Two People

by A. A. Milne

  Married to her! How impossible every other woman was when you thought of her as a wife. (And how much more impossible every other man must seem to a woman.) Reginald remembered suddenly the report of a divorce case in which Counsel in his opening speech gave details of the marriage, and went on, ‘For three months they were fairly happy together, and then differences between the parties began to arise.’ That had always stuck in his memory. The modest view of marriage which ‘the parties’ had taken! So long as they were ‘fairly happy’ the marriage was a success; but three months, of course, was a little below the average. Poor dears, they hadn’t expected much, and they should have been more greatly rewarded. (‘And what will you have now, Miss Masters?’)

  ‘Differences began to arise.’ Now, after six unbelievably happy years, had a difference begun to arise between Sylvia and him? Absurd. For how could one be married to anybody but Sylvia? (‘Really? Just cold beef?’ ‘That’s all, really· I throw up entirely if I have anything hot in the middle of the day.’) So if he had married Miss Masters, he would have had cold beef for lunch every day. There you are. Oh, let’s get back to Westaways, and away from swindlers and bloodsuckers, and satyrs like Ormsby. Spring was here, summer was coming. Spring and early summer at Westaways with Sylvia. Going up to London for the day with her, going up without her and being met by her, coming back to Sylvia . . . and to the flowers in the garden, and the pink and white blossom drifting from the trees.

  ‘Really?’ said Reginald. ‘Whatever did you do?’

  His eyes wandered away from her, and suddenly he saw Sylvia. Sylvia! Lunching with somebody, somebody hidden by the projecting wall from him, and talking eagerly, smiling at that unknown man.

  Ormsby! Of course! And in an instant he felt a passion of hatred against Ormsby, and for one terrifying instant a complete hatred of Sylvia. After last night—this! Then her companion leant forward, and he saw that it was just Mr. Fondeveril.

  Gratitude and remorse, and love for Sylvia, so flooded him with happiness that he could hardly breathe. He wanted to get up and wave his arms. He wanted to rush over to Sylvia, and, kneeling at her feet, ask her to forgive him. He wanted to kiss Miss Masters. Well, he would on the first-night, you see if he didn’t, and Coral Bell, and everybody. (Except Mr. Venture.) Oh, Sylvia, thank you, thank you!

  ‘I say, I’m terribly sorry,’ said Reginald, turning back to Miss Masters with a sudden realization, which did not, however, impede his happy smile, that he was being rude to her. ‘But I’ve just seen——’

  He was saved from anything so mottled, so dim, so utterly bleak as ‘my wife’. I mean, to ask a girl to lunch and then to have a complete absence, to be hardly composs, because you’ve just seen dear little wyfikins round the corner—well, I mean! He was saved, because at that moment Miss Masters had herself caught sight of Sylvia.

  ‘Helena Rubinstein!’ said Miss Masters. ‘Pond and all his Angels! Shades of Elizabeth Arden! And to think that——’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘No, don’t look. Look at me.’

  Reginald looked.

  ‘Would you say I was pretty?’

  ‘Rather! Lovely! ’

  ‘My poor, poor man, we’re wrong. Both of us. If you want to see what it’s really like, look over there. Where the fork’s pointing. Well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Reginald.

  ‘Did you ever in your life——’

  ‘Never,’ said Reginald.

  ‘Whoever is she?’

  ‘That?’ said Reginald carelessly. ‘Oh, that’s my wife. I’ll introduce you to-morrow. She’s coming to rehearsal with me.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  I

  IN the spring they went back to Westaways, leaving Pumps Limited to the attention and necessary action of Nixon’s agent.

  ‘Of course he’ll take his ten per cent on the book and everything, but you’ll find it’s worth it,’ said Nixon. ‘Though perhaps Mrs. Wellard won’t think so. I’ve got a wife and a mother and an unmarried sister, and the only thing they ever agree about is the iniquity of that ten per cent.’

  ‘What I want to avoid is the exasperation of reminding myself every week that I’ve been a fool.’

  ‘Oh, well, he’ll do that for you.’

  Reginald went off with a letter of introduction, his mind absurdly full of that unmarried sister. For some reason he was convinced that she had had a great influence on Nixon’s life. Older than he, strict with him when he was a child, disapproving of him when he was grown up; suspicious of the loose world into which he was now thrown. ‘It is she who has prevented him from being a “good fellow”. That’s his trouble, that’s why he looks wistful sometimes. He knows everybody, everybody calls him Phil, but he has never really been at ease. I’m not a good fellow, but then I’ve never wanted to be; at least, never thought I could be. He did want to be and he can’t, and it’s all her fault.’

  Funny, he thought, this sudden glimpse into Nixon’s family life; and all because of Pump.

  He had a more revealing glimpse on the first-night, when Sylvia and he, having gone into Nixon’s box after the Second Act, were introduced to Mother and Sister.

  ‘We always come up on Arthur’s first-nights,’ said Sister. ‘We have a tiny house at Bournemouth. Do you know Bournemouth, Mr. Wellard?’

  So ‘dear old Phil’ was really Arthur. Yes, he would be, of course.

  ‘It isn’t what it was,’ said Sister, still talking of Bournemouth. ‘I often wish—but of course——’ She shrugged, and then went on quickly,’ I do think, though, of those places—I mean when you think of Eastbourne—and of course many people have to live there because of the pines. It suits Mother. That’s really why—unless we lived abroad.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Reginald, not quite knowing what he agreed to, but understanding Miss Nixon’s difficulty in maintaining a spirited defence of Bournemouth which did not disestablish her grievance against Arthur for keeping them there.

  Sister left Bournemouth for a moment, and explained that Arthur’s wife never came to first-nights, because they made her so nervous, and she was afraid that her nervousness would make Arthur still more nervous. ‘Don’t you think it’s funny, Mr. Wellard? I should have thought it was her place to be by her husband’s side. I know I shall want my husband with me, if ever I had to do anything like opening a bazaar, or giving away prizes, after I was married.’

  Poor dear, thought Reginald. Aloud he said, ‘I expect they’ve found out by this time what they like best. Let’s see, how many plays has your brother written?’

  Miss Nixon tried to work out how many times she and her mother had made the journey from Bournemouth. ‘Because that’s what it really comes to, doesn’t it, Mr. Wellard? I often wish we had a little flat in London. I think this is the sixteenth time, I mean coming up like this. We always stay at the De Vere Hotel. I think that’s one of the nicest, if you don’t stay at the Carlton. It’s nice and quiet, and of course they know us now. They all come to our table and wish us luck. Mother may be going to see a specialist to-morrow, so then we shall go down by the afternoon train. We generally go by the twelve-thirty.’

  Mother, in contrast to her angular daughter, was stout and contented. She was genuinely glad to meet Mr. Wellard, genuinely enthusiastic about his book, and genuinely unafraid and unashamed of her rather complicated internal troubles. ‘What I say, Mr. Wellard, is that at my age my inside is my own, and I don’t want other people cutting it open just to satisfy their curiosity. Whatever I’ve got, I expect I’ve got it by this time. Arthur and Milly are always wanting me to consult a specialist, but if you consult a specialist, it means that you have the operation he’s a specialist in, because that’s what he’s for. Can you imagine a manager consulting Arthur as to whether he ought to produce one of Arthur’s plays at his theatre, and Arthur saying No? This play’s going well, isn’t it? Arthur’s pl
ays always go well on a first-night, and then the critics tell you why you didn’t really enjoy it as much as you thought you did, and how much nicer it would have been if somebody else had written quite a different one. But whatever they say, I always think he looks the handsomest man in the theatre. Do you know Bournemouth at all?’

  After the play was over, Reginald and Sylvia went behind. Here Sylvia became surprisingly involved with an old schoolfellow, and Reginald, his introduction parenthetically acknowledged, left them to the dormitory which they had once shared, and to which, husbandless, they were now again in secret flight. For them suddenly the chill passages, the clattering stairs, were other passages, other stairs, no less chill, no less resounding; the press of people was translated into another throng no less intent; and the voices which they heard were shrill and unformed and eager as their own. Behind these doors were bosom friends and deadly enemies; such friends once, such enemies—that girl, what was her name, do you remember, Sylvia? And Sylvia remembered perfectly—or was she thinking of that other girl? No matter. To-night is tonight. To-morrow, remembering their sacred promises to ring each other up ‘and arrange something’, they will have forgotten the other’s style, address and telephone number, and realize the impossibility of arranging anything with a Christian name and the complete particulars of a frock. But again, no matter. Yesterday is yesterday.

  Reginald, a bachelor again, edged into Coral Bell’s dressing-room. This was almost goodbye. He imagined himself saying good-bye to her in a scene on the stage.

  ‘This is—good-bye, Lady Edgemoor.’

  ‘You’re not—going?’ Hand at her breast, fear dawning in her lovely eyes.

  He nods. If he spoke, he might forget that he was an Englishman.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Westaways. I mean West Africa.’ Or is it East Africa? Or one of those expeditions which people join? Anyhow, I’m—going.

  ‘But—why?’

  ‘I think you—know, Lady Edgemoor.’ He looks her straight in the eyes. She knows.

  ‘Because of—me?’ she breathes.

  Now to be a perfect gentleman.

  ‘Let us say because of the Income Tax.’ No, that will get a laugh· ‘Let us say because of the weather.’ So will that. Then let us say nothing. Just raise the arms and drop them.

  ‘You’re not—in love with me?’ she whispers.

  Well, as a matter of fact, that’s the whole point. Of course I’m not really—damn this crowd—but you did rather get me to-night. I do like intelligence in a woman, provided she’s got a certain amount of looks. Of course I know the things you said to-night weren’t your own—some of them, in fact, were mine—but you do say things like that pretty often, and you are that sort of woman, and—good, we’re getting a move on. Who are all these people?

  ‘Darling, you were too marvellous!’

  ‘Did you like it? It is a good play, isn’t it? I’m so glad for Phil’s sake.’

  ‘Congratulations. You really were too——’

  ‘Thank you. And for the lovely flowers, it was sweet of you.’

  ‘Coral, darling, you were too lovely.’

  ‘Isn’t it nice how everybody likes it? I’m so glad.’

  ‘Congratulations. I——’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Wellard, it was nice of you and Mrs. Wellard to send me those lovely flowers. Is she here? You will thank her for me, won’t you?’

  ‘You really were—I don’t think I ever——’

  ‘Isn’t it nice? Pearl, darling, this is Mr. Wellard. He wrote the book, you know. Oh, Dick, you darling, I loved your telegram. And the flowers. You angel!’ She kisses the angel.

  Reginald talks to Pearl. He feels humiliated, and angry with himself for feeling so. He feels ugly and uncomfortable. His mouth is stiff. When he talks he can feel his mouth talking. He hears every word that he says, and no word that Pearl says. The dressing-room is hot and crowded. He is jammed against the wall. He had never thought of himself as a gesticulatory talker, but the fact that he cannot move a hand seems to tie his tongue. Everything that he says is futile, and he can hear himself saying it.

  So that’s good-bye to Coral Bell. Well, I’m glad. These actresses are all alike. Let’s get home, nobody wants us. Oh, well, I suppose we ought just to see Miss Masters. Where’s Sylvia?

  He edged his way out, found Sylvia, and withdrew her from her school.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, suddenly abandoning Miss Masters. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ‘Tired, darling?’

  ‘Horribly,’ said Reginald. ‘At least, tired of London.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  I

  GRANDMAMMA, looking smaller and more anxious than ever, came into the hall. ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Marmalade from the radiator. ‘I finished the cod’s head. All the same, if you are going into the kitchen, you might tell that woman that these pipes are cold again. What is the good of——’

  ‘Come on,’ said Grandmamma, and went out of the front door.

  ‘Come where? I was talking about these pipes. If they’re not meant to be hot, what are they meant to be? A cat——’

  John Wesley, looking more like a long black leopard than ever, came into the hall.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Marmalade. ‘I finished the cod’s head. All the same, if you are going into the kitchen, you might tell that woman that she’s getting careless. These pipes are cold again. A cat doesn’t take the trouble to settle down on cold pipes just because he likes the shape of them. I always understood——’

  ‘Come on,’ said John Wesley, turning out of the front door. ‘You’ll be late.’

  ‘Late for what? I finished the cod’s head. And I was just looking forward to a——’

  ‘They’ll be here in a moment. They’re coming back.’

  ‘Ah! They’ve heard about these pipes, I expect. Well, thank goodness there’ll be somebody in the house now who knows what a cat wants. All right, I’m coming. If anything’s said about that green thing in the dining-room, I want to be there. However careful a cat is, if people put things on the very edge of things, and then blame a cat because—— All right, I’m coming.’

  So there they were, all three of them. ‘Oh look, darling!’ cried Sylvia, as Reginald stopped in gear outside the gates. ‘Waiting for us.’

  She jumped out; and in a moment Grandmamma was in one arm and Marmalade in the other. John Wesley waited for Reginald, and as soon as he was available did figures of eight between his ankles.

  ‘Well, John, how’s everything?’

  John Wesley continued to indicate that everything was very much all right.

  ‘Hallo, Marmalade, glad to see me?’

  Marmalade nodded casually.

  ‘Shall I put the car away for you, darling?’

  ‘No, let’s leave it. I can’t wait. Come on, I want to see everything. Oh, Sylvia, look at the daffodils! Oh, gosh! Come on.’

  Followed by the three cats, they climbed the stile and came into the orchard, hand in hand.

  ‘That bank’s better than ever, did you ever see so many primroses? Look, there’s a bluebell, and there’s another. Oh, lots. I didn’t think they’d be out till next week. Oh, hundreds. I say, aren’t the daffodils lovely? Good, the cherries aren’t quite out, that’ll give us an extra day or two. I was afraid—— There’s a plum right out. And a pear nearly. It’s going to be quite all right, we shall get all the blossom, and practically all the daffodils—perhaps a week earlier would have been better. Anyway, thank God we came to-day. I say, let’s—— Oh, bother, no, that’s no good. Never mind. Are you enjoying it as much as I am, sweetheart?’

  ‘I expect so, darling. What were you going to say?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Being no good.’

  ‘Oh! Just a wild idea that we’d pick flowers together this afternoon for the house
. But of course they’ll have done all that. It is such fun picking flowers with you. I mean watching you do it, and helping, and knowing you won’t mind if I don’t do it all the time, and then doing a bit more, and knowing that nothing matters but just Sylvia and the flowers.’

  ‘Do you love it so, darling?’

  ‘Terribly.’

  ‘So do I, darling.’

  ‘It makes London look so silly, doesn’t it? I mean, what’s it for?’

  They went into the house for a minute.

  ‘Must we?’ asked Reginald. ‘You’ll get caught up by Mrs. Hosken, and talk and talk and talk, and I shall never see you again. I can’t wait for you. I want to look at every flower and every bud, and see what’s dead, and what isn’t, and I want you there so as I can say, Look, all the time But I can’t wait.’

  ‘I promise I won’t talk to her, darling. Except just to say Here we are, and How are you, and we’ll have a long talk later. I’ll only be a minute.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you promise.’

  She kept her promise. Reginald spent the minute wandering through his house and wondering what was wrong with it. Complete absence of Wellards, he supposed. It would take a day or two for Westaways to realize that they were back, and settle down to its old self. Meanwhile it belonged to nobody.

  ‘Doesn’t it look funny without flowers?’ said Sylvia, as she joined him. ‘So empty.’

  ‘Of course! I knew there was something. I say, what luck! Now this afternoon we really can——’ He broke off suddenly. Sylvia was looking shy and secret.

  ‘Come on, darling.’

  ‘Sylvia! You wrote to Mrs. Hosken and told her not to?’

  Sylvia nodded.

  ‘So as you and I——?’

  She nodded again, shyly, her eyes in his.

  ‘You angel.’

  So that was Sylvia Wellard. Reginald Wellard, the famous writer, the lover of beauty, the man of imagination, the fellow of most excellent fancy, had managed to think of it all two days later. Good. No wonder he looked down on his wife.