Thank Heaven Fasting (18 page)

They did not talk very much on the way home. As they neared Eaton Square Carol said to her:

“I know that what I've said is absolutely safe with you. I don't mean to say that no one else knows about it, because, naturally, it was more or less inevitable that one or two people should have guessed. Not from me, as a matter of fact. I have the most extraordinary powers of self-command, curiously enough. A great many people have told me that, and I know it's true. But I couldn't bear anyone ever to know that I'd spoken about it. I never have, except to you.”

“You're not sorry that you did, Carol?”

“No. You've been perfectly wonderful to me, and—it's helped, telling you about it. I do want to see a lot of you, Monica, if I may.”

“Yes, I'd like it,” she said faintly.

The words were true enough, but she reflected bitterly how differently she would have felt them, twenty-four hours earlier.

At the door she asked Carol to come in, but was relieved when he thanked her and refused.

“I want to see you again though, very soon. May I come round to-morrow—about six o'clock?”

“Yes, do,” said Monica.

She was glad, after all, that he wanted to come.

He liked her so much—she felt certain of that—might he not come to find her indispensable?

It was a forlorn hope enough—but it was a hope.

As Monica went wearily up the family stairs she met her mother coming down.

Mrs. Ingram wore more than her usual aspect of brightness. There was a kind of expectancy in the smile and exclamation with which she greeted Monica.

“Have you had a nice day, darling?”

“Lovely, thank you.”

Monica had known that she could not altogether deceive her mother. They had lived together too long, and Monica had been forced into too close an intimacy, all through her early years, for reticences or evasions to avail her now.

The reflection of the disappointment that she tried hard to keep out of her voice was instantly visible in Mrs. Ingram's expression, although she continued to smile, and said: “I'm so glad, darling. I expect you're tired.”

“I am, a little.”

“Why not lie down and rest a little before dressing? You haven't forgotten that we're dining out to-night?”

“No. I think I will rest a little, first.”

“I should. You didn't bring Mr. Anderson in, then?”

“He asked if he might come,” rejoined Monica quickly, knowing that it would comfort her mother to hear that, in the mysterious chill that had descended upon their hopes.

“He brought me to the door of course, and asked if he could come in, but I thought it would make rather a rush, as we're going out, and he's coming to-morrow instead.”

She averted her eyes from the wave of relief that she knew was passing over her mother's face.

“Quite right, darling. You've had a long day. And besides——” Mrs. Ingram left the sentence unfinished, but Monica knew what she meant.

“Besides, it's much wiser not to let a man think that be has only to ask. …”

She went into her own room.

Incredibly soon, the mechanism of Monica's consciousness adjusted itself to her new awareness of Carol Anderson's emotional pre-occupation with another woman. She found not only consolation but grounds for hope in his dependence upon the sympathy that she gave him without stint.

It was a relief to her when, a few days after the drive to Hindhead, her mother, with some hesitation, told her that she had heard, from a connection of the Lesters, that Carol Anderson was said to have been very much in love with an unhappily married woman.

“I know,” said Monica calmly.

“Is it absolutely all over, then?” her mother asked eagerly.

“In a way I think it is. I mean—the woman was Mrs. Felix Lester, wasn't she?”

“Yes.”

“Hasn't she gone abroad with her husband for two years?”

“Yes, I believe she has. Of course, darling, I don't want you to betray any confidences.” Mrs. Ingram paused rather wistfully but Monica made no sign, afraid of betraying Carol who had said that he should not like anyone to know that he had spoken about his love for Viola.

“Naturally, one rather wondered…. But after all, many a man has been caught on the rebound.”

It was exactly what Monica had thought, at the back of her mind, but it shocked her disagreeably to hear the thought put into words, accustomed though she was to the enunciation of Mrs. Ingram's creed.

“A young man's infatuation for a married woman means very little, really. And, in a way, it's much
safer
than—anything else. There's no question of marrying, or anything like that. He's absolutely free. And when a man is fresh from a disappointment of that kind, it very often means that he's much readier to think of settling down than he might be at any other time.”

It was evident that Mrs. Ingram believed, and wanted Monica to believe, that there was still hope.

Monica very often, through the spring and summer, was able to persuade herself that there was still hope.

She saw Carol almost daily; he wrote to her sometimes and telephoned often.

He liked to be alone with her, and always he talked to her about himself, or about himself and Viola Lester. Monica pitied him, and believed his assurances that he had never bestowed his confidence upon anybody else. It was a long while before she even admitted to herself that his plaintive gratitude and affection could not wholly atone for his egotism, his endless dramatizations of himself, and his unwearying self-pity.

Their friendship was not constructive. Carol, she realized by degrees, was instinctively averse from anything that might tend to destroy his conception of himself. He had no real wish to be consoled, or to allow himself to recover from his unhappiness. Actually, he quietly fostered and nursed it, unwilling to relinquish that which made him interesting in his own eyes.

Monica did not closely analyse Carol Anderson, but she felt, by degrees, that she understood him. She was fond of him because he was affectionate and grateful and had a certain child-like charm of manner towards women, and because he was the person with whom she had most nearly, in her life, achieved intimacy.

Underneath everything persisted her dogged, desperate wish that he should some day ask her to marry him.

“The Marlowes are going to be in London next week,” exclaimed Monica, surprised.

“Fricky and Cecily—poor things!—are they really? I thought their mother had practically given up having them in town.”

“It's more than two years since they were last in Belgrave Square,” Monica admitted. “They both say they like the country better.”

“Girls have to say
something,
darling, when they get to that age. Even Cecily must be getting on now. I can't think why their mother doesn't let them travel—send them round the world, or something like that. She could perfectly well afford it, and she might get one of them off her hands at last. Supposing Cecily married—I always think she's the less impossible of the two—it would probably be someone living abroad, and then she could have Fricky to stay, and very likely find someone for her as well.”

“I can't imagine what Frederica would do if Cecily married.”

“What does it matter
what
she'd do?” enquired Mrs. Ingram calmly. “The only thing that matters is that one of them should find a husband. Not that I suppose there's much hope now, really.”

The familiar sense of misery welled up in Monica, as she heard the words, and it was evident that a similar train of thought had been roused in her mother.

She said:

“Ask them to lunch or something, poor things. Of course, all their contemporaries are married, I should imagine—they must be years older than you are.”

Monica made no reply.

“I'm sorry for poor Theodora Marlowe,” said Mrs. Ingram. “Not that I think she's been a particularly good mother—I don't—but it's very hard on her that both those girls should be so completely unattractive. They're not bad-looking, either of them, and there's plenty of money—and yet look at them! Not a single serious chance, I don't believe—not one!”

“I think it would be much better,” said Monica boldly, “if they went and
did
something. Work, of some kind.” Mrs. Ingram shook her head.

“I don't see how it would be possible,” she said not unreasonably. “There's only nursing, or teaching, for that sort of girl, and both are hard work. They've never been trained to do anything at all. I'm sure they'd break down in a week.”

Monica was sure of it too.

“Settlement work,” she suggested.

“Well, I suppose so. There's always that kind of thing—good works, and so on. Everybody knows what it means—that a girl hasn't been able to find a husband, and is bored with living at home and doing nothing.”

And looking at her daughter, Mrs. Ingram added quickly:

“It would break my heart, Monica, if
you
ever wanted to go in for anything of that kind.”

Monica knew too well that the words were, at least metaphorically, true.

Carol Anderson still came to see her often, and his liking for her, after nearly a year of friendship, seemed to have varied not at all. He still talked to her of his undiminished love for Viola Lester, and still sought to persuade himself and her that time could never, in his case, bring its customary alleviations. Monica did not feel him to be consciously insincere: it was rather as though he had succeeded in hypnotising himself into believing in the existence of a romantic figure, called by his own name. He would admit nothing that interfered with his creation.

Every time that Monica realized this, she realized, too,
that Carol Anderson would never ask her to marry him. If he ever did marry, his wife must be a woman who could honestly subscribe to his visions of himself as a Great Romantic. Side by side with these inescapable certainties was Monica's unrecognized intention of letting Frederica and Cecily Marlowe see Carol Anderson as a man devoted to herself, whom she could marry as soon as she desired so to do.

Two days after their arrival in London she went to see them.

They looked paler, more listless and dejected than ever. Frederica's tyranny over her sister seemed to have gained in strength, but now even Cecily occasionally offered to it a faint resistance. It was almost the only sign of initiative shown by either.

“Are you staying long?” Monica enquired.

“We don't know,” Cecily explained, like a child. “Mother hasn't said yet. She's in bed with a chill at the moment.”

“Cecily isn't going near her for fear it should be influenza,” Frederica thrust in quickly.

“She doesn't want either of us. I hope she'll be all right by to-morrow. Tell us about you, Monica.”

“There isn't anything much to tell.”

The other two stared at her in unspoken enquiry.

“I'm having quite a good time,” said Monica desperately. “I've got a new friend, by the way. I want you to meet him. A man called Carol Anderson—one of the Gloucestershire Andersons.”

“Oh, Monica! Is he going to be any use?” asked Cecily.

Monica pretended to hesitate.

“I don't quite know. I can't make up my mind.”

“Do say what he's like. How old is he?”

“About the same age as I am.”

“That needn't matter, really.”

“No. I know.”

“Is he tall?”

“Yes, very. Just over six foot,” said Monica triumphantly.

“My dear! Then he
must
be poor, or frightfully hideous or something.”

“He's quite fairly well off, I believe. He's in the City. And he's very good-looking.”

“Monica! Has he asked you yet?”

Monica shook her head.

“Not exactly.”

She saw immediately from Frederica's expression that the admission discredited everything that had gone before.

“One can always tell,” she said proudly. “And I don't at all want him to say anything, till I'm sure.”

“But, Monica,” cried Cecily, “surely you wouldn't hesitate for a minute? There are so awfully few men to go round,
any
husband would be better than none—and he sounds so splendid.” And she added piteously: “We can't all three be failures.”

“Don't,” said Frederica, frowning. “You talk as if marriage was the only thing that can make women happy. But there are lots of unhappy married women.”

“They aren't unhappy in the same way. And people don't
despise
them, anyway,” said Cecily simply.

The three looked at one another.

“If even
one
of us could get a husband, it wouldn't be so bad,” said Cecily suddenly. “I mean, Fricky and I. You'll get married, I expect, Monica, one of these days.”

“I don't want a husband. I hate men,” Frederica observed sullenly.

Neither of the other two made any pretence at believing her.

“Why can't one have a career, or even work, like a man?” Monica asked helplessly. “I know everybody would say that it was because we hadn't been able to get married—but they'll say that anyway.”

“There isn't any work for girls of our kind,” Frederica asserted. “Not any that we should be allowed to do. The only way is to become religious, and go and do some kind of good works, with a whole crowd of old maids and people who don't belong to one's own class.”

“There are causes and things,” said Cecily timidly.

Frederica laughed disagreeably.

“Yes, the militant suffragettes, I suppose you're thinking of. Women who bite policemen, and kick and fight in the streets.”

“Besides,” said Monica, “it's such nonsense about the vote. What does it matter whether women have it or not? They don't really care themselves, I don't suppose. It's just hysteria, and wanting to be conspicuous, that makes them go on like that.”