"Lucky?" echoed Trimble, "I"m lucky enough, if it wasn"t for her domned old father. The la.s.s is fine, but him--well, if I was to tell you what he is, you"d say I was using language. So it"s like this. I want Kath to marry me down here. I"ll get the license. I"ve saved up a hundred pounds. I"m earning two hundred a year now. Am I right?"
"Perfectly right," said Michael earnestly, who, now that Trimble was showing himself to possess real fervour of soul, was ready to support him, even at the cost of his own suffering. He envied Trimble his freedom from the trammels of education, which for such a long while would prevent himself from taking such a step as marriage by license.
Indeed, Michael scarcely thought he ever would take such a step now, since it was unlikely that anyone with Kathleen"s attraction would lure him on to such a deed.
Trimble"s determination certainly went a long way to excuse the failings of his outer person in Michael"s eyes, and indeed, as he pledged him a stirrup-cup of lemon-and-dash, Trimble and Young Lochinvar were not seriously distinct in Michael"s imaginative antic.i.p.ation of the exploit.
So all day and every day for ten days Michael presumably spent his time with Kathleen, notwithstanding Mrs. Fane"s tenderly malicious teazing, notwithstanding the elder Miss McDonnell"s growing chill, and notwithstanding several very pointed questions from the interfering old spinsters and knitters in the sun of the hotel-gardens. That actually he spent his time alone in watching slow-handed clocks creep on towards a quarter to one or a quarter to five or a quarter to seven, filled Michael daily more full with the spiritual rewards of his sacrifice. He had never known before the luxury of grief, and he had no idea what a variety of becoming att.i.tudes could be wrought of sadness, and not merely att.i.tudes, but veritable dramas. One of the most heroically poignant of these was founded on the moment when Kathleen should ask him to be G.o.dfather to her first-born. "No, no," Michael would exclaim.
"Don"t ask me to do that. I have suffered enough." And Kathleen would remorsefully and silently steal from the dusky room a-flicker with sad firelight, leaving Michael a prey to his own n.o.ble thoughts. There was another drama scarcely less moving, in which the first-born died, and Michael, on hearing the news, took the night express to Burton in order to speak words of hope above the little duplicate of Trimble now for ever still in his cradle. Sometimes in the more expansive moments of Michael"s celibacy Trimble and Kathleen would lose all their money, and Michael, again taking the night express to Burton-on-Trent, would offer to adopt about half a dozen duplicates of Trimble.
Finally the morning of the marriage arrived, and Michael, feeling that this was an excellent opportunity to have the first of his dramas staged in reality, declined to be present. His refusal was a little less dramatic than he had intended, because Kathleen was too much excited by her own reckless behaviour to act up. While Michael waited for the ceremony"s conclusion, he began a poem called "Renunciation."
Unfortunately the marriage service was very much faster than his Muse, and he never got farther than half the opening line, "_If I renounce_."
Michael, however, ascribed his failure to a little girl who would persist in bouncing a tennis ball near his seat in the gardens.
The wedding was only concluded just in time, because Mr. and Mrs.
McDonnell arrived on the following day and Michael"s expeditions with Kathleen were immediately forbidden. Possibly the equable Miss McDonnell had been faintly alarmed for her sister"s good name. At any rate she had certainly been annoyed by her continuous neglect.
Michael, however, had a long interview with Trimble, and managed to warn Kathleen that her husband was going to present himself after dinner.
Trimble and he had thought this was more likely to suit Mr. McDonnell"s digestion than an after-breakfast confession. Michael expressed himself perfectly willing to take all the blame, and privately made up his mind that if Mr. McDonnell tried to be "too funny," he would summon his mother to "polish him off" with the vision of her manifest superiority.
Somewhat to Michael"s chagrin his share in the matter was overlooked by Mr. McDonnell, and the oration he had prepared to quell the long-lipped Irish father was never delivered. Whatever scenes of domestic strife occurred, occurred without Michael"s a.s.sistance, and he was not a little dismayed to be told by Kathleen in the morning that all had pa.s.sed off well, but that in the circ.u.mstances her father had thought they had better leave Bournemouth at once.
"You"re going?" stammered Michael.
"Yes. We must be getting back. It"s all been so sudden, and Walter"s coming into the business, and eh, I"m as happy as the day is long."
Michael watched them all depart, and after a few brave good-byes and three flutters from Kathleen"s handkerchief turned sadly back into the large, unfriendly hotel. He knew the number of Kathleen"s room, and in an access of despair that was, however, not so overwhelming as to preclude all self-consciousness, he wandered down the corridor and peeped into the late haunt of his love. The floor was littered with tissue paper, broken cardboard-boxes, empty toilet-bottles, and all the disarray of departure. Michael caught his breath at the sudden revelation of this abandoned room"s appeal. Here was the end of Kathleen"s maidenhood; here still lingered the allurement of her presence; but Trimble could never see this last virginal abode, this elusive shrine that Michael wished he could hire for sentimental meditations. Along the corridor came the sound of a dustpan. He looked round hastily for one souvenir of Kathleen, and perceived still moist from her last quick ablution a piece of soap. He seized it quickly and surrendered the room to the destructive personality of the housemaid.
"Well, dear," asked Mrs. Fane at lunch, "did your lady love give you anything to commemorate your help? Darling Michael, you must have made a most delicious knight-errant."
"Oh, no, she didn"t give me anything," said Michael. "Why should she?"
Then he blushed, thinking of the soap that was even now enshrined in a drawer and scenting his handkerchiefs and ties. He wondered if Alan would understand the imperishable effluence from that slim cenotaph of soap.
Chapter XIV: _Arabesque_
In the air of the Easter holidays that year there must have been something unusually amorous even for April, for when Michael came back to school he found that most of his friends and contemporaries had been wounded by love"s darts. Alan, to be sure, returned unscathed, but as he had been resting in the comparatively cloistral seclusion of Cobble Place, Michael did not count his whole heart much honour to anything except his lack of opportunity. Everybody else had come back in possession of girls; some even had acquired photographs. There was talk of gloves and handkerchiefs, of flowers and fans, but n.o.body, as far as Michael could cautiously ascertain, had thought of soap; and he congratulated himself upon his relic. Also, apparently, all his friends in their pursuit of Eastertide nymphs had been successful, and he began to take credit to himself for being unlucky. His refusal (to this already had come Kathleen"s suddenly withdrawn hand) gave him a peculiar interest, and those of his friends in whom he confided looked at him with awe, and listened respectfully to his legend of despair.
Beneath the hawthorns on the golden afternoons and lingering topaz eves of May, Michael would wait for Alan to finish his game of cricket, and between lazily applauded strokes and catches he would tell the tale of Kathleen to his fellows:
"I asked her to wait for me. Of course she was older than me. I said I was ready to marry her when I was twenty-one, but there was another chap, a decent fellow, devilish handsome, too. He was frightfully rich, and so she agreed to elope with him. I helped them no end. I told her father he simply must not attempt to interfere. But, of course, I was frightfully cut up--oh, absolutely knocked out. We"re all of us unlucky in love in our family. My sister was in love with an Austrian who was killed by an avalanche. I don"t suppose I shall ever be in love again.
They say you never really fall in love more than once in your life. I feel a good deal older this term. I suppose I look ... oh, well hit indeed--run it out, and again, sir, and again ...!"
So Michael would break off the tale of his love, until one of his listeners would seek to learn more of pa.s.sion"s frets and fevers.
"But, Bangs, what about the day she eloped? What did you do?"
"I wrote poetry," Michael would answer.
"Great Scott, that"s a bit of a swat, isn"t it?"
"Yes, it"s a bit difficult," Michael would agree. "Only, of course, I only write _vers libre_. No rhymes or anything."
And then an argument would arise as to whether poetry without rhymes could fairly be called poetry at all. This argument, or another like it, would last until the cricket stopped, when Michael and his fellows would stroll into the pavilion and examine the scoring-book or criticize the conduct of the game.
It was a pleasant time, that summer term, and life moved on very equably for Michael, notwithstanding his Eastertide heartbreak. Alan caused him a little trouble by his indifference to anything but cricket, and one Sunday, when May had deepened into June, Michael took him to task for his att.i.tude. Alan had asked Michael over to Richmond for the week-end, and the two of them had punted down the river towards Kew. They had moored their boat under a weeping willow about the time when the bells for church, begin to chime across the level water-meadows.
"Alan, aren"t you ever going to fall in love?" Michael began.
"Why should I?" Alan countered in his usual way.
"I don"t know. I think it"s time you did," said Michael. "You"ve no idea how much older it makes you feel. And I suppose you don"t want to remain a kid for ever. Because, you know, old chap, you are an awful kid beside me."
"Thanks very much," said Alan. "I believe you"re exactly one month older, as a matter of fact."
"Yes, in actual time," said Michael earnestly. "But in experience I"m years older than you."
"That must be why you"re such a rotten field," commented Alan. "After forty the joints get stiff."
"Oh, chuck being funny," said Michael severely. "I"m in earnest. Now you know as well as I do that last term and the term before I was miserable.
Well, look at me now. I"m absolutely happy."
"I thought you were so frightfully depressed," said Alan, twinkling. "I thought you"d had an unlucky love affair. It seems to take you differently from the way it takes most people."
"Oh, of course, I _was_ miserable," Michael explained. "But now I"m happy in her happiness. That"s love."
Alan burst out laughing, and Michael observed that if he intended to receive his confidences in such a flippant way, he would in future take care to be more secretive.
"I"m showing you what a lot I care about you," Michael went on in tones of deepest injury, "by telling you about myself. I think it"s rather rotten of you to laugh."
"But you"ve told everybody," Alan pointed out.
Michael took another tack, and explained to Alan that he wanted the spur of his companionship in everything.
"It would be so ripping if we were both in love," he sighed. "Honestly, Alan, don"t you feel I"m much more developed since last term? I say, you played awfully well yesterday against Dulford Second. If you go on improving at the rate you are now, I don"t see why you shouldn"t get your Blue at Oxford. By Jove, you know, in eighteen months we shall be at Oxford. Are you keen?"
"Frightfully keen," said Alan. "Especially if I haven"t got to be in love all the time."
"I"m not going to argue with you any more," Michael announced. "But you"re making a jolly big mistake. Still, of course, I do understand about your cricket, and I dare say love might make you a bit boss-eyed.
Perhaps when footer begins again next term, I shall get over this perpetual longing I have for Kathleen. You"ve no idea how awful I felt when she said she loved Trimble. He was rather a bounder too, but of course I had to help them. I say, Alan, do you remember Dora and Winnie?"
"Rather," said Alan, smiling. "We made pretty good a.s.ses of ourselves over them. Do you remember how fed up Nancy got?"
So, very easily the conversation drifted into reminiscences of earlier days, until the sky was quilted with rose-tipped pearly clouds. Then they swung a j.a.panese lantern in the prow and worked up-stream towards Richmond cl.u.s.tering dark against the west, while an ivory moon shimmered on the dying azure of the day behind.
Throughout June the image of Kathleen became gradually fainter and fainter with each materialization that Michael evoked. Then one evening before dinner he found that the maid had forgotten to put a fresh cake of soap in the dish. It was a question of ringing the bell or of callously using Kathleen"s commemorative tablet. Michael went to his drawer and, as he slowly washed his hands, he washed from his mind the few insignificant outlines of Kathleen that were printed there. The soap was Trefle Incarnat, and somewhat cynically Michael relished the savour of it, and even made up his mind to buy a full fat cake when this one should be finished. Kathleen, however, even in the fragrant moment of her annihilation, had her revenge, for Michael experienced a return of the old restlessness and discontent that was not mitigated by Alan"s increasing preoccupation with cricket. He did not complain of this, for he respected the quest of School Colours, and was proud for Alan. At the same time something must be done to while away these warm summer evenings until at Basingstead Minor, where his mother had delightfully agreed to take a cottage for the summer, he and Alan could revive old days at Cobble Place.