Encounters: stories (7 page)

HERBERT PILKINGTON rang the electric bell and, taking a few steps back, looked up to contemplate the house-front. In the full glare of the westerly sun it all looked trim and orderly enough; Cicely had not done so badly for herself, after all, by marrying Richard Evans. Herbert congratulated himself on having foreseen the whole thing from the beginning and furthered it with tact and sympathy. Of course it had been difficult to get poor Cicely off.... The hall-door was opened suddenly by Cicely's nervous little maid, who, flattening herself against the passage wall to allow of his entrance, contrived, by dodging suddenly under his arm, to reach the drawing-room door before him and fling it wide.

Richard and Cicely were discovered seated at opposite ends of the sofa and looking very conscious. Cicely wore a pink blouse; she looked prettier than Herbert could have imagined and curiously fluffy about the ii6

head. The white-walled drawing-room, dim in the ochreous twilight of drawn blinds, was hung with Richard's Italian water-colours and other pictorial mementos of the honeymoon; it smelt very strongly of varnish, and seemed to Herbert emptier than a drawing-room ought to be. The chairs and sofas had retreated into corners, they lacked frilliness; there was something just as startled and staccato about the room as there was about Cicely and Richard. Poor Mother and Dear Father eyed one another apprehensively from opposite walls; the very tick of the clock was hardly regular.

They always gave one a warm welcome; Cicely was quite effusive, and long Richard Evans got up and stood in front of the fireplace, delightedly kicking the fender.

"Tea!"commanded Cicely through the crack of the door; just as she had done at No. 17 and at the New House, during the few short months of her reign there.

"Hot day,"said Herbert, sitting down carefully.

"Richard's hot,"said Cicely proudly;"he's been mowing the lawn."

"Home early?"

"Well, yes. One must slack off a bit this weather."

"Idle dog,"said Herbert archly.

"Doesn't being engaged agree with Herbert!"cried Cicely, slapping his knee. (She had never taken these liberties at No. 17.)"Don't you feel wonderful, Herbert? Isn't it not like anything you ever felt before?"

Herbert ran one finger round the inside of his collar and smiled what Doris called his quizzical smile.

"Only three weeks more,"contributed Richard."And how's the trousseau getting on?"

"My trousseau?"

"Ha, ha! Hers, of course. My dear Herbert, those dressmaker women have got you in their fist. If they don't choose to let her have the clothes in time she'll put the whole thing off."

Herbert was not to be alarmed."Oh, they'll hurry up,"he said easily."I'm making it worth their while. By Gad, Cicely, she does know how to dress."118

"They are most wonderful clothes—she is lucky, isn't she, Richard?"

Herbert beamed complacency."She deserves it all,"he said.

"I think she's getting handsomer every day."

"Happiness does a good deal for us all,"said Herbert gallantly.

"By the way,"said Cicely, winking across at Richard (an accomplishment he must have taught her),"look carefully round the room, Herbert, and see if you see anyone you know."

Herbert, who had taken Richard's place on the sofa and was sitting with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out, turned his head as far as his collar would permit and made an elaborate inspection of the chimney-piece, the whatnot, the piano-top.

"Very well she looks up there, too,"he said, raising himself a little with arched back for a better view, then relapsing with a grunt of relief. He had seen what he expected, the portrait of his beloved looking out coyly at him from between two top-heavy vases."Where did you get that. Cicely?"

"She brought it round herself, the day 

before yesterday. She came in just before supper; T was out, but she stayed a long time talking to Richard. Oh, Richard, look at Herbert getting crimson with jealousy!"Herbert, who never changed colour except after meals or from violent exertion, beamed with gratification."Never mind, Herbert,"said Cicely,"Frn jealous, too, you see."

Herbert was often irritated by the way that Richard and Cicely looked at one another across him. He did not enjoy the feeling of exclusion. But of course he and Doris would be able to look at each other across people just like that when they were married.

"Do bring it over here, Richard,"said Cicely, nodding at the portrait."I want to look at it again."Tea was carried in, not noiselessly, but quite unnoticed. The brother and sister were looking at the photograph. Herbert leant back, smiling at it with an absent and leisurely pride. Cicely bent forward in eager and short-sighted scrutiny. She seemed to be looking for something in it that she could not find.

A young lady with symmetrically puffed-out hair returned both regards from out of a 120

silver frame with slightly bovine intensity. Her lips were bowed in an indulgent smile —perhaps the photographer had been a funny man—a string of pearls closely encircled a long plump neck.

"She has framed it for you very handsomely,"said Herbert. "I said to her when we were first engaged, ' Never stint over a present when it is necessary '—I think that is so sound. ' Of course I do not approve of giving indiscriminately,' I said, ' but when they must be given let them be handsome. It is agreeable to receive good presents, and to give them always makes a good impression.'"

Cicely looked guilty; Richard had insisted on consigning the coal-scuttle that Herbert had given them to the darkest corner of the study.

"Doris always understands me perfectly,"continued Herbert, examining the frame to see if the price were still on the back."I think it will never be necessary for me to say anything to her twice. If I even express an opinion she always remembers. It's quite extraordinary."

"Extraordinary,"echoed Richard. His voice had often an ironical note in it; this had prejudiced Herbert against him at first, he seemed rather a disagreeable fellow, but now Herbert knew that it did not mean anything at all. Richard, though not showy-looking, was really a good sort of chap.

Cicely, a little pink (or perhaps it was only the reflection from her blouse), drew up the tea-table and began pouring out. There was a short silence while Richard replaced the photograph; they heard two blue-bottles buzzing against the ceihng.

Richard hacked three-quarters of a new cake into slices, placed the plate invitingly at Herbert's elbow and sat down on a music-stool. Lifting his feet from the floor he rotated idly till Cicely passed him his cup, which he emptied in three or four gulps and put down, then sat gazing expectantly at his brother-in-law.

"Marriage is a wonderful thing,"said Herbert conversationally, recrossing his legs."Look at you two now, how comfortable you are. It's all been most successful."

Cicely had never known till this moment whether Herbert really approved of them.

"The most surprising people,"he continued,"make a success of matrimony. Of course, people have varying ideas of comfort; everybody does not understand this, therefore there have been, alas, unhappy marriages."

"But the right people always find each other in the end,"said Cicely dreamily."You did sort of feel, didn't you, Herbert, when you first met Doris"

"Women have these fancies"—Herbert was all indulgence for them—"Doris has confessed to me that she was affected, quite extraordinarily aflFected, by our first meeting. It made little or no impression upon me. But Doris is a true woman."

"What is a true woman?"asked Richard suddenly. Herbert thought it must be very uncomfortable to live with a person who asked these disconcerting, rather silly questions. He supposed Cicely was used to his ways. Cicely sat stirring her tea and smiling fatuously at her husband.

Herbert, after consideration, decided to

turn the question lightly aside."I think we all know,"he said,"zchen we find her'\ He wished Doris were sitting beside him instead of Cicelv; he would have looked at her sideways and she would have been so much pleased. As it was, he looked across the table at the bread and butter, and Richard jumped up and offered him some more.

"Yes, but what does she consist of?"asked Richard excitedly, forgetting to put down the plate. Herbert was silent; he thought this sounded rather indelicate.

"Sensibility?"suggested Cicely.

"Infinite sensibility,"said Richard,"and patience."

"Contrariness,"added Cicely.

"Inconsistency,"amended Richard.

"Oh no. Contrariness, Richard, and weak will."

Herbert looked from one to the other, supposing they were playing some sort of game.

"She is infinitely adaptable, too,"said Richard.

"She has to be, poor thing,"said Cicely (this did not come well from Cicely). 124

"Dear me, Cicely,"interposed Herbert, blinking;"so you consider women are to be pitied, do you?"Cicely opened her mouth and shut it again. She clasped her hands.

"This does not speak well for Richard,"said Herbert humorously."Doris would be much amused. Now I suppose Doris is to be pitied, isn't she?"

"Oh no, Herbert,"cried Cicely quickly.

"She doesn't seem unhappy. In fact, I believe there are very few young ladies Doris would change places with at present. And I think you are wrong, my dear Richard; I consider woman most consistent, if she is taught—and she can be easily taught. She is simpler and more child-like than we are, of course. Her way in life is simple; she is seldom placed in a position where it is necessary for her to think for herself. She need never dictate—except, of course, to servants, and there she's backed by her husband's authority. All women wish to marry."

Richard and Cicely listened respectfully.

"A true woman,"continued Herbert, warming to his subject,"loves to cling."

"But she mustn't cling heavily, must she?"asked Cicely.

"She clings not only to her husband but in a lesser degree to her household and"—he coughed slightly—"children. Her sphere"

"—Is the home,"said Richard quickly."But suppose she hasn't got a home?"

She may now hope till a quite advanced age to obtain a home by matrimony. If she cannot she must look for work. It is always possible for an unmarried woman to make herself useful if she is willing and"—he considered carefully—"bright."

"Do you like women to be bright?"asked Cicely eagerly.

"It depends,"said Herbert guardedly. He had hated Cicely when she was skittish; it had sat grotesquely upon her as a spinster, though now that she was married a little matronly playfulness did not ill become her."Doris is bright, bright and equable."

Remembering with resentment how uncomfortable Cicely had sometimes made him, he raised his voice a little."She has no moods. She has simple tastes. She is always very bright and equable,"

"So you really suit each other very well,"summarised Richard, twirling on the music-stool."Appreciation is everything to a woman. I congratulate her."

"Yes,"said Herbert simply."But you should congratulate me —it is more usual, I think. But we are past all that now; dear me, how many letters there were to answer! And now there are the presents to acknowledge. A very handsome inkstand and a pair of vases came this morning. And in another three weeks we shall be at Folkestone!"...

His sister and brother-in-law were so silent that he thought they must have gone to sleep. They were an erratic couple; matrimony seemed to have made them stupid. Richard sat biting his moustache and staring at Cicely, who, with bent head, absently smoothed out creases in the tablecloth. One might almost have said they were waiting for him to go. It was curious how little of this he had suspected in Cicely, although she was his sister. In the evenings he knew that Richard and she read poetry together, and not improbably kissed; through 127

the folding doors he could hear their cold supper being laid out in the dining-room. How could he have guessed that something inside her had been clamouring for these preposterous evenings all her life? She had seemed so contented, sewing by the lamp while he smoked and read the paper and Poor Mother dozed.

It was wasting pity to be sorry for them; he turned from his anaemic relations to review his long perspective of upholstered happiness with Doris. One might almost say that the upholstery was Doris. Herbert, feeling his heart grow great within him, could have written a testimonial to all the merchants of Romance. Having given love a trial he had found it excellent, and was prepared to recommend it personally, almost to offer a guarantee. Dear Doris would be waiting for him this evening; demure, responsive, decently elated; he was going to visit at her home. This intention he communicated to Richard and Cicely, who rose in vague and badly-feigned distress. Herbert had said nothing about going, as it happened, but since they had so understood 128

him—well, they were scarcely entertaining; he had been there long enough.

They saw him to the gate and stood together under the laburnum tree, watching him down the road. Richard's arm crept round Cicely's shoulders."But this, ah God, is love!"he quoted.

And Herbert had forgotten them before he reached the corner.

IN the doorway of Fullers', Regent Street, they came face to face. Mrs. Windermere grasped both Esmee's wrists, drew them towards her bosom, and cried in her deep tremolo, "My dear I"

Esmee had not imagined Mrs. Windermere out of Italy. She had never pictured that little pug-dog face without the background of flickering olives, or of velvety sun-gold walls, with cypresses dotted here and there like the exclamation-marks in the lady's conversation. Mrs. Windermere now regarded her with intensity through the long fringes of her hat-brim. She said,"The same Esmee!"and gently massaged the wrists with her thumbs.

"This is splendid,"said Esmee inadequately, conscious of a rising pinkness and of the long stream of outcoming ladies dammed by their encounter."What a funny coincidence!"

"God guided me, dearest!"Mrs. Windermere always mentioned the Deity with

confidential familiarity; one felt she had the entree everywhere."I meant to have lunched at Stewart's."

"I'm sorry you've had lunch.""I will have more,"said Mrs. Windermere recklessly. They pushed their way upstairs and stood over a little table in the window while it was vacated. Esmee untwined the dangling parcels from her fingers and propped up her umbrella in a corner. Mrs. Windermere scanned the menu with the detachment of the satiated, and Esmee confessed that she was hungry."Then it must be rissoles,"said her friend enticingly —"little chicken rissoles. I will have a cup of chocolate and an eclair"She gave the orders to the waitress and sat looking at Esmee and tapping a corner of the menu card against her mouth."But you don't live in town?""No,"said Esmee; "I'm up for the day. You would have written, wouldn't you, if we hadn't met? I should have been

so much disappointed if we'd never"

"I hope to come and stay with you.""That will be lovely,"said Esmee,

answering the smile. There was a moment's silence."Do you miss Italy?"

"Ye-es."It was an absent answer; Mrs. Windermere's thoughts were concentrated elsewhere."There's something strange about you, child,"she said.

Esmee now remembered how her conversation had been always little rushing advances on the personal. She had a way of yawning reproachfully with a little click of the teeth and a"Surely we two know each other too well to talk about the weather?"if one tried to give the conversation an outward twist. Esmee had found their first walks together very interesting, they had had the chilly, unusual, dream-familiar sense of walking in one's skin. "There is something strange,"said Mrs. Windermere.

"Yoii look just the same as ever."

"There's a stillness here,"said the other, slipping a hand beneath her fur."Like the stillness in the heart of the whirlwind. Get right into it, live in your most interior self, and you're unchangeable. You haven't found it yet; you're very young, you've never penetrated."

"I don't think 1 have, perhaps,"said Esmee thoughtfully, under the returning influence of Italy."Perhaps I rather like twirling y

"Ye-es,"said Mrs. Windermere, leaning back in her chair. Her lustrous eyes looked out mournfully, contentedly, from under pouchy lids, through the long fringes of her hat; her retrousse nose was powdered delicately mauve, the very moist lips had a way of contracting quickly in the middle of a sentence in an un-puglike effort to retain the saliva. Curly bunches of grey hair lay against her cheeks, a string of Roman pearls was twisted several times round her plump throat; her furs were slung across her bosom and one shoulder; her every movement diffused an odour of Violet de Parme. She had not removed her gloves, and opulent rolls of white kid encircled wrist and forearm; her sleeves fell back from the elbow. She was an orthodox London edition of her Italian self.

"Twirling,"she repeated, narrowing her eyes. She looked round the mild, bright, crowded room, rustling with femininity, with

its air of modest expensiveness."Simply twirling? How"—with an obvious connection of ideas—"is your husband?"

"Very well indeed. He would like so

much"Esmee could not picture Wilfred

meeting Mrs. Windermere."He would have liked to have come up with me to-day,"she concluded.

"Ye-es,"said the other, looking beyond at something."How did he ever come to let you go to Italy—alone?"

"I wasn't alone, though, was I? I was with Aunt Emma. Someone had to take her and I'd never travelled."

"Spiritually, you were alone. You were alert, a-tiptoe, breathlessly expectant. I came —but it might not have been I! How did he come to let you go like that? Men of his type are not so generous."

"But he isn't that type."

The waitress brought the cup of chocolate, the eclair and the rissoles. Mrs. Windermere stretched out across the dishes, gently disengaged the fork from Esmee's fingers, and turned her hand palm upwards on the table.

"That little hand told me everything,"

she said."And do you know, child, you have his image at the back of your eyes. I know the type—Httle loyal person."

"Wilfred likes me to travel,"said Esmee feebly."He finds me rather a tiresome companion when he wants to talk about places, and you see he never has time to take me abroad himself."

"That was a very young marriage,"said Mrs. Windermere, leaning forward suddenly.

"Oh. Do you think so?"

"But you're younger now, after four years of it. Warier, greedier, more dynamic. No children!— never to be any children?"

"I don't know."

"So wise and yet so foolish."She sipped delicately the hot chocolate, put the cup down, and once more slipped her hand under her fur."The Mother-heart,"she said,"is here. It grows and grows—stretching hands out, seeking, finding''

"I expect there are a great many outlets,"said Esmee, helping herself to another rissole,"even if one never has any children of one's own. But I hope"

"What you are seekingI' said Mrs. Windermere firmly, "is a lover"She took her fork up, speared the eclair, and watched the cream ooze forth slowly with a smile of sensual contentment. She had been saying things like this repeatedly, all the time they were in Italy. But they didn't, somehow, sound quite nice in Fullers'. Esmee thought she saw a woman near them looking up.

"I don't think I am, you know,"she argued gently, wondering at what date Mrs. Windermere had arranged to come and stay with them.

"Oh, child, child.... You can't, you know, there's been too much between us. And the Mother-heart knows, you know; the yearning in it brings about a vision. I see you treading strange, dim places; stumbling, crying out, trying to turn back, but always following—the Light."Mrs. Windermere laid down her fork and licked the cream from her lips. "And then,"she said slowly,"I see the Light die out—extinguished."

There was a pause."Thank you very much,"said Esmee earnestly;"it—it saves a lot to know beforehand. I mean if the Light 136

is going to go out there's something rather desperate about my following it, isn't there? Wouldn't it be"

"The Light,"interrupted Mrs. Windermere,"is yours to guard."

"But wouldn't it be"

Mrs. Windermere bowed her head and drew her furs together.

"Such a child"she sighed.

"I think I'll have an eclair too,"said Esmee timidly."Won't you have another one to keep me company?"

"I?"started Mrs. Windermere."I? Eclair? What? Oh well, if it's going to make you shy, my watching."

Esmee ordered two more eclairs."What,"she inquired,"are your plans? Did you think of going back to Italy?"

"With the swallows—not before the swallows. I must smother down the panting and the tugging, because my friends can't let me go. They just rise up and say I mustn't. Commands, of course, are nothing, but entreaties I Did I tell you in Italy what some people call me?"She laughed deprecatingly and watched the waitress threading her way

between the tables with the eclairs. "They call me ' The Helper.' It sounds like something in a mystery play, doesn't it?""Oh yes. It's—it's a beautiful name.""It does seem to be a sort of gift,"said Mrs. Windermere, looking beyond her,"something given one to use. You see, I do see things other people can't see, and tell them, and help them to straighten out. Well, take your case.... And I've another friend in Italy, the one I was going to stay with after we parted—I don't know if I told you about her? Well, she left her husband. She grew up, and found she didn't need him any more. Well, I saw all that for her and was able to help her. I told the other man how things stood—such a manly fellow! He'd been hanging back, not understanding. Well, they went. I bought their tickets for them and saw them off to Italy. They've been having difficult times, but they'll straighten out—I'm still able to help them. I've been staying there a good deal. I am able to help them."

"I suppose they did feel it was the right thing to do,"said Esmee.

"And you,"said Mrs. Windermere, bringing her suddenly into focus."What is going to happen to Yoii? I must come down and have a look at this husband of yours, this Wilfred. Let me see"

She dived suddenly, her bag was on the floor. She reappeared with it, and its mauve satin maw gaped at Esmee while she fumbled in its depths. Out came a small suede notebook, and Mrs. Windermere, feverishly nibbling the point of the pencil, ran her eye down the pages.

"The twentieth?"she said."I could come then if you could have me. If not, the fourteenth of the next, for the week-end— but if I came on the twentieth I could stay longer. Failing the fourteenth."

Esmee pondered, lowering her lashes. " Tm afraid, I'm awfully afraid it will have to be the fourteenth of next. All this month there'll be Wilfred's relations."

" Little caged thing," said Mrs. Windermere tenderly. " Very well, the fourteenth." She jotted down something in her notebook, looked across at Esmee, smiled, and jotted down some more, still with her head

on one side and the little secret smile. " Ideas, ideas, coming and going. . . . And now ! You to your shoppingses and I—well, childie ? "

" Please, the bill," said Esmee to the waitress. "You must let me, please," she whispered to Mrs. Windermere.

" No, I don't like Oh well, well. I

haven't got a Wilfred. Thanks, dear child!"

They pushed their chairs back and went downstairs together. At the door, Esmee drew a valedictory breath. *' It's been ever so nice," she said. " Lovely. Such a bit of luck ! And now, I suppose "

" Which way? Oh, Peter Robinson's ? Well, I'll come with you. It doesn't matter about my little shoppingses."

Firmly encircling Esmee's wrist with a thumb and forefinger she led her down Regent Street.