Works of e f benson, p.718
Works of E F Benson, page 718
His face glowed as he kissed her.
This interview was typical of what their tête-à-tête meetings became. At each one of them she seemed to be drawing closer to him, revealing herself as she did so by her fine and subtle perceptions. Often there was a touch of gentle irony about her; often, as when on this occasion she mended his buttonhole for him, he read into her a world of underlying tenderness that shyly showed itself in such trivialities. But in the blind idealization of his love, what he missed altogether was that in reality she was not revealing herself, but learning about him, making experiment and finding out just what suited him, what fed his contentment. What seemed spontaneous in her was, in fact, the result of skilled perception, sincere in intention, though based on an insincerity. For her intention was sincere enough, namely, to make him believe in the truth of his idealization of her, to make him feel that he had found in her what he had sought. But this very sincerity was falsified by the underlying insincerity, for, though he had told her that all he asked for was that she should accept his devotion, her instinct told her that no human lover can ever be satisfied with that. The divinest love of all does not demand love as a return for love, but as the necessary complement to make love complete, and she did not give him love, but only little signs and hints that he could not but mistake for it. It was true that she wanted to love him, but the tokens she gave, honoured by him as glimpses of the authentic coin, were in fact counterfeit, minted not in the heart but in the head.
There were many other meetings, not in private, but very much indeed in public, as at the party that evening to which Celia had alluded as one of her mother’s greater menageries. Often on such evenings when her friends were about her, and he was separated from her by a sea of laughter and chatter, he would find applicable to her and himself Browning’s famous simile concerning the moon with its other side unseen of the world. Here in public was her “world’s side”; he “stood with them and praised her,” knowing that for him and not for them were
The novel
Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of,
Where I hush and bless myself with silence.
So it was not unwillingly that he saw her thus, for every now and then there would come for him even there some glimpse of the other side, as she gave him a glance, or smiled at him across the table with a look momentary indeed, but meant for him alone; or she would just raise her eyebrows as she looked at him, as if deprecating the presence of all the others who got between herself and him, and were, for all the gaiety and laughter, nice, nugatory nuisances with whom it was necessary, for the sake of good manners, to be patient. Yet the “nuisances” were nice; they were her friends, boys back on leave from France, with whom, to Bernard’s rather maturer ears, she talked a sort of telegraphic jargon interspersed with Christian names. He felt himself a little elderly and staid in their company; there was a certain absence of manners about them, not bad manners, but an off-hand intimacy quite unself-conscious that took him and everybody else for granted.... There was a youth called Tommy, whom he could not remember ever having seen before, who presently addressed him as Bernard, which rather astonished him. But, after all, if he had wanted to call Tommy by his name, he too must have said “Tommy,” for he had not the remotest idea what Tommy’s surname was. That was part of the haphazard geniality of Mrs. Courthope’s house: most people knew each other, nobody was ever introduced to anybody else, but was free to find out the names and histories of other guests for himself. Then there was a Jimmie, in Flying Corps uniform, who looked like an extremely young Greek god, and was presently discovered by Bernard to be the hero of a Zeppelin fight, and there was Violet in a bemused state of adoration, and she with the two boys and Celia formed a focus of animated telegraphic conversation at the end of the table. At one moment they were discussing Jimmie’s hair, the next a poem that had appeared in The Times that morning, which had made Bernard’s head whirl, and even while Celia was explaining it, Tommy had something to say about vermin in the trenches, and Violet asked if they might play bridge after dinner. Then Tommy suddenly discovered that Bernard was going to marry Celia, offered his congratulations, and though dinner was not yet half over, began eating chocolates out of a dish in front of him. And there among them was Celia, no longer slow in her speech, but with staccato interjected phrases, taking her colour, chameleon-like, from her immediate surroundings, gesticulating with her slim fingers, and completely at home in these brisk dartings of thought and subject. Yet now and then she had one of those secret glances for him, giving him a glimpse of “the novel silver lights,” and next moment she was back again, showing the world’s side to the world, belonging not only to him in the secret of the heart, but no less to this young, more vivid race that was opening its flowers in the glare and hothouse of war, in conditions utterly alien to those in which any previous generation had grown up. Bernard, still quite young, and severed in age from these boys who chattered and laughed by not more then ten years, suddenly felt himself immeasurably strange to that milieu in which Celia was as immeasurably at home. He, educated and shaped in another mould, was utterly different in mind and temperament alike from those who were now being wrought into new forms by the relentless hammer. He had done his best to take his part in the real business of war, but had been ear-marked for work no less essential. Yet these boys had a knowledge of the significance of that bloody and tremendous tragedy that could never be learned except by sheer experience of the terror by night and the arrow by day. They were of the new type that would remake the world: he a piece of the old world that would, in ways unknown, be spiritually refashioned by such as they. Every man in England now between the ages of eighteen and forty was being trained for fighting, or was in the thick of it already, and those who at the most impressionable age were scanning the skies for the enemy’s airships, and the sea for their submarines, or were holding the lines against the tempest of shell, must surely look on life ever after with utterly different eyes from those who had been bred and consolidated in their manhood during the secure years that had gone before. It was the same, too, with the women and girls in the thousands of hospitals all over the country, who in other years would have been dancing their way through the untroubled months and hunting and playing games.
Among the other guests that night was Celia’s father, who had, in spite of the urgent social claims of Merriby, come up to town on the announcement of Celia’s engagement to play (not the heavy but) the light and airy father in the style that commended itself to him as impressive and suitable. His dress always seemed an essential part of his personality, so aptly did it comment on his temperament, and to-night he had on a ruby-coloured velveteen smoking suit, with a soft frilled shirt. Never had he realized in greater perfection the rôle of king at a watering-place: he was full of long stories about his athletic prowess, his parties, his student-life in Paris, and he quickly made a circle of astounded silence in his immediate neighbourhood. He had tucked his napkin into his shirt collar to show how French he was, and with the same end in view he garlanded his talk with sprigs from that language. Already there had been a slight gaffe at Celia’s end of the table, for Jimmie, suddenly fascinated by Philip’s amazing appearance and conversation, burst into a fit of laughter, unquenchable for several minutes. When he was exhausted, he gasped and wiped his eyes, and asked Celia who that was. Then Celia, steering a course exquisite in tact to Bernard’s mind, had done precisely the right thing. She laughed too, and said, “Why, that’s darling Daddy: isn’t he an angel? He tells the loveliest stories.”
Philip hurried round the table, glass in hand, to the vacant chair next Bernard, when the men were left alone.
“I suppose I must constitute myself as host, Matcham,” he said. “The port: let us have the port moving. I recommend it: sound wine, though not quite equal to some I’ve got at Merriby. I wanted to have a word with you. Certain business affairs we ought to discuss. My wife, as you probably know, hasn’t got much head for business matters: no women have. Ah, I see you want a light for your cigarette. Allow me.”
He pulled out the famous tinder-box, and from its fireworks eventually produced a light.
“As you know,” he continued in his gobbling utterance, “the chances are that I shall come into my family honours, but that is only a contingency, and cannot of course enter into the settlements we shall have to make. Ah, the port is with you. I refuse to allow you to pass it without helping yourself. When next you honour me” — and he made his little French bow— “at Merriby, you won’t want to pass the port which I will give you without claiming your share of it. But trust me: one more glass of this won’t hurt you. Allow me—”
“Thanks, but I’ve begun smoking,” said Bernard.
“Nonsense! Claret and cigarette, no: port and cigarette, yes. Our settlements, as I was saying—”
“Wouldn’t it be better if our lawyers discussed them under our instructions, Mr. Courthope?” said Bernard.
“I don’t employ a lawyer,” said Philip. “Why should I employ a lawyer and pay him, through the nose too, for what I can manage myself? Only imbeciles should employ a lawyer, imbeciles and women, who don’t know the difference between a cheque and a promissory note. And I feel sure you are quite capable of understanding these things and putting your point of view to me, as I shall to you. Excuse me, would you please drop the ‘Mr. Courthope.’
‘Philip’ is the most sensible name for you to call me by, for though you’re going to marry my daughter, there can’t be many years between us. How old are you?”
“Thirty,” said Bernard.
“Well, not a bad age for marrying. I myself, of course, married a good bit younger than that. The thing is this: beyond a few hundreds a year, which my wife allows me, I have practically no income, nor shall I have until, as I say, I succeed to the family honours. If my brother chooses to do anything for Celia, that’s his affair, not mine. If I were you, I should put that pretty strongly to him. You may tell him, if you wish, that I quite agree that he should do something for Celia.”
“I think that must be my affair,” said Bernard. “Just as you please. Then there’s her mother. In my position I can’t very well tell my wife what I think she ought to do for Celia. But you will not, I think, find her ungenerous; she will see things in a suitable light, for it is a great thing for her that her daughter should marry a man of your rank. Personally, I don’t care two straws for that: I would allow Celia to marry a costermonger if I thought she would be happy with him, but, as you know, Americans often have certain notions about rank. I wash my hands of that: I leave you to deal with my wife. Now, in turn, I should like to know what — dear me, it’s getting rather late. Perhaps these gentlemen, if they have finished their wine, would go upstairs, and say that I and Lord Matcham will follow when we have done our conversation. Pray take your cigarettes and cigars upstairs, gentlemen: my wife and I both permit smoking anywhere in the house.” He hurried to the door with his smart military walk, and held it open, bowing to the men as they passed him. Tommy Bridges had taken the dish of chocolates from the table, and was prudently carrying it upstairs, and this gave rise to a suitable speech from Philip.
“Aha; pilfering sweets, I see,” he said. “I exact my price for my silence: give me two of them. I’ve got the digestion of a boy still, nothing disagrees with me.”
He bustled back to Bernard, chewing a chocolate of the most limpet-like kind.
“Got hold of a stick-jaw,” he said. “Well, my teeth are good enough still: never had toothache in my life. Now we can talk more comfortably. You see my position: I have been quite frank about it. If and when, as those beastly lawyers say, I come into the family honours, I dare say I shall be able to make Celia some allowance, though if my wife chooses to take her place as Viscountess Courthope, I shan’t have very much to spare. But that’s a contingency, as I said, and we can’t take it into account. So there are my cards on the table. Let’s see yours.”
Bernard felt that he could not continue this conversation for a moment longer. Settlements, he knew, had to be made, but to conduct them in person with a man of this type was to him like an appraising and valuing of Celia. True, it was her father to whom he was talking, who certainly had not only the right but the duty of seeing that suitable provision was made for his daughter, but there lurked, to Bernard’s sense, some design, not yet fully indicated, behind this frankness. He felt unjustified at present in entertaining such a notion, but the notion was distinctly there. This mitigated the feeling that Celia was being valued; it was perhaps Philip himself who was under the hammer.
“I am instructing my lawyer,” he said, “for though you prefer to deal independently of lawyers, I prefer to deal through them. You see, our cases are rather different; you are not proposing, as far as I understand, to settle anything on Celia, so naturally there is no need for you to employ any one, as there is nothing to be done. Please do not imagine for a moment that I have the faintest desire that you should do anything for her. There is absolutely no need, and I quite see that you are not in the position to do so.”
Philip drew himself up and looked rather smaller than before. He made a little bow.
“Naturally: I am accustomed to have my word believed,” he said, twirling his moustaches to an imperial elevation, as if Bernard had cast some doubt on what he said. “Financially, my wife must represent me. That is the position in which I find myself.”
This was very nobly said, but Bernard thought that this design which lurked behind his frankness took somewhat more definite shape. They were coming to it.
“Of course, if you prefer to make your communication with me through my lawyer, you are at liberty to do so,” Philip went on. “Neither the law of England nor what is usual between gentlemen prevents it. But it would save some trouble, perhaps, some to-ing and fro-ing and notes in the margin, if you indicated to me the lines on which your instructions will go. Or, if you will, I will indicate to you the lines that I personally should consider satisfactory. Ah, I see you want a light again. Take one of my cigarettes, you will find them better than my wife’s.”
“Thank you, I won’t smoke just yet,” said Bernard.
“As you will But you can smoke my cigarettes all day without being the worse for it. As regards these settlements. As you very well know, Celia was brought up by me in every comfort and luxury; you have seen for yourself how we lived at Merriby. Naturally, as Lady Matcham” — he again made a little bow— “she will not be deprived of what she is used to. You will also no doubt make a handsome provision for her in case of your death. So far so good. Now we come to another point. I regard an alliance into my family as an honour to whoever makes it. Probably you take the same view about yours.”
Bernard could not quite let this pass.
“I think nothing whatever about that,” he said. “I am sufficiently honoured by Celia’s acceptance of me.”
“There is no harm in a little family pride. I own to it myself. I was approaching a second point. Should my wife die, I have no reason to suppose that she will leave anything to me; all, I imagine, will go to Celia. Naturally, I have never spoken of that to her; however poor one is, one may give oneself the luxury of delicacy of feeling. But I should then have to throw myself on Celia’s generosity or on yours. That would be very painful to me.”
Bernard was quite sure he anticipated the inference that was coming, and got up. He quite understood now what the latent design was, and with a delicacy that really rivalled Philip’s, he wished to spare his future father-in-law making an actual definite request.
“I hope you will permit me to make some proper provision for you,” he said, “without any further delay. You will do me a great favour if you will allow me to mention that to my lawyer.”
Philip got up, too, with a magnificent shrug of the shoulders.
“I am entirely in your hands in that matter. The subject is one I could not discuss with you,” said he, having successfully induced Bernard to discuss it. “Shall we go upstairs? There were some little conjuring tricks I promised to show the ladies.”
Philip made a few dance-steps as they crossed the hall, whistling a tune, and thinking to himself what a wonderful diplomat he would have made, if he had decided to devote his talents to the service of the country.
“One gets quite spoiled down at Merriby,” he said. “There is always a dance of some sort going on every evening. They tell me I have denuded London of all its dancing young men. Do you dance?”
“Occasionally,” said Bernard.
“Ah! Celia will look after you about that. She dances very tolerably. My wife was never much of a performer, though I tried to teach her. I often say to myself that my own dancing days are over, but down at Merriby I am positively not allowed to stop.” —
He made another little bow at the drawing-room door.
“Please!” he said.
Violet and Celia with the two young men were already playing bridge, and Philip went across to their table.
“Ah, bridge, I see,” he said. “Who has made trumps? Spades, did you say, Celia? You should have made no trumps, or left it to your partner.”
“But my partner went two spades,” said Celia.
“How is that? What do you mean?”
“Auction,” said Celia. “You don’t understand it, Daddy. You’ve only played the old bridge.”
“What’s that?” asked Tommy.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Celia. “You said something and stopped. Oh! Then I make three spades. Pass the chocolates, Jimmie.”
“Ain’t any,” said Jimmie. “I double.”
“Cad,” said Celia. “What have you got, partner?”
“Stinkers,” said Tommy, putting his hand down. “Ha! Now you’re caught,” said Philip. “I see the plan. I’ll cut in after this. I have seen them playing it in the card-room at Merriby. It’s a gamble, though. Doesn’t come up to the old game.”
