Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

“I’m glad you and Elise like each other,” said Guy in a thoughtful voice.

  They had finished dinner now, so they strolled out into the street. Some officers had just arrived from the camp and were standing outside the door talking and smoking, and Guy introduced them to Frances.

  “I’ve heard of Miss Field,” declared Captain Rackham, “and I’ve seen her several times, but I haven’t had the pleasure of speaking to her before.”

  “Fox is a foxy beast,” said one of the others.

  They all laughed, and Guy joined in the laughter quite cheerfully.

  “Have you got a sister, Miss Field?” asked Captain Rackham.

  “No,” said Frances in some surprise.

  “That’s a pity,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s a great pity. I was going to suggest that she might like to come to the Bordale Arms for a holiday.”

  “Half a dozen sisters wouldn’t be too many,” declared one of the other officers.

  “We’re going for a walk,” said Guy.

  “You wouldn’t like me to come with you, I suppose?” asked Captain Rackham.

  “Your supposition is correct,” replied Guy, smiling at him in a friendly manner.

  “Two’s company, Racky,” one of his friends reminded him.

  Guy extricated himself and Frances from the little group, and they walked down to the shore. It was a lovely evening. The trees had been washed by the rain and every leaf was sparkling in the sunshine, the air was fresh and there was a delicious earthy smell.

  “Which way shall we go?” asked Guy, pausing at the harbour. “Shall we go north along the cliffs or south across the bay?”

  Frances did not mind which way they went, she was happy to be with Guy. “It doesn’t matter which way we go,” she replied, and Guy agreed that it didn’t. As a matter of fact they were both wrong, for a good deal depended upon their choice.

  They went down from the rocks on to the sand, and the big bay stretched before them, gleaming in the sunshine. The tide was out and the wet sands were dazzling to the eyes.

  “We’ll walk along to the point, shall we?” suggested Guy. “We could come back through the woods. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather go by the cliffs, Frances?”

  “I don’t mind a bit,” she said.

  Frances had decided to tell Guy about her life at the Wheelers—to tell him all about herself. He had asked her before what she was, and she had refused to tell him, for she had felt that the slight mystery was a sort of shield, but now he had told her so much about himself that he deserved something in return. . . . Frances was no longer frightened of Guy, she did not need her shield. They walked along in silence for a few moments. Frances was trying to find words to begin her story, so she had no time to wonder at Guy’s silence or to guess its meaning. As is so often the way after a short silence, they both began to speak at the same moment.

  “Frances, I have been trying to ask you—” began Guy.

  “Guy, I wanted to tell you—” began Frances.

  They looked at each other and laughed. “Ladies first,” said Guy.

  “It was just that I wanted to tell you what I used to do,” said Frances. “You asked me once. It isn’t very interesting, really. I used to live with an uncle and aunt in London and keep house for them.”

  “The story of your life in one short sentence.”

  “Yes, I told you it wasn’t interesting. You see, my father and mother died when I was a child—” She stopped. Somehow or other she had become aware that Guy was not listening. She looked up at him in surprise and saw that he was gazing along the sands, shading his eyes from the glare with his hand to his forehead.

  “Look,” he said. “Look—there’s Angela. It is Angela, isn’t it?”

  Frances shaded her eyes too. The sands were deserted except for one small figure at the other end of the bay. She could not be sure whether or not it was Angela, but it might be. . . .

  “Perhaps she’s going to see Tommy,” said Frances. “Perhaps she doesn’t know that Tommy has gone—”

  Guy had taken out his glasses and was focusing them. “By Jove it is—it’s Angela! I think I’ll—yes, I must speak to her—you understand, don’t you?”

  He was off like an arrow before Frances could answer; he was running with long strides, covering the ground easily and without effort; he ran so well that his feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground.

  Frances stood still. She was a humble-minded person, but even humble-minded people have their pride. . . . She was surprised and hurt and angry and humiliated all at the same moment. It was rude . . . it was more than rude, it was unkind.

  Frances had been feeling so friendly towards Guy, she had been feeling more than friendly. She had begun to tell him about herself and he had not wanted to hear. It was Angela, and not Frances, that Guy was interested in . . . it was Angela. . . .

  Frances had never experienced such a storm of feeling before. Her knees felt so weak that she was forced to sit down on the sand. She took up handfuls of sand and squeezed them so that the grains trickled between her fingers. Tears of mortification stung her eyes . . . she had made herself too cheap. She had been too friendly with him. She had asked him to dine with her . . . he couldn’t very well have refused.

  The storm was passing now, and Frances was beginning to feel cold and a trifle sick; she was beginning to think about the whole thing more calmly and reasonably. (Am I making a mountain out of a molehill? she asked herself. Was it quite a natural thing to do, to ask me to come out for a walk and then leave me to rush off after Angela?) But however calmly and reasonably she thought about it, she could not see that it was anything but rude . . . outrageously rude . . . unkind. She reminded herself that these new friends of hers had a different standard of behaviour from that to which she was accustomed—they took things for granted and their manners were easy-going—but in spite of their easy-going manners, Frances had never found them lacking in consideration, she had never found them unkind, quite the contrary. Frances was forced to realise that it must have been a very strong motive which had induced her late companion to desert her like that . . . a very strong motive indeed. She looked back. “Guy has taken a great deal of interest in Angela lately,” Tommy had said, and Tommy had returned to the subject of Guy and Angela more than once. Guy had said himself that Angela sparkled in an amusing manner. . . . Frances was aware that she did not sparkle at all. Angela was attractive, she was younger than Frances; she was the Colonel’s daughter and was therefore one of the regiment, inside the fence. Frances had realised long ago that the regiment was clannish, that it was a little society complete in itself; she had realised that it was not snobbery, they did not fence themselves in deliberately, they had never tried to shut her out—in fact, they often went out of their way to draw her inside the fence—but their own society was congenial, and their community of ideas and interests resulted in a common attitude towards life, and this made a bond between them which overcame the differences in their natures. No two people could have been more different than Tillie and Elise, but they were friends, they were both inside the fence . . . so it was natural that Guy and Angela . . .

  Frances looked back further and remembered that very first night when they all met at the Bordale Arms. Guy and Captain Widgery had both offered to walk home with Angela, but Guy had been so insistent that he had won the day and carried her off in triumph.

  Frances waited for a little. She had a faint hope at the back of her mind that Guy might return to her and explain everything. (She imagined him running back to her across the sands and saying: “Awfully sorry to leave you like that, but I had to give Angela a message.”) But Guy did not come back—he and Angela had both disappeared; there was not a soul to be seen. She got up at last and went back to the hotel. The little group of officers was still standing at the door and a burst of laughter met her ears as she approached.

  “Hallo, Miss Field!” exclaimed Captain Rackham. “What have you done with Fox?”

  Someo
ne else replied for her. “Oh, she got bored with him and pushed him into the sea. Now’s your chance, Racky.”

  They all laughed, for they were in the mood when any joke, however feeble, seems the soul of wit. Frances’s mood was very different. It was an effort to smile; it was an effort to pass them, to cross the hall and run upstairs. She shut her bedroom door and turned the key, and stood with her back against it looking round the room.

  Part III

  GUY

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Guy had won the mile at Sandhurst and, as he had been running a good deal in the last few months (running being a part of the new training system), he made pretty good time across the long stretch of sands; but Angela had had a long start and had reached Sea View some minutes before him. Guy paused at the door to recover his breath (he had no wish to put himself at a disadvantage by entering upon a delicate interview incapable of speech), but he was in such excellent training that his heart soon ceased to pound uncomfortably and his lungs resumed their normal functioning. Guy opened the door and walked straight in, and he found—exactly what he had expected to find—Widgery and Angela locked in each other’s arms. In spite of his preparedness the scene disgusted Guy a good deal more than he had anticipated, for it is one thing to expect and another to see.

  “Are you practising for a film, or what?” he inquired, trying to speak lightly.

  They sprang apart and faced him. “What the devil d’you mean by forcing your way in here!” cried Widgery in furious tones.

  “I’ve come to take Angela home,” replied Guy.

  “What the hell has it got to do with you? Can’t you see when you aren’t wanted? Angela hasn’t any use for you—”

  “I haven’t much use for Angela—”

  “Then why the hell can’t you leave her alone?”

  “I’ll explain all that presently,” replied Guy, trying to speak quite calmly. “Meanwhile Angela had better go home. She can go home by herself—yes, that would be better, there are several things I should like to say to you—”

  “Guy,” began Angela in a breathless voice. “Guy, you don’t understand.”

  “No,” agreed Guy. “No, and I don’t want to. You can explain the whole thing to your father. Perhaps he’ll understand—”

  “You wouldn’t!” she cried. “Oh, you beast, Guy! There’s nothing—nothing wrong—”

  “Your ideas of right and wrong are different from mine,” declared Guy.

  “Keep your ideas to yourself,” Widgery exclaimed. “Get out of here before I break your neck—”

  “Come and try,” said Guy evenly. He had been spoiling for a fight with Widgery for weeks; a hundred small incidents had fanned the flame, and now it seemed as if zero hour had arrived. Guy was glad. He was pretty certain that he could thrash Widgery, for, although Widgery was bigger, he was not in such good trim . . . and Widgery was angry. Guy was angry too, but he had himself well in control—his was a cold rage.

  “Come and try,” said Guy again.

  Widgery hesitated. He said: “Don’t be such a fool. It’s nothing to do with you . . .”

  “Of course if you’re afraid,” said Guy with a short laugh. “It’s easy to scheme and lie and carry on with women behind your wife’s back—but there’s a soft streak in you, Widgery . . .”

  Widgery came at Guy, but Guy stepped aside nimbly and dealt him a stinging blow on the ear as he blundered past. Then Widgery turned and hit Guy in the stomach. It didn’t hurt much, but it annoyed him a good deal; he lunged forward to Widgery’s face with a right that had a good deal of weight behind it. Widgery moved his head and the blow met air . . . Before Guy could recover Widgery grasped his arm and kicked him savagely on the shin. It was painful, but Guy was quite pleased about it, for it absolved him from any rules . . . This was not to be a gentleman’s fight. Guy seized Widgery round the waist and tried to throw him, but he couldn’t manage it. They swayed to and fro, Widgery battering at Guy’s face when the opportunity occurred. . . . All this time Angela was screaming; she seized Guy’s coat and tried to pull him away. This hampered him considerably, for he had no wish to hurt Angela . . . he tried to push her to one side, and, as he did so, Widgery wriggled and slipped from his grasp.

  Guy stepped in and hit Widgery as hard as he could. He had aimed at Widgery’s chin, but again Widgery had moved his head and the blow took him on the shoulder . . . he staggered but recovered himself and came at Guy again. Guy eluded him and hit him as he passed, harder than before. It was a satisfactory blow, for it landed fair and square on Widgery’s face. Guy was feeling grand now, for he knew he could lick Widgery—he had him taped.

  “Stand up and fight like a man,” said Guy.

  Widgery stood up; he hit out with his left, but Guy warded the blow with his right arm and followed it up with a punch with his left. Widgery feinted with his left and landed a right on Guy’s cheek, but he had over-reached himself and Guy was able to get in another punch with his right before Widgery was ready. Widgery seized Guy’s arm and twisted it, and Guy with his other hand forced back Widgery’s head. They struggled for a moment, and then Widgery turned sideways; he stumbled against the table, and the table fell with a crash. . . . Angela screamed again.

  “Go home,” said Guy a trifle breathlessly. “I told you to go home, Angela.”

  Widgery had picked himself up and was coming for Guy; he had lost his temper completely and his arms were flailing like the sails of a windmill. Guy waited for him, intending to step aside and punish him as he passed, but Widgery leapt at Guy’s throat and forced his head back, kicking him again. It was an unpleasant moment, but Widgery was breathing heavily, and his grasp was not so strong. Guy managed to twist himself free.

  Guy stepped back to get room for the straight left which was going to finish the fight . . . he stepped back, but there was something behind him . . . a foot-stool . . . he felt himself falling backwards . . . he fell with a crash.

  When Guy opened his eyes it was dark, but there was a yellow pinpoint of light moving about the room. He had not the faintest idea where he was or what had happened.

  “Is it an air-raid?” he asked.

  The light came nearer and now he could see that it emanated from an electric torch, the battery of which was at its last gasp. He could see the torch and part of a hand.

  “Who is it?” asked Guy.

  “It’s Tommy,” said Tommy’s voice. “I’m trying to find some matches.”

  Guy’s head ached horribly, but his brain was clearing. He was beginning to remember what had happened . . . Widgery . . . he had fought Widgery . . . had Widgery knocked him out? No, by Jove he had almost finished the fellow . . . and then . . . then he had fallen over that blasted stool. What had happened after that, and what on earth was Tommy doing here?

  “What’s happened?” asked Guy rather faintly.

  “Heaven knows,” replied Tommy. “If you don’t know what’s happened, how should I? If only I could find a match—”

  “Here’s a match,” said Guy.

  The torch had flickered out completely by this time, but Tommy groped about and took the box from his hand. He heard her drawing the curtains across the windows and then the scrape of a match, and in another moment the room was filled with golden lamplight.

  “Good lord!” exclaimed Tommy.

  Guy was not surprised to hear this exclamation, for he was aware that the room must look somewhat disordered. It is impossible for two large men to fight a mill in a sitting-room without causing a certain amount of damage.

  “Good lord,” said Tommy again. “What on earth has been happening?”

  “I fell,” said Guy. “I fell over that blinking stool and hit my head.” He sat up as he spoke and felt his head. There was a lump on it and his hair was sticky. His fingers were covered with blood when he looked at them—it must have been the castor of the chair. Apart from the bump on his head the only injuries he had received were a swollen cheek and a severe bruise on the shin.

 
; “Guy, you look as if you had been fighting!” declared Tommy, gazing at him in surprise.

  “Do I?”

  “And the room looks like it too,” she added.

  “My head feels awfully queer,” said Guy a trifle fretfully. “I must have hit it on something as I fell.” He had hoped to distract her attention from the condition of the room, and his ruse was successful, for Tommy was a sympathetic creature.

  She knelt down beside him and examined his wound. “It’s bleeding,” she said in dismay. “Oh, Guy, no wonder your head feels queer. I shall have to cut some of your hair and put a wet dressing on it—”

  “Shove on iodine,” said Guy. “Iodine’s the stuff.”

  Tommy found some iodine and dabbed it on with cotton-wool. She fetched a pot of ointment and applied it to his cheek, then she sat back and demanded an explanation.

  “I told you,” said Guy. “I fell over the stool. What are you doing here? I thought you were on your way to Aberdeen.”

  “You thought I was on my way to Aberdeen, so you came here to see me—or was it Midge you came to see?”

  “Midgey, of course—but why did you change your mind?”

  “I had a puncture,” she replied. “And the spare tyre was flat. It took ages and I knew I should be frightfully late getting to Glasgow . . . and so—so I just changed my mind and came home. I had a feeling that something was wrong. What happened, Guy?”

  “I fell and bumped my head,” said Guy again. “I must have knocked over the table as I fell.”

  She looked round the room. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “What were you doing? Where’s Midge?”

  “I wish Elise were here,” declared Guy. He felt quite unable to deal with the situation himself. Ought he to tell Tommy the truth? His head still felt muzzy and his brains had turned into cotton-wool.

  “Where’s Midge?” repeated Tommy.

  “I don’t know,” replied Guy. He would have given quite a lot to know where Widgery had gone and whether he had taken Angela with him.

  “Was Midge here when you came over?” asked Tommy.