by E. F. Benson
“You’re absurd,” said Dodo; “but really, Jack, I wish you’d marry someone else. I sha’n’t think you unfaithful.”
“I don’t flatter myself that you would,” said Jack, with a touch of irritation.
Dodo looked up rather surprised at the hard ring in his voice. She thought it wiser to ignore this last remark.
“I never can quite make out whether you are ambitious or not,” she said. “Now and then you make me feel as if you would rather like to go and live in a small cathedral town — —”
“And shock the canons?” suggested Jack.
“Not necessarily; but cultivate sheer domesticity. You’re very domestic in a way. Bertie would do admirably in a cathedral town. He’d be dreadfully happy among dull people. They would all think him so brilliant and charming, and the bishop would ask him over to dine at the palace whenever anyone came down from London.”
“I’m not ambitious in the way of wanting to score small successes,” said Jack. “Anyone can score them. I don’t mind flying at high game and missing. If you miss of course you have to load again, but I’d sooner do that than make a bag of rabbits. Besides, you can get your rabbits sitting, as you go after your high game. But I don’t want rabbits.”
“What is your high game?” asked Dodo.
Jack considered.
“It’s this,” he said. “You may attain it, or at any rate strive after it, by doing nothing, or working like a horse. But, anyhow, it’s being in the midst of things, it’s seeing the wheels go round, and forming conclusions as to why they go round, it’s hearing the world go rushing by like a river in flood, it’s knowing what everyone thinks about, it’s guessing why one woman falls in love with one man, and why another man falls in love with her. You don’t get that in cathedral towns. The archdeacon’s daughter falls in love with the dean’s son, and nobody else is at all in love with either of them. The world doesn’t rattle in cathedral towns, they take care to oil it; the world doesn’t come down in flood in cathedral towns, there is nothing so badly regulated as that. I don’t know why I should choose cathedral towns particularly to say these things about. I think you suggested that I should live in one. If you like you can plunge into the river in flood and go down with it — that’s what they call having a profession — but it’s just as instructive to stand on the bank and watch it; more instructive, perhaps, because you needn’t swim, and can give your whole attention to it. On the whole, that is what I mean to do.”
“That’s good, Jack,” said Dodo; “but you’re not consistent. The fact that you haven’t been going out lately, shows that you’re standing with your back to it, with your hands in your pocket. After all, what you say only conies to this, that you are interested in the problem of human life. Well, there’s just as much human life in your cathedral town.”
“Ah, but there’s no go about it,” said he. “It’s no more like life than a duck pond is to the river in flood.”
“Oh, you’re wrong there,” said Dodo. “It goes on just the same, though it doesn’t make such a fuss. But in any case you are standing with your back to it now, as I said.”
“I’m going into details, just at present,” said Jack.
“How do you mean?”
“I’m watching a little bit of it.”
“I suppose you mean Chesterford and me. Do you find us very interesting?” demanded Dodo.
“Very.”
Jack was rather uncomfortable. He wanted to say more, and wished he hadn’t said so much. He wondered how Dodo would take it.
Dodo did not take it at all. She was, for the time at any rate, much more interested in Jack’s prospects as they concerned him, than as they bore on herself.
“What is the upshot of all your observations?” she asked.
Jack hardly knew whether to feel relieved or slighted. Was Dodo’s apparent unconsciousness of the tenor of what he had said genuine or affected? On that he felt a great deal depended. But whether it was genuine or not, the matter was closed for the present. Dodo repeated her question.
“My observations on you, or on the world in general?” he asked.
“Either will do,” said Dodo; “we’re very normal. Any conclusion you have formed about the rest of the world will apply to us.”
“My conclusion is that you are not quite normal,” said he.
Dodo laughed.
“Oh, I’m dreadfully normal,” she said; “all my inconsistencies lie on the surface — I’m married, I’ve got a baby, I’m honest, I’m lazy. I’m all I should and shouldn’t be. And Chesterford — —”
“Oh, then Chesterford’s normal too,” said Jack.
CHAPTER NINE.
June was drawing to a close in a week of magnificent weather. It was too hot to do much during the middle of the day, and the Park was full of riders every morning from eight till ten. Dodo’ was frequently to be seen there, usually riding a vicious black mare, that plunged and shied more than Lord Chesterford quite liked. But Dodo insisted on riding it.
“The risks one runs every moment of one’s life,” she told him, “are so many, that one or two more really don’t matter. Besides, I can manage the brute.”
On this particular morning Dodo descended the stairs feeling unusually happy. The period of enforced idleness was over, and she was making up for lost time with a vengeance. They had given a dance the night before, and Dodo had not gone to bed till after four; but for all that she was down again at half-past eight, and her mare was waiting for her. She turned into the dining-room to have a cup of tea before starting, and waited somewhat impatiently for Lord Chesterford to join her. He came in, in the course of a few minutes, looking rather worried.
“You look as if you had not gone to bed for a week,” said Dodo, “and your hair is dreadfully untidy. Look at me now. Here I am a weak little woman, and I feel fit to move mountains, and you look as if you wanted quinine and iron. Don’t come, if you’d rather not. Stop at home and play with the baby.”
“I’m all right,” said he, “but I’m rather worried about the boy. The nurse says he’s not been sleeping much all night, but kept waking and crying, and he looks rather flushed. I think I’ll send for the doctor.”
Dodo felt a little impatient.
“He’s as right as possible,” she said. “You shouldn’t worry so, Chesterford. You’ve wanted to send for the doctor a hundred times in the last month, either for him or me. But don’t come if you’d rather not. Vivy is coming to breakfast at half-past nine; I quite forgot that. If you feel inclined to stop, you might give her breakfast, and I’ll lengthen my ride. I shall be back at half-past ten. She’s going to take me to see Wainwright’s new Turner.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind, Dodo?” said he, still wavering. “If you don’t, I really think I will stop, and perhaps see the doctor about him. The nurse says she would like to have the doctor here.”
“Just as you like,” said Dodo. “You’ll have to pay a swinging bill anyhow. Good-bye, old boy. Don’t worry your silly old head. I’m sure it’s all right.”
Dodo went off perfectly at ease in her mind. Chesterford was rather fussy, she thought, and she congratulated herself on not being nervous. “A pretty pair we should make if I encouraged him in his little ways,” she said to herself. “We should one of us, live in the nursery.” She put her horse into a quick trot, and felt a keen enjoyment in managing the vicious animal. The streets were somewhat crowded even at this hour, and Dodo had her work cut out for her.
However, she reached the Park in safety, and went up the How at a swinging gallop, with her horse tearing at the rein and tossing its head. After a time the brute grew quieter, and Dodo joined a well-known figure who was riding some way in front of her.
“Good old Jack,” she cried, “isn’t it splendid! I had no idea how I loved motion and exercise and dancing and all that till I began again. Didn’t you think our ball went off rather well? Did you stop, to the end? Oh, of course you did. That silly dowager What’s-her-name was quite shocked at me, just
because we had the looking-glass figure in the cotillion. It’s the prettiest of the lot, I think. Old Major Ewart gave me a pair of ivory castanets with silver mountings last night, the sweetest things in the world. I really think he is seriously gone on me, and he must be sixty if he’s an hour. I think I shall appeal to Chesterford for protection. What fun it would be to make Chesterford talk to him gravely like a grandson. He stopped at home this morning to look after the baby. I think I shall get jealous of the nurse, and pretend that he’s sweet on her, and that’s why he goes to the nursery so much.”
Jack laughed.
“Between you, you hit the right average pretty well,” he said. “If it wasn’t for Chesterford, the baby would certainly have fallen downstairs half a dozen times. You don’t half realise how important he is.”
“Oh, you’re entirely wrong, Jack,” said Dodo calmly. “It’s just that which I do recognise; what I don’t recognise is that I should be supposed to find ineffable joys in watching it eat and sleep and howl. You know one baby is very much like another.”
“In other words, supposing the boy had no expectations,” said Jack, “and was not the heir-apparent of half Staffordshire, you would find him much less interesting.”
“Would you think me very heartless if I said ‘Yes’?” asked Dodo.
“Well, I never held a very high opinion of your heart, you know,” said Jack, laughing, “and I don’t know that I think much worse of it now.”
“You judge so stupidly,” said Dodo; “you elevate matrimony into a sacrament. Now I don’t. It is a contract for mutual advantage. The husband gives wealth, position and all that, and the wife gives him a housekeeper, and heirs to his property. Don’t frown, Jack. That’s my eminently common-sense view of the question. It answers excellently, as I find by experience. But, of course, there are marriages for love. I suppose most of the lower middle-class marry for love, at least they haven’t got any position or wealth to marry for. But we, the disillusioned and unromantic upper classes, see beyond that. I daresay our great grandfathers married for love, but the fact that so many of us don’t, shows that ours is the more advanced and probably correct view. You know all wine-tasters agree on the superiority of one wine, and the inferiority of another. That’s the result of education. The amateur thinks they are all more or less alike, and very probably prefers some sweet bad kind. That’s the middle-class view of love-marriages. The more I think of it, the more I feel that love is an illusion. Think of all the people who marry for love, and get eternally tired of each other afterwards. They can’t keep it up. The lovers grow into friends, and the friends into enemies. Those are the enviable ones who remain friends; but it is better to marry as a friend than as a lover, because in the latter case there is a reaction and a disappointment, which may perhaps ruin the friendship. Aren’t I a wise woman, Jack? I think I shall set up a general advice office.”
Jack was, rather pale, and his fingers twitched nervously at his reins.
“Have you never felt that illusion?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Really, Jack,” said Dodo, “you behave as if you were the inquisition. But I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. For Chesterford I never have. He is the most excellent husband, and I esteem and admire him immensely. Don’t make your horse so fidgety, Jack. As I was saying, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you, considering you proposed to me once, and confessed to the same illusion yourself. Have you got over it, by the way? If I had married you, you certainly would have by this time.”
There was a long pause. Then Jack said, —
“No, Dodo, I have never got over it.”
The moment after he had said it, he would have given his right hand to have it unsaid. Dodo was silent for a moment, and Jack found himself noticing the tiny, trivial things about him. He observed a fly trying to alight oh his horse’s ear, but the animal flicked it off with a little jerk, before it got fairly settled. He wondered whether the fly had illusions about that ear, and whether it imagined that it would be happy for ever and ever, if it could once settle there.
“You know we are saying the most frightfully unconventional things to each other,” said Dodo. “I am very sorry for you, Jack, and I will administer consolation. When I said ‘No’ to you, I did it with real regret, with quite a different sort of feeling to that which I should have had if I had said ‘No’ to Chesterford. It was quite an unreasonable feeling, I couldn’t define it, but I think it must have been because — —”
Then Jack recovered his self-respect in a moment, by one of those strange contradictions in our nature, which urged him to stop his ears to what, a week before, he had been almost tempting her to say.
“Ah, stop, stop,” he said, “you don’t know what you are saying. Dodo, this won’t do. Think of Chesterford.”
“Chesterford and the baby,” said Dodo softly. “I believe you are right, Jack. This is unprofitable. But, Jack, since we renounce that, let us still be friends. Don’t let this have made any difference to us. Try and realise that it is all an illusion.”
Dodo half turned towards him, with a long glance in her brown eyes, and a little smile playing about her mouth.
“Yes, yes,” said Jack, laughing nervously. “I told Bertie so the other day. I have been a madman for half an hour, but that is over. Shall we turn?”
They wheeled their horses round, and cantered down the Row.
“Oh, this beautiful world,” exclaimed Dodo. “You’ve no idea what it is to me to come out of the house again, and ride, and dance and sing. I really believe, Jack, that I enjoy things more than anyone else I know. Everything that enjoys itself appeals to me. Jack, do enjoy yourself, although we settled you mustn’t appeal to me. Who is that girl standing there with the poodle? I think I shall get Chesterford to buy me a poodle. There’s a woman nest her awfully like Vivy, do you see, shading her eyes with her hand. It is Vivy.”
Dodo’s face suddenly grew grave and frightened. She reined her horse in opposite to where Mrs. Vivian was standing.
“Quick, quick,” she said, “tell me what has happened!”
Mrs. Vivian looked up at Dodo with infinite compassion in her eyes.
“Dodo, darling,” she said, “give your horse to the groom. Please help her to dismount, Mr. Broxton.”
Dodo got off, and Mrs. Vivian led her to a seat. Dodo had a sudden flash of remembrance of how she had sat here with Jack a year ago.
“Tell me quickly,” she said again.
“My poor Dodo,” said Mrs. Vivian, softly stroking the back of Dodo’s hand. “You will be brave, won’t you? It is worth while being brave. It is all over. The baby died this morning, half an hour after you had gone.”
Dodo’s first feeling was one of passionate anger and resentment. She felt she had been duped and tricked in a most unjustifiable manner. Fate had led her to expect some happy days, and she had been cruelly disappointed. It was not fair; she had been released from two tedious months of inactivity, only to be caught again. It was like a cat playing with a mouse. She wanted to revenge herself on something.
“Oh, it is too awful,” she said. “Vivy, what can I do? It is cruel.” Then her better nature came to her aid. “Poor Chesterford, poor dear old boy,” she said simply.
Mrs. Vivian’s face grew more tender.
“I am glad you thought of him,” she said. “His first thought was for you. He was there all the time. As soon as it was over he said to himself, ‘Please, God, help Dodo to bear it.’ You bear it very well, dear. Come, the carriage is waiting.”
“Oh, I can’t, I can’t,” said Dodo passionately; “let me sit here a little while, and then go away somewhere else. I can bear it better alone. I can’t see Chesterford.”
“No, Dodo,” she said, “you must not be cowardly. I know it is the worst part of it for you. But your duty lies with him. You must comfort him. You must make him feel that he has got you left. He is terribly broken, but he will be brave for your sake. Be brave for his.”
Dodo sighed wearily.
“I suppose you are right,” she said; “I will come.”
She turned and looked round on to the gay scene. The Row was full of riders, and bright with the flooding sunlight.
“Oh, it is cruel,” she said. “I only wanted to be happy, and I mayn’t even be that. What is the good of it all, if I mayn’t enjoy it? Why was the baby ever born? I wish it never had been. What good does it do anyone that I should suffer?”
Mrs. Vivian felt horribly helpless and baffled. How could she appeal to this woman, who looked at everything from only her own standpoint?
“Come, Dodo,” she said.
They drove back in silence. Chesterford was standing in the hall as they entered, waiting for them. He came forward to meet Dodo.
“My poor, poor darling,” he said, “it is very hard on you. But we can bear it together, Dodo.”
Dodo turned from him passionately, and left him standing there.
Dodo was sitting in the window of her morning-room late on the same afternoon. She and Lord Chesterford had been together to look at the baby as it lay there, with the little features that had been racked and distorted with pain, calm and set again, as if it only slept; and Dodo had at that moment one real pang of grief. Her first impulse, as we have seen, was one of anger and impatience at the stupidity of destiny. She had been enjoying herself, in a purely animal way so intensely, at that moment when she saw Mrs. Vivian waiting for her under the trees. She was just released from a tedious period of inactivity, and inactivity was to Dodo worse than anything in the Inferno.
“I daresay I should get accustomed to being roasted,” she had said once to Miss Grantham. “It really would be rather interesting seeing your fingers curling up like fried bacon, but imagine being put in a nicely-furnished room with nobody to talk to, and a view over Hyde Park one side and Melton Mowbray the other, and never being able to get out! The longer that lasted, the worse it would become.” And so she had felt the sort of rapture with which “the prisoner leaps to loose his chains” when she had gone out that morning, and again knew the infinite delight of feeling a fine horse answer to her hand, under a sort of playful protest. Then this had come upon her, and Dodo felt that language, failed her to express her profound contempt and dislike for the destiny that shapes our ends.
