He had been staring about for several minutes when he felt a hand touching
his arm. He looked round and saw a girl, and though he knew immediately that
it was Elizabeth Garland, he was certain he would never have recognised her
of his own accord. Really, it was as if he had never seen her before.
“Good evening, Mr. Freemantle,” she said, in a
slow soft- toned voice (it was as if, too, he had never heard it before), and
he said “Good evening” and observed her rather incredulously. A
certain sense of the extraordinariness of the situation came over him, and
with a little effort he made himself recollect how matters stood—he a
Browdley parson meeting a young girl at Charing Cross to persuade her not to
run away to Paris with an elderly Jew with a bald head and gold teeth (he
could not unfix that graphic picture from his mind). But the picture gave him
renewed and indignant confidence; by God, he thought, glancing at her again,
she mustn’t do a thing like that; it would be worse than an offence
against morals, it would be—and then he checked himself and wondered
what
could
be worse than an offence against morals? Dimly he felt that
something could be, and the feeling, obscure and transient, linked itself
with all the new and astonishing perceptions that were invading him from all
directions. By God, no, she mustn’t; he must prevent her, at all costs.
And, as earnestly as he had ever prayed for anything, he prayed, wordlessly,
for strength to achieve that end.
“I got your letter,” she was saying, returning his glance with
one just as curious. “It was nice of you to think of meeting me. Are
you in London for long?”
“I go back to-morrow. Just a business visit. I’m afraid I must
have kept you waiting a long time—the traffic delayed me. What a crowd
there is here!”
“Yes,” she agreed. They were still standing exactly where they
had met, on the edge of the pavement, surrounded by eddies of omnibuses,
cabs, and pedestrians. “Have you had tea?” she continued.
“Because if not we might find it quieter inside a caf�.”
“Ah, a good idea.” He had forgotten all about tea himself and
was relieved by the suggestion. It would be easier, no doubt, than talking in
the streets. There was a Lyons tea-shop within a few yards of them, and they
made their way to it, finding a couple of scats at a small table in a corner
of a first-floor room. In the sudden brilliance of electric lights his eyes
were dazzled at first, but as soon as he could see her clearly again he felt
indignation and determination rising in him to fever-point—she must
not, must not, do a thing like that—it was monstrous, a sin more
certainly a sin than anything he could ever have imagined. He wondered how he
should broach the matter, whether directly or by oblique remarks; or whether,
during tea, he had better let the talk remain just casual. But it was she who
left him no choice, for she said, almost straightway: “Did you give my
message at home, Mr. Freemantle?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I didn’t.” Then he
went on, slowly and with not half the fluency he had hoped for: “The
fact is, you don’t seem to realise what—what a commotion you have
caused by—by leaving home like this.”
“Has there been such a terrible fuss?”
“Well, naturally. What else could you have expected? Your parents
are both extremely upset, and I would gladly have conveyed your message if I
had thought it would relieve their minds at all. Unfortunately it seemed to
me quite likely to make matters worse, which was why—or one of the
reasons why, at any rate—I didn’t do as you suggested.”
“You mean that they wouldn’t have been relieved to learn that
I’m all right and quite happy?”
“Well, that’s not quite the way to put it. You must remember
how deeply you have hurt their pride as well as their affections. I saw your
father the other day, and I found him in a very angry mood about you. After
all, you can understand that, I’m sure. He feels you have disgraced
him. But I still think it possible—even probable—that if you were
to go back now, immediately, giving up all—all that you have in
mind—they would be reasonable with you. At least I can promise that I
would do my best to smooth matters over.”
“That’s very kind indeed of you, Mr. Freemantle, but really,
you know, I haven’t the slightest intention of going back. You
mustn’t think I’m repentant or anything like that. I’d like
to be on good terms with them if it’s possible—that’s why I
wrote to you—but I can’t alter my plans.”
He faced her solemnly for a long moment and then said: “I hope you
realise that unless you do go back, your parents arc quite determined to have
nothing more to do with you—ever.”
“Well, I suppose if they take up that rather silly attitude,
I’ll have to make the best of it, that’s all.”
“Make the best of it and go back?”
“No. Make the best of it and stay away.”
She spoke so calmly that he just stared at her in amazement and then
replied: “You really mean that—quite finally?”
“Why, of course. I do Hope you haven’t made a special journey
here just to try to argue me round.”
“Oh, no, no—not at all.” He seemed tremendously eager to
convince her of that. “Oh no, you see, I had to come to London to make
arrangements for a new heating apparatus we are having installed in the
chapel—it was just an idea of mine that, since you were in London also,
we might meet and talk things over. I’m sorry you’re so
determined—I had hoped, you see—” And all the time he was
stammering these and similar things, he felt: You’ve failed,
You’ve bungled it all, You can do nothing with her! Where’s that
marvellous eloquence you were going to employ? You’re no use, and why,
in Heaven’s name, should you ever have imagined you could be? Does
anybody decide on a course of action as important as hers is and then give it
up because a parson comes along with a few tea-table platitudes? And
suddenly, with a new note in his voice, he leaned towards her across the
table and began to speak, not with his usual easy flow of words, but in
sharp, broken sentences and in a voice husky with disappointment: “My
dear girl, I’m not preaching at you—don’t think
that—I don’t want you to think I’m talking to you as a
parson just, shall we say, as a friend—a friend rather older than
you—though even that I won’t plead too strongly, because in some
ways I’m nearly as much a stranger to life as you are. Perhaps you
don’t know what I mean by that—well, never mind, it doesn’t
matter—it’s a side issue. What I feel is that I want to talk to
you—perhaps impertinently, in a way—I want to tell you how this
course that you’re taking strikes me, as a complete outsider.
It’s difficult, really, for me to express what I mean; I don’t
want to bring in the question of morals; I’d rather put it to you as a
matter of wisdom—after all, you probably believe in wisdom—you
don’t look at all the sort of person to act recklessly, without
thinking things out beforehand—”
“I’ve thought out everything beforehand, I assure
you.”
“I know, I expected you to say that. All the same, there are times
when one’s thoughts aren’t very reliable, when imagination loses
its proper perspective, runs riot, as it were—do you know what I mean?
It’s like all this new mathematics—I’ve been reading a book
about it lately. Normally we live in a Euclidian sort of world—straight
lines, everything very logical, just the ordinary life that we all grow
accustomed to—then, suddenly, without any warning, something gets hold
of us and we go switching over into an Einstein world full of curved space
and parallel lines that do meet in the end—all very marvellous and
perhaps truer, in a way, than the other sort of world, but we can’t
afford to think so, because it wouldn’t work. All I want is for you to
ask yourself whether what you are going to do will work—will it be a
practical success—will it—will it—do you—are you
going to—” He stopped abruptly and continued, after a pause and
with a slight smile: “I wonder if you really understand what I’m
talking about?”
“I think I probably do,” she answered cautiously,
“though I’m puzzled to know why you’re talking about
it.”
“Because I
must
, whether I offend you or not. To be quite
frank, this man whom you know, whom you’re proposing to go to Paris
with—is he—”
Her eyes widened incredulously. “A
man?
” she
interrupted. “What man? And you say I’m going to Paris with him?
Really—”
“Please don’t be offended. As I told you at the beginning, I
don’t intend to preach—”
She suddenly laughed. “But, Mr. Freemantle, it’s all so
utterly ridiculous! Oh, how absurd it is!” She laughed again, a little
helplessly. “I can’t imagine how you got hold of such an idea.
There’s no man at all. I’m not going with anybody.”
“You mean to say it’s all untrue? You’re not going to
Paris with—with that man—”
“I am going abroad, certainly, but not with that man, or any man.
And not, incidentally, to Paris, either. But I wish you’d tell me who
that man is. I’m quite curious about him.”
His eyes, watching her and her amusement, half-filled with tears, he did
not know why, and all the world around him seemed drowned in the most
shattering and unspeakable loveliness. “I—I don’t know what
to say,” he stammered. “Of course I’m only going by all the
talk in Browdley; how people find everything out I can’t think.
Someone, I believe, saw you getting into the train at Manchester with this
man—a musician, I understood—”
Her laughing was almost hysterical now. “Oh, poor Isaac—how
funny he’d think it all if he knew! He plays the fiddle at a cinema in
Manchester; he’s married and has three children, I think—or
perhaps four. He’s a dear old man, and a very great friend of mine. He
saw me off at the station because I had a lot of luggage to handle, and
before the train started we sat in the compartment together and talked. I
suppose that must have been when people saw us.”
Howat could only stammer: “You must forgive me, forgive
me.”
“Why, of course, if there were anything to forgive. It’s
Browdley that’s to blame, not you. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. It
all makes me rather more determined that ever not to go back.”
“You’re not going back? You still say that?”
“Still? Why do you think I ought to change my mind?”
“I—I don’t know—except that I’m sure that
your parents, now that this horrible story turns out to be untrue—would
be very glad—very glad indeed—to have you back.”
“I’m not sure that they would, and in any case, I
wouldn’t be glad at all. You don’t seem to realise that I
don’t want to go back. I’ve got all sorts of other plans.
I’m going to Vienna to study music. Didn’t you hear that?
Weren’t there any true rumours flying about?”
“
Music?
”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other across the table amidst a curiously fateful
silence. She continued, with sudden eagerness: “Oh, I’m so
pleased we’ve cleared up all that stupid misunderstanding—we can
talk to each other now just as I’ve wanted to for a long time. I was
often on the point of telling you during those German lessons, but you never
gave me the least encouragement—I had an impression you weren’t
interested in me and my affairs. But you’re different now—I can
see that—I suppose it’s because you’re out of Browdley.
Anyhow, I must tell you all about it now that we’re here together. Do
you mind?”
At first she had been aloof, baffling, cordial but on the defensive; now,
however, the armour dropped and a warm friendliness took its place and made
him exclaim: “Mind? Good heavens, no! I want to be told the whole
story—especially about the music. I’m rather interested in music
myself, but I’d no idea you were. What is it, the piano?”
“No, the fiddle. I’ve always been keen, ever since I was a
child. There was a fiddle at our house that used to belong to an uncle of
mine who died, and I taught myself to play on that. I never had any lessons
at first; my father didn’t believe in that sort of thing. As a matter
of fact, though perhaps you’ll smile and won’t believe it, I have
an idea he thought all music, except hymn tunes and funeral marches, rather
irreligious.” Howat certainly did smile, and she went on, as though
encouraged: “When I was fifteen I wanted to earn a living somehow or
other, so I got a job in the town library—the usual graft, you know,
father being a Councillor. It wasn’t at all a bad job, and it gave me a
chance of reading all sorts of books as well as studying music in my spare
time. As soon as I could afford it I began having lessons from Isaac in
Manchester—his real name’s Isaacstein, but everybody calls him
Isaac—I used to go once a week till he said he’d give me two
lessons for the same money. He’s really been awfully kind and generous,
and he’s quite a marvellous teacher. I wish you knew him. Well, all
this has been going on now for some years; I’ve been improving my
playing, I think, and I must admit I’ve been fairly happy all the time,
only—only—” Her fluency ceased, and she gave him a queer
abrupt smile across the table. “Only it isn’t any longer enough
to satisfy me. I could never get anyone to realise that, except Isaac.
It’s really not much use, is it, being fairly comfortable in what
you’re doing, if there’s something else you want so dreadfully
that you’re willing to put up with all the discomforts in the world for
it?”
“I know. I think I can understand that.”
“That’s how I feel about music. It’s probably quite
ridiculous of me, but I don’t care—other people are constantly
doing things which I think ridiculous.”
“It’s a difficult profession, of course.”
“I know that. I’m prepared for all sorts of hardships, because
I’m so certain in my own mind that they could never make me as unhappy
as staying at home in Browdley. Besides, though it may seem a conceited thing
to say, there is something in me. Musically, I mean. Even Isaac thinks there
is. If I give myself a chance I might, some day, do something worth doing.
Haven’t you ever felt like that about anything?”