by E. F. Benson
Nothing that he could say could reach her just then, and he knew that he must wait till she, of her own accord, sought him again, as she had sought him just now with that clinging to his hand. Whenever she wanted him he was ready; unless she wanted him, the very nature of the catastrophe precluded his intrusion.
All that dark winter day there was no sign from her. To her father, inquiring about her absence, she sent news of a headache; but Bernard asked nothing, nor did he attempt to see her. He worked at his own affairs; he entertained Philip: for the rest he waited. Had she given him in that interview two nights ago, or in the day that intervened, any spontaneous hint with regard to what he knew, he could have approached her. As it was, he must wait for whatever she chose to tell him. The delicacy of love, inherent in its very quality, kept him from her. If she chose, in the days and weeks that faced them, to return, still silent, still unconfessed, to the routine of life, that silence could never be broken by him. Only, so he guessed, she had conjectured what was the nature of the bad news he had warned her of, and at that moment she had clung to the hand that lay on her shoulder. She cast it off afterwards: that was natural; but while the certainty of the uttered word was not in her knowledge she clung to him.
The sunset, rose-coloured on the snow, with the last of the clouds vanished, was fading as he sat in his room using the end of the daylight. At any moment the servant might come in to close the shutters, and when the door opened he did not look up, supposing that the lights would be switched on and the curtains drawn. He just cleared a place among the papers, to make room for the lamp that habitually stood on his table. A cord had to be adjusted to a plug in the wall: then the green-shaded lamp was put there.
“Bernard!” she said, and she came across the room and sat in the chair close to him that faced the fire. She leaned forward, not looking at him, but staring in front of her. Except for the mention of his name, she gave no recognition of his presence.
He did not answer her, but half turned in his chair, laying down his pen.
“I have got to tell you something,” she said.
He knew now for certain what she wanted to tell him. She had come deliberately, with the breaking of silence, to do so. Ever since their midnight talk she had had just this to say and could not. Now, for herself, the need of telling it had come, and, because that was so, he could take that burden from her.
“There is no need then,” he said. “I know.”
Still she did not look at him.
“That is impossible,” she said. “I have got to say it.”
“I know,” he said again.
For one moment she hid her face in her hands. But before that she looked at him.
“Say it then.”
“You loved him,” said Bernard.
Celia still sat with her face muffled in her palms. There was just her mouth free from that imprisonment.
“When did you know?” she asked.
“I guessed when I came back from Greece.”
“And all these months?...”
“Yes, all these months.”
There was a long silence. Once again he could not help her out; there was no use in words for him unless she gave him the chance. All the light, the love that he had was ready for her, but she must want it.
“You have given me everything for nothing,” she said.
“Yes; I have given you everything,” he said. “You always knew that.”
“But for nothing,” she repeated.
“That doesn’t concern me,” he said. “If I had given a little, I might have counted what I got in exchange. But as I gave you everything, how could I count? There is no counting possible.”
He stood up, moving a little away from her.
“You don’t understand at all,” he said quietly.
“I understand enough to ask for your forgiveness,” she said.
At that she took her hands from her face, looking up to him.
“If you ask that, you have a lot to learn,” he said.
“Explain,” said she.
He knelt down by her, still not touching her.
“You must understand that. It’s damnation unless you do,” he said. “If my love for you was a smaller thing than it is, if I cared for you in any way but the best that I know, I should forgive you at once. But just because my love for you is the biggest thing of which my soul is capable, I can’t imagine the possibility of doing that.”
For one moment she incredulously stiffened into herself: the next she knew she had misinterpreted him.
“Forgiveness doesn’t come in,” he said. “Love takes that for granted: it’s automatic, it’s nothing. Love hasn’t time to stop there. Love goes through forgiveness as through a wayside station, at full speed, not noticing. It is no destination.... Forgiveness is a speck of rain in a day of sun. It dries off before you notice.... Can’t you understand?” She leaned forwards towards him.
“I want: I want—” she said.
THE END
PETER
This novel was first published in 1922 and provides a compelling portrait of upper-middle-class London society after the First World War, relating the relationships and adventures of the eponymous self-obsessed young socialite.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER I
THE two who mattered were lounging on the cushioned seat in the low window, of which the lower panes had been pushed quite up in order to admit the utmost possible influx of air. Little came in, for the afternoon was sultry and windless, but every now and then some current moved outside, some trickle of comparative coolness from the grass and trees of the Green Park, sufficient to stir the girl’s hair. On this high floor of the house of flats London seemed far remote; the isolation as of an aeroplane, as of a ship at sea, protected them from external intrusion.
Inside the room a party of four were assembled round the tea-table; the hostess, mother of the girl who sat in the window-seat, was wondering, without impatience, as was becoming to so chinned and contented a face, when Mrs. Alston would cease gesticulating with her sandwich and eat it, instead of using it as a conductor’s baton to emphasize her points in the discourse to which nobody was listening. The sandwich had already a large semicircular bite out of it, which penetrated well past its centre, and one more application (if she would only make it) to that capacious mouth would render it reasonable to suppose that she had finished her tea. Mrs. Heaton herself had done so; so also had the stout grey-haired man with the varnished face, and as for Mrs. Underwood, she had long ago drunk her cup of hot water and refused any further nourishment. But while Mrs. Alston brandished her crescent of a sandwich, and continued talking as if somebody had contradicted her, it was impossible to suggest a move to the bridge-table that stood ready with new packs and sharpened pencils a couple of yards away. To the boy and girl in the window that quartette of persons seemed of supreme unimportance both by reason of their age and of the earnest futility of their conversation. They talked eagerly about dull things like politics and prices instead of being flippant, in the modern style, about interesting things. Between them and the younger generation there was the great gulf digged by the unrelenting years, and set on fire by the war. It was not flaring and exploding any longer, but lay there in smouldering impassable clinkers.
“High prices and high wages!” asserted Mrs. Alston. “That’s what is going to be the ruin of the country. I’ve said over and over again, ‘Why not have an Act of Parliament to halve the price of food and coal and that sort of thing, and another Act, unless you could get it into the same one, to reduce wages by a half also?’ High prices, so everybody allows, are the cause of high
wages, and if miners and that sort of person could buy their food and their clothes at half the price they pay for them now, there would not be the slightest difficulty in reducing wages by a half, instead of multiplying them by two every time that they threaten to strike. Coal! The root of all the trouble is the price of coal. Reduce the price of coal by half, and instantly the price of transport and gas and electricity will go down in a corresponding manner. Steel, too, and linen; it all depends on coal. The English sovereign has to-day hardly more than half the buying power it used to have. Hardly more than half! Restore it, then, by reducing the price of everything else, including wages. Including wages, mind! Otherwise you will find yourselves in a fine mess!”
She put the rest of her sandwich into her mouth, precisely as Mrs. Heaton had hoped and even foreseen. That made her mouth quite full, and for the moment she was as dumb as the adder. Her hostess, alert for this psychological occasion, gave a short, judicial and fulsome summing-up, addressed to the court in general.
“Well, dearest Mary,” she said. “You have made me understand it all now, a thing which I never did before. So well put, was it not, Mr. Steel, and I’m sure quite unanswerable. We must none of us attempt to argue with dearest Mary, because she would show us at once how stupid it was of us, and I, for one, hate to be made a fool of. What a good explanation! Quite brilliant! So now shall we get to our bridge? I expect we’re all going to the opera to-night, and so we shall all want to dress early. Dear me, it’s after half-past five already! Will nobody have any more tea? Quite sure? Shall we cut, then? Oh, there are Nellie and Peter in the window. Wouldn’t you like to cut in, too, dear?”
“No, mother, we shouldn’t!” said Nellie.
The four others swooped to the bridge-table, with the swift sure flight of homing pigeons, and hastily cut their cards in order to give no time for repentance on the part of the two others.
“You and I, Mr. Steel,” said Mrs. Heaton hastily. “Quite sure you wouldn’t like to play, Peter?”
“Quite,” said Peter gently. “I should hate it; thanks awfully.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure you won’t — my deal I think, partner. Shall it be pennies?”
Mr. Steel had a whimsical idea.
“Oughtn’t we to halve our points, too, Mary?” he said. “Like wages and coal?”
For a moment he was sorry he had been so rashly humorous, for Mrs. Alston opened her mouth and drew in her breath as if to speak on a public platform to the largest imaginable audience. Then, luckily, she found something so remarkable in her hand that her fury for political elucidation was quenched, and she devoted the muscles of her athletic mind to considering what she would do if the dealer was so rash as to call no trumps. Thereafter the great deeps, dimly peopled with enemies ready to pounce out of the subaqueous shadows and double you, completely submerged the four of them. They lit cigarettes as in a dream, and smoked them in alternate hells and heavens.
Nellie looked at them once or twice, as an anaesthetist might look at his patient to see whether he was quite unconscious. The third glance was convincing.
“It must be rather sweet to be middle-aged, Peter,” she said. “For the next two hours they’ll think about nothing but aces and trumps!”
“Sign of youth,” said Peter.
“Why?
“Because they’re absorbed, like children. When you were little, you could only think about one thing at a time. It might be dentist or it might be hoops. But you and I can’t think about anything for more than five minutes together, or care about anything for more than two. I suppose that when you’re old you recapture that sort of youthfulness.”
He paused a moment.
“Go on: tell me about it all,” he said.
Nellie did not reply at once, but began plaiting her fingers together with the little finger on the top. They were slender and small like her face, which narrowed very rapidly from the ears downwards to a pointed chin. Loose yellow hair, the colour of honey, grew low over her forehead, and just below it, her eyebrows, noticeably darker than her hair, made high arches, giving her face an expression of irony and surprise. Her forehead ran straight into the line of her nose, and a short upper lip held her mouth in imperfect control, for it hinted and wondered, and was amused and contemptuous as its mood took it. Now it half-smiled; now it was half serious, but always it only hinted.
Peter apparently grew impatient of her silence and her finger plaiting.
“You’re making them look like bananas on a street-barrow,” he observed.
Nellie smoothed them out and gave an appreciative sigh.
“Oh, I bought two to-day,” she said, “and ate them in the street. I had to throw the skins away, and then I was afraid that somebody would slip on them and break his leg.”
“So you picked them up again,” suggested Peter.
“No, I didn’t. I was only sorry for anybody who might slip on them. I couldn’t tell who it was going to be, and probably I shouldn’t know him—”
“Get on,” he said.
“Oh, about Philip. Well, there it was. He asked me, you see, and — of course, he’s rather old, but he’s tremendously attractive. And it’s so safe and pleasant, and I like being adored. After all, you and I have talked it over often enough, and you knew just as well as I did that I was going to accept him if he wanted me.”
Nellie suddenly felt that she was justifying what she had done, and she did not mean to do that. What she had done justified itself by its own inherent good sense. She changed her tone, and began counting on those slim fingers which just now had introduced the extraneous subject of bananas.
“Peter, darling,” she said. “If his grandfather and an uncle and two children of the uncle die, there is no doubt whatever that I shall be a peeress. Won’t that be fun? I feel that Uncle Robert and the two children may easily die; they’re the sort of people who do die, but I doubt whether grandpapa ever will. He’s like the man with the white beard; do I mean the Ancient Mariner or the Ancient of Days, who comes in Ezekiel?”
Peter Mainwaring rocked backwards in the window-seat with a sudden little explosion of laughter that made all the bridge players look up as if their heads were tied to the same tweaked string. Then they submerged again.
“Not Ezekiel, anyhow,” he said. “It’s either Daniel or Coleridge. I expect Coleridge.”
“Yes, I mean Coleridge,” she said. “The man who stops the wedding guest; wedding guest was what suggested it. Grandpapa always wanted Philip to marry one of those cousins of his, who look like tables with drawers in them. Long legs and bumps on their faces like the handles of the drawers. But Philip wouldn’t.”
Peter ran his fingers along the line of his jaw as if to be sure that he had shaved that morning. His face for a man of twenty-two was ridiculously smooth and hairless; it did not much matter whether he had shaved or not.
“Naturally Philip wouldn’t,” he said, “but that’s got nothing to do with it. I don’t want to know why Philip didn’t do something, but why you did. I want to see your point, to do you justice. At present I feel upset about it. You know quite well that there’s only one person you ought to marry.”
“You?” asked Nellie, feeling that the question was quite unnecessary.
“How clever of you to guess. You are clever sometimes. Oh, I know we’ve talked it over enough and seen how impossible it was, but when it comes to your marrying someone else—”
He lit a match and blew it out again.
“I know,” he said. “You’ve got threepence a year, and I’ve got twopence, so that in the good old times we should have been able to buy one pound of sugar every Christmas. Even then we should have had nothing to eat with it. But what you haven’t sufficiently reckoned with is the fact that by the time I am a hundred and fifty years old, I shall get a pension of a hundred and fifty pounds from the Foreign Office. But it’s rather a long time to wait.”
Nellie’s eyes suddenly grew fixed and rapt.
“Oh, Peter, one moment!
” she whispered. “Look quickly at mamma’s face. When that holy expression comes on it, it always means that she is intending to declare no trumps. So when I’m playing against her, if it’s my turn first I always declare one no trumps, and then she has to declare two. Wait one second, Peter.”
“No trumps,” said Mrs. Heaton.
“There, I told you so!” said Nellie. “Yes; it is rather long to wait, though I don’t mean to say that a hundred and fifty isn’t a very pleasant age, dear. The people in Genesis usually lived five hundred years before they married, and begat sons and daughters. Anyhow, I shall be a widow before you’re a hundred and fifty, and then we shall be engaged for three hundred and fifty years more, and then we shall totter to the altar. I can’t help talking drivel; it’s all too serious to take seriously. By the way, I shall be richer than you eventually, for when mamma dies I shall have two thousand a year, but that won’t be for two thousand years. We have been born too soon, Peter!”
Peter thought this not worth answering, but lifting one of his knees, nursed it between his clasped hands in silence. For her loose honey-coloured hair, he had a crisp coal-blackness; he was tall for her small slim stature, and his lips were set to definite purposes, whereas hers were malleable to adapt themselves to any emotion that might waywardly blow on her. But both, in compensation for differences that were complementary, were triumphantly alike in the complete soullessness of their magnificent youth; without violation of any internal principle they might, either of them, shoot up singing with the lark, or pad and prowl with the ruthless hunger of the tiger, or burrow with the mole. They were Satyr and Hamadryad, some ancient and eternally young embodiment of life, with whim to take the place of conscience, and the irresponsible desire of wild things to do duty for duty, and impulse to take the place of reason. Each, too, had developed to an almost alarming degree that modern passion for introspection, which is an end in itself, and like a barren tree, yields no fruit in the ways of action or renunciation.
