'Father Mortimer - and you. There now! Of course I know you're very young, Eleanor, and naturally they were a little surprised, because of course it is a great honour, but then I always say that the more you expect, the more you get out of people. You have shown in a very practical way your interest in the company. My fellow directors agree with me that at least your appointment will hurt no one. And it would be a wonderful experience for you.'
'Oh, thank you,' stammered Eleanor. 'Thank you very much. But you know - I - I'm afraid it wouldn't do - it wouldn't do at all.'
'Now, now. Don't be so modest.' It was tiresome of the girl to take it like this. Caroline was too tired to contend with doubts and difficulties. 'Don't put difficulties in the way, dear.'
'But I'm afraid, you know - it isn't possible. I - I'd much rather begin at the beginning in a firm like Perrin's - I'm only just starting to learn what the business involves. Besides . . .' As though seeking comfort in her perplexity, the girl lifted the lapel of her coat and pressed her face against the pink roses.
A sudden intuition illuminated Caroline's mind.
'Is it because of Father Mortimer?' she asked. Good heavens! Why had she not thought of that before? The girl was probably in love with him. That would explain a dozen little things that had happened recently. It was quite natural. What girl could avoid falling in love with so brilliant and charming a young man? Poor Eleanor! That would account for her oddness lately.
'Whatever do you mean?' asked Eleanor, but the tell-tale flush leapt again to her cheeks.
'You perhaps feel some difficulty about going on the same Board as him? Of course - I quite understand, but I think-'
'He's told you then?' It was Eleanor's turn to look astonished.
'Well.' He had told Caroline nothing, but he was her Friend. There were no secrets between them. Whatever remained to be told was in effect told already. 'Well, dear, I didn't know if you'd like me to mention it. But as you have done, of course, you know, I think I can say that we are great friends — almost like mother and son, and yet he is my father in God.'
'Oh, he's told you. Well - I'm rather glad really. But you see, don't you, why I want to get away if possible? I think that perhaps it's better for us not to meet - for a little, anyway. He'll get over it. He'll forget.'
So the girl had declared her love. How like these modern young women. Eleanor, for all her outward shyness, had strange moods of self-assurance.
'Oil, yes,' said Caroline. 'He'll forget. I don't think you need be embarrassed.'
'I shouldn't mind if it were only that. You see - so far as I'm concerned, I'd like to go on seeing him. I'd be a liar if I pretended that I didn't like him to send me flowers and write to me and everything.'
'Did he send you those roses?' asked Caroline quietly. Roses like that cost over a shilling each just then. 'He only gave me tulips,' she remembered.
'Oh, yes. I know I ought to stop him. I will too. Only — it's so much more difficult than I thought. I can't bear to hurt him. If he were a different sort of person. You know I'd always thought that nothing was easier than to get rid of a man you didn't want. All you have to do is to say "No" and go away. But this - well, he's different, isn't he?'
What was she saying? 'A man you didn't want?' Was she trying to imply that he wanted her and that she would not have him? Was it that way round? Caroline began to tremble. 'Has he asked you to marry him?'
'No. That's just it. He keeps on saying he won't ask me, because it isn't fair. And, of course, it isn't possible. I couldn't marry a clergyman. But I never thought, I never dreamed, that I should want to. It's like a sort of nightmare. Of all people in the world to love - an Anglican curate -me. It's comic. It's grotesque. When I've always found clergymen a little ridiculous. When I'm an agnostic, and dislike the Church and think it does more harm than good. And then to find Roger.'
What did she mean? What did she mean? She was staring at the black, unlit coals in the grate, and talking jerkily and shyly, as though she were arguing against herself, as though it were Father Mortimer who had fallen in love with her, and she who had rejected him. And yet -
'Do you love him?' asked Caroline.
'Love? Yes. I suppose I do. Though I find it harder than some people seem to do, to say straight out like that, "I love him." But I do love him. He is nicer than I had ever thought any man in the world could be - even nicer than Father. There's a kind of irony and humour about him that saves him from priggishness. There's something — something keen and fine about him. I suppose - you can't help loving someone like that?'
'Then what's the difficulty? It seems to me that you're taking a good deal for granted if you suppose he loves you when he hasn't asked you to marry him.'
'Oh - but of course - if he's told you - you know all about it. You see - that night of the accident at Hugh's laboratory - he told me then for the first time. I was so astonished I hardly knew what to say. Then next day he managed somehow to order for me some amazing carnations — a great box of them - with an apology for having bothered me. And you know - when anyone does that as beautifully as that, you can't just be indifferent. I went to see him. I've been to see him almost every day in the hospital. And we've talked and talked. He's almost incredibly nice. But, of course, it's all impossible.'
'What do you mean? Why do you go on saying, "It's impossible"?'
'Well, of course it is. How can I marry him? I know he says he'd be willing for me to keep my own name and do my own work and just come and stay with him whenever it was possible, and that he believes in divorce and birth control in spite of the present teaching of the Church, because the Church shouldn't pretend to be inspired on matters of social convenience. But that wouldn't do us any good, you know. I haven't somehow allowed for marriage in my life. I've never wanted it at all until I met him. I want to do things -to make things. I want to organize people. I'd like to organize a business like Perrin's, manufacturing cinema apparatus - and then use that knowledge of business in politics. There's so much I want to do and that I feel I can do. I can't just go and marry a curate.'
'I see.' Caroline felt quite cold now and very calm. 'He declares his love for you and you say you love him, but you are willing to sacrifice him and your love for your own selfish career.'
'You can put it like that, I suppose. But that's not really quite true. I do love him. I want to be with him. I should love to help him and look after him and - and have children by him, too, I think. He's so straight and keen and muscular. He'd have lovely children.'
'Eleanor!'
'Well - he would. I'm sure. They'd be darlings. He'd make a darling husband. But that isn't everything. There are all the other things. How could I make a slum curate's; wife when the Franciscan ideal isn't my ideal at all? I want to change slums and poverty and maternal mortality and all that as much as he does. But I want to do it through power and rationalization and political control. I can't pray - I don't believe in prayer. I don't want to run girls' clubs. I want to organize a constitutional and rationalized revolution. You ought to understand, Cousin Caroline. You've always been a reformer. You ought to know that there are passions as strong and more lasting than individual love. There are. At least - for my sort of woman there are.'
'I understand,' said Caroline trembling, 'that your sort of woman can be completely selfish. I've always been a pioneer and struggler. But if I could serve Father Mortimer in any way, I'd give up to-morrow any of my own schemes. I've always wanted to help and enrich the people I love, and so I believe would all real Christians. And I always understood that love had some sort of connection with self-sacrifice, but probably I'm wrong and you're right. Only I think I'm getting too old to take in all these new ideas. You must go your own way. I can't help you.'
Caroline spoke bitterly. Her heart was bitter. She was angry and sad and tired. She got up from her chair and began to pile up the tea-things.
'Oh, let me do that,' cried Eleanor.
Very well. Why shouldn't she? She was young and stro
ng and selfish. Let her work. She has everything, thought Caroline. Youth and hope and ambition and love - and love. Father Mortimer's love. And she did not want that. It was only an interruption to her. Caroline had nothing but the privilege of old age, to sit back in her rocking chair and let Eleanor wash up.
So he's been in love with Eleanor from the beginning and he's never told me, she thought. That was the lovely thing she had given him. He probably thought her a terrible old bore. Their friendship was all one-sided. He was young. He turned to youth. Why should she toil and work for him? He did not want to be enriched by her. He wanted Eleanor. There was no room for her in his heart, there was only room for Eleanor. Caroline might build dream houses for him at Westminster or Holland Park. She might furnish cottages in Kent and halls in Essex. But he would never come. He did not want to come. He did not need her.
Now she must face reality. The Christian Cinema Company was breaking under her hands. Her directors, one by one, were leaving. Her work was gone.
Her dreams were going. Father Mortimer had no need of her. He only wanted Eleanor, who did not care.
Everything was slipping away from her, because she was growing old. Her time was passing.
'Those cups don't go in there,' she snapped. 'And you might put the cake properly in the tin.'
'Sony, Cousin Caroline,' said Eleanor humbly.
§3
The April evening lay green and tender across North Kensington. The long rows of pillars below the porches hung like stalactites in a submarine cave, and the people moving along the empty Sunday street glided quietly as fishes under water. Caroline hurried anxiously along the glistening pavements. It had been raining, and the streets were wet, although the sky now opened bland and clear beyond the spire of St. Cecilia's Church.
If she hurried, she would be just in time. Of course, it had been silly to come by bus. Buses always took longer than she expected. If she had gone by underground to Netting Hill and then walked, she might have been quicker. But even then, she was not sure. She did not want to be late, because she disliked people who came in after the service had begun and then insisted on clattering all the way up the aisle. Yet, if she sat at the back of the church, she would not be able to see Father Mortimer.
She had rung him up and arranged to meet him after Sunday evensong at St. Cecilia's. He was to take the service for the rector there, and to preach the sermon on behalf of his boys' club.
'Come and have supper with me afterwards. Then we can talk,' he had suggested.
She had forgiven him for not telling her about Eleanor. After all, she had been very hasty in jumping to the conclusion that he had any intention of keeping things back from her. He might have thought that telling was unfair to Eleanor. The story did not cast a particularly attractive light on Eleanor. And, in any case, Caroline could not bear to remain angry with her friend. It was her love for him, not his for her, which glorified her life. No feeling of his towards her could hurt her like the cessation of her love for him. She must love him or die.
She felt a sense of quiet emptiness and desolation. She had plans, but no spirit yet to change them into action. The Christian Cinema Company was dead; but from the ashes of the commercial failure a phoenix of idealism should arise. Caroline was meeting Father Mortimer that evening to ask him to join her new Board of Idealists. She had done with the taint of profiteering. If the new company made their fortunes, well and good. It was time that fortune favoured them. But this time there should be no ambiguity about her object. The C.C.C. was to be at last a pioneer association of idealists. Their one reward should be the consciousness of doing good. They were to challenge the enthroned and evil power of the Commercial Cinema by organizing a huge national demand for clean and healthy entertainment. No more Isenbaums, out for social advancement. No more Johnsons, or St. Denises, or Macafees. She would ask Father Mortimer to lend his lofty spirit to her enterprise. She would run the straight race by God's good grace this time.
She found the way round to the vestry door after the service, and saw Father Mortimer, very tall and remote in his long black cassock, talking to the vicar. He started when the verger announced that a Miss Denton-Smyth was waiting for him, as though he had forgotten the appointment. Then his face relaxed into its rare and charming smile.
He introduced her to the vicar:
'Miss Denton-Smyth's a gallant crusader for a higher standard of cinema entertainments,' he explained. 'Nobody but a very brave woman I think would dare to challenge the vested interest of the film world.'
'Cinemas? Never go. Loathe the things,' said the vicar, and hurried off with abrupt farewells to his Sunday supper.
'Now you must come and have supper with me,' said Father Mortimer. 'I won't take you to the Clergy House because we shall be late and our housekeeper has a short way with late comers. I should hate to offer you nothing but one pickled onion.'
Caroline laughed. It was wonderful to be walking beside her friend in the mild spring evening.
'How's your foot?' she asked. 'You still limp a good deal.'
'Oh, it's doing famously. I'm going to start swimming again next week. I have three pupils going in for a schoolboys' competition and I've neglected them horribly. Look. This is the place. One can get quite a respectable meal here.'
They entered a small restaurant of the 2s. 6d. Table d'hote supper - open Sundays' type. The tables were covered with green and orange cloths. A couple of Indian students were eating cold fish mayonnaise in a corner, and a large cream-coloured cat occupied the third chair at the table to which Roger Mortimer conducted Caroline. He fondled the cat with expert attention, running the tips of two long fingers down her vertebrae from her forehead to her tail.
Caroline waited for the waitress to take her order. She noticed that Father Mortimer treated the girl with the same serious and attentive consideration that he offered the cat. When he had asked for soup and pressed beef and salad, Caroline said:
'That's a wonderful text you chose from Ezekiel.'
'Yes. But what a rotten sermon I preached on it.'
She smiled. 'I'm going to pay you the compliment of not pretending I think it's the best you can do, because I always say that there's no compliment like candour. You know, I don't know why you don't let yourself go a bit more. You could if you liked. After all, the things that trouble people most are quite simple things - sickness and death and not having enough money. And the beautiful things are quite simple too, like truth and courage and love.'
'Is love simple?'
'Why-yes.' Caroline opened her eyes very wide and looked at him. Her pity and tenderness and admiration overwhelmed her. She loved him so much then that she wanted to smooth with her fingers his quizzical mocking eyebrows, to stroke his dear cheeks, to take his head into her arms. 'Why, yes - isn't it? Isn't it the only really glorious thing?' she said.
'I can't say that I've found it particularly glorious,' said he. 'I know, of course, that it should be. It may be true that perfect love casteth out fear, but imperfect love can play the very devil. How can I preach about what you call simple things when I don't see them simply?'
She did not quite know what to say. Her anger against Eleanor raged in her heart. He sat so quietly, speaking with mild conversational amiability about love, and she found herself thinking, 'Eleanor's broken his heart. The little beast. The little selfish careerist.'
'But you could preach so beautifully. You can be so helpful, so understanding.'
'Well, that's very nice of you. I wish I could think so. But in any case it doesn't much matter. I've just accepted a mission job in Bermondsey where I shall have very little preaching to do, thank goodness.'
Bermondsey? Fear chilled her. She thought wildly of the Christian Cinema Company and of all her hopes for his cooperation.
'I've got a curacy there. The sort of job I really like. Lots of parish work and visiting and boys' clubs and things. It will do me good. Shake me up a bit.'
'But that's right across the river!'
/> 'That depends how you look at it. It's across the river from one point of view. But it's on its own side of the river. It thinks of us as in the benighted North across the river."
'But you can't go. You see - you can't.' Bermondsey for all practical purposes was as far away as Yorkshire or Berlin or Labrador. He must not go. She began to tell him her plans for the Christian Cinema Company, how it was to be reorganized entirely on a basis of idealism, and how much she counted on his help.
He shook his head slowly.
'I'm awfully sorry. And it's nice of you to want me. But it's no good. That sort of thing isn't really my line at all. And I shan't be able to belong to committees and things much outside the parish. I shall have to stick to my job rather closely at first. I've still got a lot to learn.'
'Oh, but you can't bury yourself down there.'
'I shan't be buried."
'I can't do without you.'
Poor Caroline Page 25
