He had barely time to exchange a couple of remarks with Beatrice. She came towards him, her hand stretched out in simple comradeship.
“Good luck, Roland,” she said. “You are going to be awfully happy. I know you are.”
“And when we come back you must come and see us; won’t you, Beatrice?”
“Of course I shall.”
“Often,” he urged.
“As often as you ask me.”
Before he had time to reply an obscure relative had begun to assure him of his wonderful fortune and of his eternal felicity.
He caught glimpses of Muriel’s white dress passing through the ranks of admiration, and then he found himself being led by the arm to the table where the champagne was being opened and a cricket friend of his, a married man, was adjuring him to take as much as possible. “You don’t know what you’re in for, old man.” And then Gerald was telling him that it was time he went upstairs to change, that Muriel had gone already.
“You’re really wonderful, old man,” Gerald said,when they were alone. “I can’t think how you did it. It’s cured me of ever wanting to get married.”
There were several telegrams lying on his dressing-table; he opened them and tossed them half read upon the floor. “Thank God I haven’t got to answer those,” he said. And while he changed into a gray tweed suit Gerald continued to perform what he considered to be the functions of a best man. He chattered about the service, the champagne, the wedding cake, the behavior of the guests. “And, I say, old son, who was that mighty topping girl in gray, with the large wine-colored hat?”
“That? Oh, that was April—April Curtis.”
“What! the girl that——”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Gerald was momentarily overwhelmed. “Well, I must say I’m surprised,” he began. Then paused, realizing that as Roland had just married his sister it was hardly possible for him to draw any comparison between her and April. He contented himself with a highly colored compliment:
“A jolly pretty girl,” he said, “and she’ll be a beautiful woman.”
At that moment there was a tap at the door and Mrs. Marston’s voice was heard inquiring whether Roland had nearly finished.
“Hurry up, old man,” said Gerald, “Muriel’s ready.” And two minutes later he was running, with Muriel on his arm, through a shower of rose leaves and confetti. They both sank back into the cushions, panting, laughing, exhausted. And as the gates of the drive swung behind them they said, almost simultaneously: “Thank heaven, that’s over!”
But a moment later Muriel was qualifying her relief with the assertion that it had been “great fun.”
“All those serious-faced people came up and wished me good luck. If I’d encouraged them they’d have started taking me into corners and preaching sermons at me.”
But Roland did not find it easy to respond to her gayety. Now that it was all over he felt tired, physically and emotionally. When they reached the station he bought a large collection of papers and magazines, so that their two hours’ journey might be passed quietly. But this was not at all in accordance with Muriel’s ideas.
“Don’t be so dull, Roland!” she complained. “I want to be amused.”
He did his best; they talked of all their guests and of how each one of them had behaved.
“Wasn’t old Miss Peter ridiculous, dressing up so young?” said Muriel; and Roland asked whether she didn’t think that Guy Armstrong had been paying rather marked attention to Miss Latimer.
“Why, he’s been doing that for months,” said Muriel. “We’ve all been wondering when he’s going to propose. I don’t mind betting that at this very moment she’s doing her best to make him. She’s probably suggested that he should take her home, and she’s insisted on going the longest way.”
But Roland’s conversational energy was soon exhausted, and after a long and slightly embarrassed silence Muriel tossed back her head impatiently and picked up a magazine.
“You are not very interesting, are you?” she said.
Roland considered it wiser to make no response. He settled himself back into his seat, rested his head against his hand, and allowed his thoughts to travel back over the incidents of the afternoon.
It had been a great success; there could be no doubtof that. Everything had gone off splendidly. But he was unaccountably oppressed by a vague sense of apprehension, of impending trouble. He endeavored to fix his thoughts on reassuring subjects. He recalled his momentary talk with Beatrice, and remembered that that afternoon he had addressed her for the first time by her Christian name. She had shown no displeasure at his use of it, and as she smiled at him he fancied he had read in the soft wavering luster of her eyes the promise of a surer friendship, of deeper intimacy. He had seen so little of her during the last few months. It would be exciting to meet her on his return, at full liberty, on an assured status, in his own house.
His reverie traveled thence to Gerald’s easy good humor, his unflagging energy, his bubbling commentary on the idiosyncrasies of his father’s friends, his surprised admiration of April; and the thought of April brought back in a sudden wave the former mood of doubt and apprehension. How little, after all, he and Muriel knew of one another; they were strangers beneath the mask of their light-hearted friendship. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Her magazine had fallen forward on to her lap. Her eyes were fixed dreamily on the opposite wall of the carriage. Her thoughts were, no doubt, loitering pleasantly in a colored dream among the agreeable episodes of the afternoon—her dress, her bridesmaids, her bouquets, the nice things everyone had said to her. As he looked at her, so calm, so self-possessed, Roland was momentarily appalled by the difficulty of establishing on a new basis their old relationship.
They had been comrades before they had been lovers. In their courtship passion had been so occasional a visitant.
They were both in a subdued state of mind when they stepped up into the dogcart that had been sent to meet them at the station.
“Tired, Elfkin?” he whispered.
“A little,” she said.
The air was cold and she snuggled close to him for warmth; he took her hand in his and held it, pressing it tenderly.
They had a three-mile drive through the quiet English countryside.
And it was quite dark when the dogcart eventually drew up before a small cottage and a kindly, plump woman came out to meet them.
“Ah, there you be!” she said. “I was just expecting you. The supper’s all laid out, and I’ve only got to put the eggs on to boil, and there’s some hot water in the bedroom.”
Roland thanked her, took down the two suitcases, and followed Muriel and her up the narrow creaking stairs.
“There,” she said, opening a door. “There you are. And if you want anything you ring that bell on the table. I’ll just run down and get on with the supper.”
Roland and Muriel were left alone in a small room, the greater part of which was occupied by a large double bed, over which had been hung, with a singular lack of humor, a Scriptural admonition: “Love one another.” The ceiling was low, the window was overhung with ivy. In midsummer it would be a stuffy room. They looked at each other; they were alone for the first time, and they did not know what to do. There was an awkward silence.
“I suppose you’ll want to tidy up,” said Roland.
“Well, of course,” she answered a little petulantly.
“All right, then; I’ll go downstairs. Come and tell me when you’re ready.”
She was standing between him and the door, and as he passed her he made an ill-judged attempt to take her in his arms. She was tired and she was dusty, and she did not want to be kissed just then. She shook herself away from him. And this mistake increased Roland’s despondency, accentuated his nervousness, his vague distaste for this summoning of emotion to order, at a fixed date and at a fixed hour.
Supper was not a cheerful meal; at first they attempted to be jovial, but their enthusiasm was forced, and long silences began to drift into their conversation. They grew increasingly embarrassed and tried to prolong the meal as long as possible. Muriel was not fond of coffee and rarely took it, but when Roland asked her if she would like some she welcomed the suggestion: “Oh, yes, do.”
Mrs. Humphries, however, had no coffee, but when she read the disappointment of the young bride’s face she said she would see if she could not borrow some from her neighbor. And while she ran over the village street Muriel and Roland sat opposite each other in silence; her hands were folded in her lap, and she stared straight in front of her; he played with the spoon of the salt cellar, making little pyramids of salt round the edge.
At last the coffee arrived; its warmth momentarily cheered them and they tried to talk, to make fun of their friends, to scheme things for their future. But the brooding sense of embarrassment returned. Roland, in the intervals of occasional remarks, continued to erect his pyramids of salt.
“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t,” said Muriel impatiently; “you get on my nerves with your fidgeting.”
Roland apologized, dropped the spoon, and without occupation for his hands felt more uncomfortable than before. They continued a spasmodic conversation till Mrs. Humphries came in to tell them that she would be going to bed directly.
“We get up early here,” she said. And would they please to remember to blow out the lamp and not to turn down the wick, as her last lodger had done. She wished them a good-night, and said she would bring them a cup of tea when she called them in the morning. They heard her bolt the front door and fasten the shutter across the kitchen window, then tread heavily up the creaking stairs. For a little while they listened to her movements in the room. Then came the heavy creak of a bedstead.
They were alone in the silent house.
“Well, I suppose we must be going up,” he said.
“I suppose so.”
“Will you go up first and I’ll come when you’re ready?”
“All right.”
He made no attempt to touch her as she passed him. She paused in the doorway. A mocking smile, a last desperate rally fluttered over her lips.
“Don’t forget to turn the lamp out, Roland. My last lodger....”
But she never completed the sentence; and their eyes met in such a look as two shipwrecked mariners must exchange when they realize that they can hold out no longer, and that the next wave will dash their numb fingers from the friendly spar.