The Matchmaker

by Stella Gibbons

  At that moment he came into the room, carrying a brilliant lamp whose light shone upon his freshly brushed chestnut head. She turned her back upon him, and unnecessarily rearranged Jenny’s dress.

  After him came Emilio, also carrying a lamp and with eyes eagerly roving over the supper-table, which at present bore nothing but a white cloth, the farmhouse’s muster of second-best cutlery and crockery, and the large Harvest Cake, baked and iced by Mrs. Hoadley, and adorned with a miniature sheaf of real wheat tied with blue ribbon, and the words HAPPY HARVEST. (An anthropologist, surveying it, might have marvelled at the distance travelled from the rites of the Spring Queen and the Corn King, but behind Mrs. Hoadley’s cake the spirit of the latter still dwelt serene.)

  Emilio set his lamp down at one end of the table; Fabrio set his down at the other, and they surveyed the scene with smiles (even Fabrio smiled at that moment) of anticipation. Enter the two elderly men, bent beneath the weight of a small barrel of cider, which they arranged upon a bench near the door. They were followed by Mr. Hoadley, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with the solid portions of the supper; three cold chickens and a jellied rabbit pie in the largest earthenware dish, a salad of lettuces and tomatoes grown in the farm’s kitchen garden, and a vast smoking pot of potatoes. His arrival was welcomed with cries of admiration. Behind him came Mary Parkes bearing a tray with an enormous brown teapot.

  “In case the ladies didn’t fancy cider,” explained Mrs. Hoadley, who brought up the rear, still dressed in her blue smock and now bursting out into little blue bows on either side of her head. “Now are we all here?” She anxiously counted heads, waving her finger up and down as she recited names under her breath, while Fabrio’s heart beat painfully. Oh, would his place be next to Sylvia?

  “No!” exclaimed Mrs. Hoadley. “Mr. Waite! Mr. Waite isn’t here. Now I told him supper was at eight o’clock sharp. It’s too bad of him.”

  “Well, we can’t wait for Mr. Waite,” declared Mr. Hoadley, and amidst the laughter which followed they all took their places; the women arranging their scanty flowered skirts and the men climbing awkwardly in between trestle and bench. The soft brilliant light of the lamps shone becomingly upon reddened lips and hair brightened by the sun, upon white teeth and laughing eyes and the jars filled with second bloomings of roses and fresh moon-daisies; it coloured the walls with gold and gave warmth to the lined grey countenances of the hired men and the little face of Meg, already pale with drowsiness, while in the vista seen through the open door, where strengthening moonlight poured down through the still air, it gave deeper blue to the twilight.

  Fabrio was in despair. She had turned her back on him—she was going as far away from him as she could—right down to the very end of the table among all those children—she would not look at him——

  He started towards her with an imploring gesture; it seemed to him afterwards that he had cried out her name—but it was all useless—she was sitting down between the tallest child and the bambina—she had chosen her place for the Harvest Supper, and it was not by his side.

  His head drooped and his hands fell hopelessly. He stepped into the place which Mary Parkes was offering him and for some minutes stared dully at the table without speaking. The white cloth shimmered through a rainbow. Presently Fabrio blew his nose upon a far from spotless khaki handkerchief.

  “Dear, will you ask a blessing,” Mrs. Hoadley was requesting, having put on a special face and voice, and Mr. Hoadley stood up, rather embarrassed by the occasion as he had been for the last ten years, and said—while the countenances of those seated about the table became “recollected,” as if each had received a picture of the sheaves standing in the moonlit fields—“For what we are about to receive, may God make us truly thankful.”

  Everyone except Fabrio muttered Amen (God and Our Lady had deserted him; why should he thank them?) and Mrs. Hoadley began dishing out pie with a rapid, experienced touch, resignedly loading a single plate with more food than she herself could have eaten at three meals.

  When they had been eating for about ten minutes, a step sounded outside in the yard and everyone rightly assumed it to be Mr. Waite’s; what was unusual was the quick cheerful whistle accompanying it. In he came, his manner brisker than anyone had seen it for weeks, and sat himself down with apologies for his lateness next to Mrs. Hoadley. As he did so he glanced at Alda, a good-naturedly derisive glance that said plainly: “Ah-ha! Guess!” and she spent some minutes wondering what he meant and why he was so spry this evening.

  We must now go back some hours, and find out.

  29

  ON FINISHING HIS harvesting he had, as we know, walked slowly back to Meadow Cottage, promising himself a cup of tea and a glance over the local paper before starting on his evening duties. He went in by the back way and as he stepped into the kitchen he sniffed. Old Miss Dodder must have brought in a bunch of honeysuckle. But no; that scent never came from real flowers. Someone must be in the house, and, like the Big Bear, Mr. Waite knew who it was. He stalked down the passage and opened the parlour door and sure enough there sat Jean.

  She stood up at once, smiling and seeming not in the least nervous.

  “Hullo, Phil. I’m sorry if you’re annoyed with me for coming, but I had something to ask you and I did so want to see you again.” And she held out her hands. When he took them in his (partly because they looked so pretty, with their whiteness and their jingling silver sillinesses, and partly because he was so confused that he did not know quite what to do) she reached up as calmly as possible and kissed him. Then there was a pause.

  “I expect you’d like some tea. I’ll get it,” he said gruffly.

  “I’d love some. I’m parched. I’ll come and help you,” she answered.

  He wanted to say sarcastically, “My kitchen isn’t fit to receive you, in that coat,” but the words would not come out, because he was pleased to see her.

  “And I can talk to you while we’re making it,” she continued, following him out to the kitchen, and again he noticed how completely at ease she was. She ought not to be. She had behaved disgracefully. Yet he too felt at ease and he could not be angry with her. He ought to be, but he could not. And what had she got to say to him?

  When the kettle had been put on the stove, Jean sat on the table. He silently placed a newspaper beside her and indicated that it would protect her coat and she absently re-seated herself on it. Then she looked at him. With his dark patient face a little lowered, he looked back at her. He was thinner; there were shadows under his eyes; his firm mouth had a new, slight expression of pain. Suddenly her eyes filled and she glanced away. She had hurt him—it did not matter how—in his pride or his ambition or his love—she had hurt him very much.

  “Oh Phil!” she burst out, “I am so sorry I was so beastly to you! I came down here to ask you if you would let me be engaged to you again, only I was going to ask if I might have a holiday by myself in Europe first, and if you would let me try to make you a Christian, but now I’ve seen you I’m so very fond of you, dear, kind—I’m so sorry——” and the tears came, and soon she was sobbing and mopping and incoherently protesting her remorse.

  Slowly, but without awkwardness, he put his arm round her. He did not pat her, or say anything. Even when the kettle boiled all over the gas and the kitchen became filled with a most alarming smell, he did not move. He did give one glance at the stove, for this was precisely the kind of disaster which fussed him most, but he did not move, and in a minute Jean said more quietly:

  “Put it out, dear, or we shall be blown up.”

  He did so, and made the tea and arranged it on a tray with his accustomed neatness, and they returned to the parlour. All this time he had not spoken, but suddenly he said:

  “What about—that chap?”

  He meant Mr. Potter, whose name he knew perfectly well; he merely refused to utter it.

  “I don’t love him any more. I never did really love him. I just liked kissing him. Phil!” urgently, as his expres
sion changed, “if we are going to be husband and wife I’ve got to be able to say things like that to you and you must not be shocked. You must know what I’m really like, and I must know what you’re like, too. Haven’t you ever enjoyed kissing someone without liking them as a person?”

  He made an effort to meet all this as she wanted him to; she could see him trying, and presently he admitted that there had, once, been someone, in Daleham, when he was about twenty, like that.

  “Well, then, can’t you understand how I felt?”

  “In a way, but one doesn’t expect a lady——”

  “I know, Phil. But I was romantic about him, too. I idealised him——”

  Mr. Waite thought that she meant “idolised,” and this error took some time to get straight, but the time was not wasted because she was able to describe the luxurious, boring, wasteful life of Mr. Potter and his set so vividly that Mr. Waite’s hurt pride was soothed. Behind his own materialistic view of life and his longing for money and comfort, there lingered a tradition from hard-working, thrifty provincial ancestors with a serious outlook, and he understood how, though he did not fully understand why, Jean had become satiated with the life of pleasure. He shrank with real horror from extravagance, and to himself he used very blunt words about those lady friends of Mr. Potter’s who spent a morning in drinking, and an afternoon in hunting down a lipstick.

  While she was talking, he studied her. She was sleeker than when he had seen her last, having put on a little weight, and her clothes were even more expensive. But still they were not so smart as to frighten a provincial who was also a quiet man; still they were becoming, and softer than fashion decreed, and as he watched her, tenderness grew in his heart. She had rather queer ideas for a lady, but he would try to understand what she meant. After all, he owed her something. If she had gone off with that chap Potter, he had asked her to marry him without really loving her. But now he felt quite different about her. As he sat there, watching her and patiently trying not to be shocked by what she said, warmth and joy and other unfamiliar emotions softly invaded Mr. Waite’s poor gloomy heart. With any luck, he thought, we shall be happy together for years and years. Happy. I’ve almost forgotten what that feels like. The last time that he had been truly, carelessly happy had been in Cambridge that week before his father’s business had failed. Since that day, his life had been one long suppression of all the softer feelings; one long, dour refusal to laugh or approve or join in.

  She was saying:

  “I’m a Christian. I believe all of it, with all my heart. You won’t mind, will you?”

  Habit dies hard, and again Mr. Waite was tempted to be shocked.

  “Mind? Why should I? Of course not. We’re all on the Same Road, if it comes to that, and all the Great Teachers——”

  “And you won’t mind if I go to church?” she interrupted.

  “Of course not, Jean. I’m not a heathen. I’ll come too, if you want me to.” He got up from his chair and began to put the cups on the tray, for his feelings were so agitating that he automatically tried to calm them by this ordinary task.

  “I came down here so pleased with myself,” she confessed, beginning on the cups in her turn. “I wasn’t a bit nervous. I was sure you’d have me back, and I’d got it all planned. Then when I saw you looking so—I felt quite different, Phil. You’re sure you really do want me?”

  “I do now, Jean. Since you believe in speaking right out,” with an awkward little laugh, “at first I wanted your money. Oh, I liked you all right,” he added hastily (it did sound shocking, said out loud like that!). “What I mean is, I thought about the money too.”

  “That doesn’t matter, so long as we both know it. I—well, I wanted a husband more than I wanted you. But now,” she moved nearer to him and took his hand and looked up into his face, “we feel all right about each other, don’t we?”

  Mr. Waite pressed the cool hand with its jingling bracelets hard within his own, but he only said severely:

  “And how about that other chap? How’s he feeling this evening?”

  “He doesn’t know yet,” she confessed. “I left a note for him at the hotel. I don’t think he’ll really mind. He’d realised I wasn’t his dish, I think, some weeks ago. He’ll probably marry one of his hags.”

  “Was he after your money, too?”

  “Not altogether, Phil. He——”

  But she checked herself, and suggested they should take out the cups and wash them. She had been going to say that Mr. Potter had truly enjoyed kissing her but she thought it wiser not to tax her new betrothed’s sensibilities too heavily. So they washed up the cups in companionable silence; Mr. Waite refraining from saying that that chap had been badly treated, and Jean refraining from explanations. She also refrained from mentioning again her proposed holiday in Europe, for now it seemed to her that she had been lonely for a long time, and that masterpieces in paint and stone, viewed in loneliness still, were not what she wanted.

  She learned that he had made acceptable excuses for her to his mother and sisters, and that her flighty behaviour had been successfully concealed from them. They were still collecting teaspoons and embroidering table runners in Daleham, and ready to receive her whenever she could come. Everything had been made much easier for her than she deserved, and she felt humbled.

  After they had made their plans, they were surprised to find that it was seven o’clock, and Jean said that she must go back to town. She declined without a second’s hestitation his suggestion that she should attend the Harvest Supper and he did not press the matter. Alda’s part in their affairs had not been mentioned. Mr. Waite had mixed feelings about her which he did not care to investigate, and Jean was only aware of one strong wish: not to be exposed to the teasing, autocratic gaze of her friend’s lovely eyes. She had taken Alda’s advice for fifteen years, and it had led her into the arms of Mr. Potter and almost into the unrelaxing clutches of Pleasure. Now she would follow her own reason and her own feelings. Dim and unexciting as their counsel might seem to Alda, they were responsible for the calm contentment of the present hour, and their promises for the future were hopeful. There was a strong satisfaction in managing her own affairs, and she did not want to meet Alda until she was certain that her new confidence in herself would endure.

  Mr. Waite drove her to the station and remained with her, discussing plans, until the train came in, and then stood waving until he could distinguish no more than a white speck receding swiftly into the distance. Then he hurried out to his car and drove fast towards Naylor’s. It was almost eight now, and he did not want to be asked a lot of questions.

  He was soberly content as he drove on through the evening light. There were many legal and financial points to be decided and the next weeks would be exceedingly busy, but his attitude towards his betrothed had altered so much that his chief feeling now was joy at having her back again: the practical details were set aside. He hastily assembled the repulsive ingredients of the battery birds’ supper and served them before hurrying off to his own, and as he went, he rejoiced maliciously in the defeat of Mrs. Lucie-Browne. It would be amusing (Mr. Waite relished the word, an unfamiliar one in his vocabulary) to meet her this evening, completely ignorant of what had occurred and thinking of Jean as still engaged to that chap. It would make her look a bit of a fool, thought Mr. Waite, and serve her right. She had meddled too much.

  As Jean travelled towards London, her mood was as quietly content as his own. She had lately been endeavouring to practise one of the tenets of the Christian Faith, and avoid fussing about the future. She repeated to herself Sufficient unto the day—and Consider the lilies of the field—and found both sayings increasingly comforting. Her nature had always been placid; she was a spectator, an observer, rather than a doer, and she found herself able to avoid fuss without much effort. She hoped that poor Phil, who was always on the boil, might be encouraged by her example to lower the gas and relax.

  Therefore, following her principles, she had broken h
er engagement to Mr. Potter as easily as she snapped a thread of sewing silk. Her note to him was not the result of much careful thought; she had merely written down exactly what she felt, sealed it, and given it to a page boy to deliver.

  Dear Oliver,

  I don’t want to be engaged to you any more as we haven’t any interests in common. Thanks awfully for giving me such a good time. I enjoyed it very much. I am sorry if your feelings are hurt. I thought I loved you but I don’t. All the best and good luck.

  Yours ever,

  J.

  And poor Mr. Potter, who never wrote or said or even thought exactly what he felt, was simply knocked out by it, like the pilot of an enormously complicated aeroplane suddenly blinded by a speck of dust. He just could not believe it. He swelled with mingled fury and suspicion. What was her game? What did she want? He read the note five or six times; he turned it inside out looking for postscripts; he almost smelled it in his passion to read into it some complicated and sinister meaning. The page boy left him sitting in an overstuffed chair with a tiny icy drink before him, reading and re-reading this outrageous little letter, and went away bawling for other, happier gentlemen, and still Mr. Potter sat on. Never in all his easy authoritative life had such a thing befallen him.

  We hope that some readers are not licking their lips in anticipation of a blazing row between Jean and Mr. Potter staged in the Savoy Grill, for we have to disappoint them. We will so far concede to their morbid expectations as to admit that both wore evening dress—rows are so much more satisfying when the antagonists are en grande tenue—but they did not meet. Jean had just finished changing her clothes when a telephone call was put through to her room. She removed the receiver, and listened long enough to assure herself that it was his own mellow voice demanding what was the matter with her and appealing for fair play; then she replaced it, caught up her evening coat and rushed out of the Savoy by another entrance. A fleeting notion that it was her duty to stay engaged to Mr. Potter in order to save his soul she instantly dismissed as morbid.