1
Ronald was quoting Mr. Aldous Huxley.
BY TEN O’CLOCK
the next morning she had gone. She awoke early after a night of heavy dreamless sleep, and hurried across to the farmhouse in pyjamas and housecoat to telephone to Oliver. (It now appeared that Oliver had spent the night at Brighton in order to be near his love, and Alda’s opinion of him improved.) While Sylvia listened in open curiosity and the Hoadleys got on with their breakfast after civilly assuring her that she was giving them no trouble, Jean arranged for him to meet her on the Froggatt road in an hour and drive her to London, and ran back across the meadows smiling at his warm approval of her decision. The day was already hot and beautiful, the sky a thick dreamy blue. A delightful prospect of action, change, gaiety, opened before her, all smiling in the light of happy love, and as Alda helped her to pack they chattered and laughed and only once sobered their voices to speak rather sharply to Jenny, who asked bluntly
What would poor Mr. Waite do?
It was arranged that Alda should send Jean’s heavier luggage after her, and soon she was saying good-bye to them all, kissing them almost impatiently with none of her usual placid kindness, and then, clutching her handbag and suitcase and hastily refusing their offers to accompany her as far as the road, she hurried away.
They watched her out of sight. Louise was mildly interested in the proceedings and Meg was indifferent but Jenny, still slightly sulky from her snubbing, glanced at her mother. She had a fairly clear idea of what was happening and she burned with indignation on Mr. Waite’s behalf. She did not particularly like him, but yesterday in Brighton he had bought them ices and given them tea, and her strong child’s sense of justice was aroused. She described Jean to herself, in spite of the bicycles, as a beast, while even her mother did not escape condemnation.
Alda saw Jean go with lively satisfaction. She was convinced that her advice had been for the best and that Jean had done the sensible thing, which would shortly lead on to the happy thing. She expected that there might be a slightly awkward encounter between Mr. Waite and herself, in which she would have to cover Jean’s behaviour with some airy remarks until Jean should have written to him, but she hoped that she might avoid meeting him until after Jean’s letter had arrived; and for her part she would find it pleasant to have the cottage and the children to herself again, for lately poor Jean and her affairs had definitely been a bore. She made plans for a picnic lunch while they washed up the breakfast crockery, and soon the cottage was ringing with
White Sand and Grey Sand
, sung in a harmonious four-part round.
At a quarter to ten Jean left Pine Cottage on her way to meet Mr. Potter. At ten minutes to ten one of the Waite battery chickens, taking advantage of its metal grille slipping aside, escaped from its cell and set off at a smart pace on its way to freedom. At five minutes to ten it was seen and heard by Mr. Waite, who was ministering to some other chickens at the far end of the enclosure, and he, setting down his pail with an impatient exclamation, set off after it.
It had a good start. Flapping and squawking, it led him along the grassy paths between the huts and through his own cabbage patch and into his bean row, where it paused long enough to let him nearly seize it and then set off again, half-running and half-flying,
across
the open fields in the direction of the Froggatt road. He had been hurrying through his morning’s tasks in order to walk across to Pine Cottage and hear what Jean had to say for herself about her behaviour of yesterday, and this interruption was therefore doubly annoying. As he came out on to the road he was swearing.
A car was passing at that moment: a large handsome saloon which was travelling at some forty miles an hour, walking pace for such a highly powered engine; the type of car, the very make, that he had always longed to own and which he had lately indulged in hopes of possessing. He caught a glimpse of the occupants: a stoutish, prosperous-looking young man was driving and beside him, with her arm passed through his, gazing into his face, was a girl. Good heavens, it was Jean!
They passed by while he was still gasping. They were already nearly out of sight. But there was no mistake; it was Jean. Hanging on to a man’s arm. Staring up into his face. What was she doing with a man in a car at this hour on a Sunday morning? Was this Mr. Potter, her father’s old friend, the party with whom she had had a business appointment in Brighton? Why, he could not be a day over thirty; he was younger by years than Mr. Waite, and what clothes, what a car! He must be wealthy; very wealthy indeed. And amidst the confusion of his feelings he suddenly felt strong indignation with Mrs. Lucie-Browne, who had certainly led him to believe, throughout their own excursion to Brighton yesterday, that Mr. Potter was middle-aged and of moderate means. He had had his suspicions from the first, and who had deliberately lulled them to sleep? Mrs. Lucie-Browne.
He stood there, gazing down the road where the car had disappeared, and a dreary sensation began to creep over him. The chicken, now that he had ceased to pursue her, was wandering towards him talking to herself, and presently, without effort and almost absently, he captured her and began to walk back to his cottage. His anger was increasing. He wanted to have
this
business out with someone, find out what was going on, blame somebody for Jean’s disgraceful behaviour, and he decided to go then and there and have things out with Mrs. Lucie-Browne.
He was deeply disappointed in her. They had passed a very pleasant afternoon in Brighton yesterday and he had spent fourteen shillings and sevenpence halfpenny upon herself and her children and (he admitted it) she had seemed attractive; very attractive indeed; all the more attractive because he was not responsible for her opinions and her conduct; she was like a—a lovely and valuable brooch, that you could safely admire because it belonged to someone else and you need not worry about its getting lost or stolen.
Side by side they had sat upon the stony beach on his macintosh, enjoying the warm salt air blowing in from the tumbling waves; they had watched workmen hammering and climbing on the big white hotels as they repaired the ravages of bombing; they had listened to the hoarse cries of men imploring visitors to come out in the
Seagull
or the
Rose Marie
; and had smiled at the long white legs and the short brown legs wandering in and out of the waves. The ice cream, the comings and goings of motor buses, all the gaiety and bustle of Brighton and its glittering sea upon a summer’s day, had been shared by himself and Mrs. Lucie-Browne, and what had she done to him? Encouraged his fiancée to go off with another man.
He would go and have it out with her at once.
And, pausing only to shove the subdued battery bird into its cell and slam the grille upon it he set off with a grim face for Pine Cottage.
Alda was knitting peacefully in a deck-chair in the front garden when she heard the click of the gate. Mr. Waite, looking tall and ominous, was stalking up the path. This is it, Alda thought, and put the knitting down and called gaily:
“Oh, hullo! Good morning!”
It was fortunate that the elder children were indoors preparing
the
picnic lunch. Meg was playing about the garden but she was fully occupied with her ants.
“Mrs. Lucie-Browne, where is Jean?” he demanded sharply, removing his hat and standing over her. He ignored her greeting.
How good-looking he is, thought Alda, studying him while deciding what to say. He ought always to look angry; it suits him.
“Gone to London,” she answered lightly at last. “She sent you her love and——”
“I saw her,” he interrupted. “She passed me on the road only ten minutes ago. She was with a man in a car.” Then he stood perfectly still, hat in hand, looking down at her, and waiting. The muscles round his jaw were white.
“Oh yes. That would be Mr. Potter,” said Alda—brightly, this time, and she shook out her knitting. “He’s driving her up. The fact is, she’s been feeling run down for some time, and the hot weather and everything, and she thought she’d get some of her things in town——”
“What things?”
“Oh—clothes.” She gazed at him innocently. She had on a large old hat of rusty black straw like a Welshwoman’s that she kept for garden wear; under its shade her lovely hazel eyes shone like gold water. Her hair was tucked behind her ears and she was paler than usual but only from the heat; she was not at all afraid of Mr. Waite; she had never been afraid of a man in her life and now she was rather enjoying the situation.
He
is
angry, she thought, as he kept silence but continued to fix upon her his brooding, condemnatory eyes. There must be more in him than I imagined.
I
like him better than J.’s Mr. P., bore though he is. If he belonged to me I could make something out of him.
She settled the hat further over her eyes.
“She’s going to write to you,” she added, giving him a little nod.
“Breaking off our engagement, I presume.”
“Well—yes—I’m afraid—as a matter of fact. The fact is——” His stare, his almost unbroken silence, were beginning to disturb her slightly and she did not like being looked at in that way. There was more in his expression than he himself knew. She had hurt him; hurt him more than Jean had, and as he gazed at her his eyes betrayed the wound.
“It’s best to get it over, really,” she went on hurriedly, “and I do know as much about J.’s affairs as anyone. I may as well tell you. She’s always been fond of Oliver Potter and now he’s turned up again I’m afraid——”
“It’s you I blame,” he interrupted, in a voice so harsh that it startled her. “You deliberately misled me about this man, didn’t you?”
“I did? Nonsense!” and she laughed but colour began to come up under her warm white skin.
“Yes, you did. And that isn’t all you’ve done. You encouraged Jean to get engaged to me when she didn’t really want to and you knew it, and now you’ve encouraged her to go off with someone else who you’ve known about all along. I think it was a—a dirty trick, and I think you ought to be——
“And
I
think you’re talking rubbish and being extremely rude into the bargain,” she interrupted sharply; she was not going to hear him tell her that she should be ashamed of herself. “Of course I wanted to see Jean happily married; one always wants that for one’s friends if one’s happy oneself; but to say that I ‘encouraged’ her to get engaged to you, when I knew she didn’t want to, just isn’t true. She was very keen to get engaged to you.”
He heard this in silence.
“She likes and respects you,” Alda went on, taking up her knitting, “and I think if Oliver Potter hadn’t come along you and she might have been happy. It’s just bad luck that he did. But you can’t expect a girl to marry someone she doesn’t love when the man she does love asks her to marry
him
.”
“But how could he do such a thing when he knew she was
engaged
to me? Or perhaps,” bitterly, “she didn’t trouble to tell him?”
“That’s exactly what did happen,” said Alda, thinking that this confession would at least prove how uncontrollably Jean was in love with Mr. P. “She never told him. She even took off her ring.”
At this he swore, and she lowered her eyes, in embarrassment at such depth of feeling, such angry shame, on a man’s face. But she had never thought so well of him, and she became more and more convinced that Jean had chosen the lesser man.
Mr. Waite was thinking how mean Aunt Janet’s ring would look compared with the enormous diamond set in platinum which this Potter fellow would buy for Jean. Suddenly, for the first time, he missed his Jean; gentle, cheerful, submissive Jean, who—dammit! who had been in love with Potter all the time!
At this point he became aware that something was pulling at his jacket. He glanced down and met the insistent gaze of Meg, who had been trying to attract his attention for some minutes. She was holding up a jam jar containing some leaves and four ants.
“His name is Gilbert,” she announced in a loud, threatening voice, pushing the jar at him.
He stared down at her, frowning, hardly hearing.
“His name is
Gilbert
,” she repeated, beginning to swell ominously in voice and countenance.
“What—the ants?” glancing angrily at Alda, who was laughing. “How can ants possibly be called Gilbert? Run away now and don’t be silly, there’s a good girl. I’m talking to your mother.”
“‘Name
is
GILBERT
!” roared Meg, bursting into tears, and Louise came flying out of the cottage.
“All right, Megsy. Come with Weez and we’ll give Gilbert a lovely picnic, shall we?
Come
along,” and she bore her away, already consoled and clasping the jar, of ants to her chest.
“It’s her name for her pet ant; of course it’s never the same
one
but she thinks it is,” said Alda. “We’re all going for a picnic on our bicycles presently; it’s such a lovely day.”
Then she hoped that he would not suggest coming too; a whole day of him in the woods, lowering at her and accusing her, was more than she could endure.
He now looked slightly bewildered.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said abruptly. “This has upset all my plans. I must write to my mother and sisters, I suppose. It will be a shock to them. I don’t know what to say.”