needs is more foreground.”
Amazed at her own fanciful wit she laughed a little. Lady Anne, who was even more matter-of-fact, could not imagine what she meant, unless it was a reference to those shocking rumours which the family had been so sedulous to keep from her ears. If she had known of them, she would not, surely, have made a joke of it.
The Blue Danube swung to its final chord, releasing Charles and Lucy from an embrace which had become a penance. They were furious with themselves, aware that they had created a sensation, and deeply regretting it. As Lady Frances rose, and gave the signal for Auld Lang Syne which should end the party, they broke asunder with scarcely a civil word. Charles took refuge with the Millwood clan, unable to understand how, after all these circumspect weeks, after remembering to call her Miss Carmichael in the hearing of Miss Plummer, he had so given himself away. And Lucy, buried among the dramatic students, refused to exchange glances with any of them. Such a vulgar, poky, tattling place as this Institute I never did see, she thought, as she crossed hands with Rickie and Alec. They have the minds of imbecile infants. They’ll be writing CHARLES LOVES LUCY on the walls next.
But her conscience told her that it was all her own fault for dancing with him again. How could she have been such a fool? Because she had been so happy, she supposed, as she sawed her arms up and down and yelled about cups of kindness. Because she had forgotten the danger of being in tearing spirits. It was so long since she had been in tearing spirits. So I’ve been through all that, she mourned, all that misery and loneliness, and learnt no sense at all. I thought unhappiness was supposed to make us nobler and wiser. It hasn’t changed me a bit. Not a little bit.
PART V
SECOND SPRING
1
EARLY in the Lent Term Lucy wrote to Owen Rees and asked if they might meet sometime, as she wanted to consult him. Knowing him to be touchy she did not summon him to the Institute, but left to him the choice of time and place. She did expect, however, that he would give a little thought to her convenience, and was surprised when she received a curt summons to meet him at six o’clock on the following afternoon in the New Café Bar, next door to the Odeon. It was a long way for her to go, and he could much more easily have caught a bus from the Works up to the Swan. He said that he was very busy but could give her a few minutes, if it was important. Altogether, the tone of his note
was slightly disagreeable, but she could not believe that this was intentional. They had been such good friends in the autumn. She told herself that he had no knack for writing notes.
She had no sooner met him, however, than she realised that something was amiss. He was quite changed; she hardly recognised the tousled enthusiast in a yellow pullover with whom she had worked so eagerly during those unforgettable weeks. He wore a pin-stripe suit, his hair was oiled and his eyes were hard. For the first time she felt that there was, after all, something a trifle inferior about him.
He bought her a drink and asked how she was and answered her questions about his forthcoming production of Outward Bound, but he never really smiled. She began to wonder why she had assumed that he liked her. She must have done something to offend him, but what it was she would probably never find out, because Owen was one of those people who always baulk at the responsibility and exertion of a show-down. He would take offence and cherish mistrust, but he would never make the effort to state his case in order to clear up a misunderstanding; his grievances must either be nursed in silence or made the text of mere unconstructive abuse.
She thought it better to ignore his ill-humour; he might forget it when he heard what she had to say. But she felt slightly annoyed with him, since she had come, full of good will, to do him a good turn. She sat silent for a few moments, gazing round the garish café, and trying to recapture her self-confidence.
A little brown man came in and stared hard at her as he passed their table. Before going to one of the high stools at the bar he nodded to Rees. His entry seemed to cause some stir; everybody evidently knew him and the group at the bar greeted him noisily. Lucy asked who he was.
Lucy Carmichael Page 23
