Part 11

During the next few months Mrs. Pratt proved herself so willing a confidante, so soothing and consoling a listener that Dora Greene finally asked her to come and live with her.

The arrangement worked surprisingly well. Life settled into a routine of gossip, bridge and tea-parties, broken only by a joint summer holiday and an occasional week at Easter when Dora went to stay with her father, now a widower, but still running his small parish competently and successfully.

It was tacitly understood between the two ladies that when Mrs. Greene had indulged in a long narrative embracing every sorrow and grievance of her existence, she should pay for the luxury of having an audience by performing that function in her turn.

Mrs. Pratt's saga confined itself to full details of her sufferings at Mr. Pratt's hands during the months that preceded his departure from this life in a violent attack of delirium tremens.

Mrs. Greene was already acquainted with the history of Mr. Pratt's life and death, but it made good hearing none the less, and on the other hand Mrs. Pratt particularly enjoyed the point in Mrs. Greene's reminiscences at which handkerchiefs were brought out, and they recalled what a happy, bright boy little Edwin had been.

"Those were happy days," Dora would sigh fondly. "I was a happy wife and mother till death stole both my treasures."

"But you've been so wonderfully brave, dear," Mrs. Pratt would murmur. "See how you've built up your life again."

"I have been lucky in having you to help me. I couldn't have done it without you, Violet; you know how little use the Greenes have been to me."

This was an immensely satisfactory opening. Violet Pratt, a solitary woman except for her friendship with Dora Greene, enjoyed vicariously the many slights and rebuffs which Dora considered that she endured from her husband's relations.

By 1928 this list of slights had been added to by both Mrs. Rodney's daughter-in-laws. Helen, Mrs. Geoffrey Greene had failed to call on her Aunt Dora for nearly two years, and had moreover never once invited her to a meal of any sort.

"Not even tea," said Dora acidly. "And you can hardly think that would be too much trouble even in a small house."

"Indeed you can not," Mrs. Pratt answered warmly. "And especially after the kind way you asked her to dinner as a bride."

But the most recent insult was naturally the most interesting.

At the wedding of Hugh and Jessica only three weeks ago, Mrs. Edwin, arriving a little late when the bride was already in the church, had been hustled into a back seat instead of being allowed to take her place in one of the front pews with the rest of the family.

"Of course I don't really blame Jessica," said Dora, as she had already said some twenty or thirty times during the last three weeks. "But still, it just shows. Some arrangement should surely have been made for me to take my proper place, and even if I was a little late, well, I haven't a motor like some of the others."

"I expect it was all Mrs. Rodney's doing," suggested Mrs. Pratt darkly.

Dora pounced on this.

"Do you really think so?" she asked eagerly. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised at anything after the way she has always looked down on me and put me on one side."

It was at this propitious moment that the maid brought in a letter at which Dora exclaimed triumphantly:

"There now, talk of the Devil----"

She read the letter and handed it to Mrs. Pratt.

"Read that, Violet," she said. "Read it and tell me what you think of it. I should have thought that even Edith might have remembered that next week is the anniversary of little Edwin's death. Not the actual day of course, but I should have thought that a different week altogether would have shown more courtesy and consideration. She knows I always keep these few days sacred to my memories."

Mrs. Pratt read the short letter.

"207 Sussex Square, "November 12th.

"DEAR DORA,

"I hear that Aunt Sarah is to be in town next week when Hugh and Jessica get home from their honeymoon, and I feel it would be nice both for her and for Mrs. Greene to have a reunion with the young people. There are six of us now, and my idea is to have a little dinner-party next Friday night at 7.45, for the six Mrs. Greenes. I do hope you will be able to come; both the old ladies are getting rather frail now, and I think it would give them pleasure.

"With love from Rodney and myself,

"Your affectionate sister-in-law, "EDITH GREENE."

Mrs. Pratt sniffed.

"I see," she said venomously. "I see, Mrs. Rodney makes it sound like a treat for her mother-in-law, but I suppose its just to make another opportunity for showing off."

"Of course it is," answered Dora angrily. "And what a cruel week to choose. She can't have forgotten old Mrs. Greene's wickedness to my poor little Edwin and yet she asks me to meet her almost on the anniversary of his death. And I don't at all care about meeting Hugh and Jessica after the way I was treated at their wedding."

"I should refuse if I were you, Dora."

"I've a good mind to do so. I should have thought even Edith would have known better than to ask me to a party next week."

"Perhaps she doesn't mean you to accept."

"That's probably it, Violet. I believe you're right. She's chosen that date purposely so that I shan't go. Well, she'll be disappointed for once. I'll go. I'll write this minute and tell her that I'll come but that I think she should have known better than to ask me."

Dora Greene moved over to her desk.

"Come and help me, Violet," she said. "We must concoct a good letter."

The two ladies sat happily down to accept with the maximum of ungraciousness the invitation which would provide them for weeks to come with a fruitful topic of discussion and complaint.

MRS. GEOFFREY H. GREENE

MRS. GEOFFREY H. GREENE

I

It was at Lavinia's wedding that Geoffrey was introduced to a tall girl wearing a green frock and a green hat fitting her head so closely that only two small curves of bright hair were visible on her cheeks.

She looked moody and impatient, and when he asked if she had seen the presents she said: "No thanks, I don't want to."

Slightly repelled by her manner but attracted by her lime green frock and her copper-beech hair, Geoffrey tried again.

"Shall we get out of the crowd and find a peaceful corner somewhere?"

She shook her head.

"No, I don't really think it's worth while," she said. "I'm going home now. I wouldn't have come at all if I hadn't been afraid Martin's parents would be piqued, but now they've both seen me so I can justifiably escape."

Geoffrey noticed that her eyes were a clear, cool grey that contradicted the warmth of her hair, and he liked the wide smile that lightened her face as she explained her presence at the wedding, so there was a trace of eagerness in his voice as he asked:

"Are you a Peile relation then? I'm sorry I didn't hear your name when we were introduced."

"Yes, I'm a sort of cousin of Martin. My name's Helen Guest. I didn't hear your name either, but you're a Greene, of course."

"I'm Lavinia's brother."

"Yes, I thought you were. You're rather like her. She's extremely pretty, isn't she, but not at all paintable."

"Do you paint then?" asked Geoffrey diffidently, conscious of ignorance and anxious to avoid a snub.

She frowned. "Well, yes I do; off and on, and not very well. But there it is, I do. I'm going now. Good-bye."

Her smile followed quickly on her frown, she nodded to him, and merged into the crowd, leaving Geoffrey bewildered and a little depressed and solitary.

Three months later when he met her at dinner at Lavinia and Martin's house, he went up to her with the pleasant sensation of renewing an interrupted friendship.

"How do you do, Miss Guest," he began. "I've been hoping to meet you again in some place not so crowded as the last time."

Helen looked at him coldly and directly.

"Was there a last time?" she queried.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I merely said, 'Was there a last time?'" she repeated in a nonchalant voice.

Geoffrey flushed.

"Yes," he said very distinctly, and his look matched hers in coldness. "We met before at Lavinia's wedding which you were not enjoying very much. You said I was very like my sister who was pretty but not paintable, and you were wearing a green frock, very much the colour of the one you've got on now. Have I produced sufficient evidence to prove that I am not trying the old familiar gambit of 'where have we met before?'"

He noticed that her cheeks were scarlet and that she was obviously discomfited, and it surprised him that anyone so aggressive should be so easily routed. She stood silent for a moment, and then laughed suddenly.

"We're obviously going to quarrel," she said. "Let's do it nicely; we'll preserve a state of armed neutrality as long as we can, and when we have to abandon it we'll keep to all the rules of pretty fighting, and to begin with I'll admit that I remember you quite well at the wedding. I was only being contrary."

Geoffrey's heart leapt. There was something fresh and vital about this girl. She provoked him, but she attracted him far more. He found it immensely stimulating to be repelled by her at one moment, and in the next, subjugated by her candid charm.

He sat opposite her at dinner, and though she talked animatedly to the man on her left, her colour remained high and he knew that she was conscious of him.

He speculated hazily on the nature of her attraction for him and decided that it was partly due to her looks, partly to her brusque inconsistency, and that undoubtedly in this strange duel which had started between them, hers was the next move. It was his role to wait and lurk, hers to make the attack or the appeal.

After dinner two tables for bridge were arranged, with Geoffrey at one, Helen at the other, and he did not speak to her again until, after saying good-night to Lavinia, she half-turned to him, bringing into play the suave clear line of chin and throat.

"I'll take you home if you like," she offered casually. "I've got my car here."

As Geoffrey thanked her formally he felt that again she had put him at a disadvantage. He should have had a car to take her home in, but for her to take him, dropping him like a small boy at his mother's front door, was humiliating. It irked him to sit idle while she slipped into the driver's seat and pressed a green slipper ruthlessly on the starter knob. There was a moment of rending noise, then, "Better let me turn her over once or twice," Geoffrey suggested. "The engine's bound to be cold if it's been standing out here all that long time with no rug on.

"I never do put a rug on," Helen looked at him sidelong. "If you once begin pampering your car there's no end to it."

Geoffrey burst out laughing. It re-established his superiority to find that she could be silly, petulant and peevish.

"I simply don't believe you," he said through the agonising noise of the self-starter. "You forgot I expect, and now you won't admit it."

At that minute the engine suddenly jumped to life, and Helen started the car with a grinding of gears and a jerk.

There was good ground for criticism but Geoffrey held his peace, and in a moment he heard her saying: "Do you want to go straight home or would you like to come to my studio for a bit?"

Surprised, he answered promptly.

"The studio most certainly, please."

"It's a queer untidy sort of hovel. Only a bedroom and a kitchen and a lovely big studio. I don't live there all the time you see. In fact my family kick against my living there at all, and I have to go home at frequent intervals. But when they get too much for me I come and live in the studio for a few weeks."

"Is the family atmosphere particularly trying then, and is it in London?"

"No, and yes. It is in London, in Lowndes Square, and it isn't really trying at all. They're darlings, but I'm very difficult, you know."

"So I should imagine," said Geoffrey softly, to which Helen only replied:

"Do you mind not talking? I can't cope with the traffic if I have to concentrate on you."

As they drove along the Embankment, Geoffrey twisted his body into the corner of the car, to watch her face as she drove. Even in the cold yellow light that struck over her as they approached each lamp-post, and faded so quickly as they passed it, her colouring disturbed and troubled him.

He wondered if she still had a trace of summer sunburn, or if all through the winter she kept that orange glow under her skin, so that it seemed to be lit from underneath. Concealed lighting, he thought vaguely; and very subtle too. Much more attractive than pink laid on, or even pink that looks as if it were the top surface; this is really orange and pink mixed, and a layer of skin over it all.

He was conscious of his hurried heart-beats and his thick, hurried breathing when he looked at the dark-red hair lying so flat on her glowing cheeks, and when for a second she turned to him, he found himself completely disconcerted.

"We're nearly there," she said. "It's painfully conventional to have a studio in Chelsea, but I couldn't find another that I liked."

She ran the car into a garage; they got out, walked along the road, and turned up a narrow little alley at the end of which they were confronted by a blue door.

Helen fumbled with her key; the lock was stiff; impatiently she flung back her dark shawl and stooped, green-frocked and red-haired, against the bright blue background.

Geoffrey took a step forward. The juxtaposition of the three colours was intolerable to his nerves, already jangled and overstrained. His chest was aching, his ears drumming, and just as the lock yielded he caught Helen in his arms and kissed her violently and repeatedly.

Suddenly he released her and stood on the threshold feeling cold and sick.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I've been unpardonable."

"You have," she said. "Entirely. I can't imagine what happened. Anyhow I think you'd better go now; everything's sordid and abominable."

There was a small red mark at the side of her mouth. Geoffrey stared at it stupidly and could not find anything to say that would not sound either meaningless or offensive. Suddenly he was filled with immense pity for himself and her, and words came easily.

"I've hurt you a little," he said, "I'm sorry, my dear, but I'm afraid we're bound to hurt each other, you and I. I never meant to kiss you; it was entirely because of the blue door and the way you stood against it. It really was too much, all that blazing blue and green, and your red hair."

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously. "You can come in for a minute if you like. I want to know what you mean when you say it was the blue door."

Geoffrey followed her into the small hall and through to a big room at the back whose long windows looked on to a paved garden. She put on the light, drew the curtains of some heavy, dark blue stuff, and knelt down by the fire with a pair of bellows which she used energetically till a small flame wavered up from the sullen coal.

"There," she said triumphantly. "That's all right. Now, please, talk to me about everything."

Geoffrey had stood looking at her as she coaxed the fire, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. He sat down.

"I feel completely dull and stupid," he said heavily. "I can't explain myself at all. I'm sorry I offended you."

"You needn't be," Helen's voice was light. "It's all right. It didn't occur to me that a mere colour effect would unnerve you."

"I'm not temperamental as a rule," Geoffrey said sombrely. "But I'm conscious of a painful and lovely tie between us. It wasn't only the colour effect; it was dinner and the whole evening, and driving with you, a frightful strain the whole time. Listen, Helen," he leaned forward. "I've only known you for an hour or two, but do you think you could marry me sometime. It seems idiotic to say I love you, but I do. I want to marry you desperately, and do you realise that for all I know you may be engaged to someone else."

Geoffrey broke off abruptly. He no longer felt tired, a deep exhilaration was creeping over him, and he experienced an almost savage foretaste of triumph as he said urgently: "Helen, you will marry me, won't you?"

Helen shook her head. All the colour had drained slowly from her cheeks, and the little mark beside her mouth stood out hot and scarlet. She put a finger up to it and felt it gently.

"No," she answered, "I won't marry you, Geoffrey. There is a queer link between us. I felt it the first minute we met, but I won't marry you; at least not now. I might in ten years if my work fails me, but not now. You see it is important to me; I love it, and I feel I'm going to do something good, and whatever anyone may say I'm certain it's impossible to work decently and be married as well."

"I don't believe it is," said Geoffrey strongly. "Frankly I've never thought about it, but I'm perfectly sure we could do it."

"No we couldn't; no one can."

"Helen, you must marry me. It seems to me utterly impossible that you should refuse to. And that's not conceit, it's simply that I know we ought to be together, you and I."

Helen smiled a little wanly.

"I didn't think it was conceit, and if I could marry anyone it would be you, but I can't, don't you see. It would be like walking into a cage, and with my eyes open too. The minute I got in and heard the doors shut on me I'd go mad with terror till I got out again."

"You're wrong. It wouldn't be like that, not with us, Helen."

"It would. Look at us now, Geoffrey. A minute ago you were nearly dead with weariness and I was bursting with vitality and now I'm nearly dead, and you're alive again."

"My love, that only shows. Of course now as things are we fight each other and exhaust each other, but if we were married, it wouldn't be like this, we'd both be quite admirably stimulated all the time."

"No, we shouldn't," Helen shook her head again. "One of us would be completely on top, and the other would have to give up everything, and I might easily be the other!"

"That's not fair. I don't want you to give up anything; I only want you to marry me."

"That's just it, and it's no good," Helen looked at him levelly. "I'll be your mistress, Geoffrey, at least I think I will; not now I mean,"--she looked fearfully round the room as if the shadows might hear and bear witness against her--"but sometime I think I will be. Anyhow I won't marry anyone but you ever, and you must leave it at that."

"My sweet," Geoffrey knelt by her chair and held her against him, "I don't want a mistress, and certainly not you. I want you to marry me, and you will some day, won't you. I can wait."

Helen freed herself and sat bolt upright.

"I love you in a way, Geoffrey, but don't begin being good to me. I have people who are good to me. If you stop fighting me altogether, I'll simply trample on you. I'd hate you to try and bully me, but I'd hate you still more to be kind to me."

"I'm not a very kind person," said Geoffrey soberly. "At home I'm supposed to be moody and difficult--like you I suppose--and Hugh is much more charming and likeable."

"That'll do very well then. I like this feeling of half loving you and with the other half being antipathetic to you."

"I don't like it. It's hell unless you'll marry me. Listen Helen; if we made a treaty with conditions so that your work was protected, don't you think you could bring yourself to it then?"

"I might; I don't want to; it's against my better judgment and I'd be a bad wife, but I might. Tell me what conditions you'd suggest. For one thing there's children."

"I don't see that that matters. Don't have them if you don't want them."

"Wouldn't you mind?"

"No, not a bit now anyhow. And if I wanted one in ten years or so perhaps you might consider it."

"Geoffrey, I almost think we might manage," Helen said eagerly. "I've always ruled out marriage, and I won't do it at once anyhow, but if we did really make a sort of treaty that would safeguard my painting, then perhaps in two or three years I'd marry you."

"I'll work out the clauses. You'll have to be protected against me, and against children, and against my relations, and heaps of other things."

"Then why do you want me at all?" Helen asked in a small voice.

"I do. I want you most painfully. I hate your work in a way because it comes between us, but it's part of you too, and I don't know you well enough to disassociate bits of you from other bits."

"Don't hate it, Geoffrey. It's the most important part of me. I've not done anything to matter yet, but I'll show you my last thing if you like. I had an idea that all this talk about schools and styles was nonsense and that one could paint in two distinct styles in one picture and still keep the unity."

She went over and lifted a canvas that was turned against the wall.

"It's not framed," she said. "So I'll hold it up against these curtains; they're a good background."

She held it at arm's length standing very straight and tall, the outstretched arm and hand trembling a little with its weight.

Two white ponies were coming through a wood, with a violent sun striking between the trees. Each tree was painted as a solemn dark column with four twisting branches on each of which hung four formal emerald leaves. But the ponies were round and fat, with flowing manes and tails and little hooves uplifted. There was a classical rotundity about their haunches; their necks were thick and curved.

Geoffrey looked at them and thought how much happier they would have been frolicking in some flowery glade, or prancing round a little copse with a white temple in the centre. Against these stark blue-brown trees they became fantastic: the wood seemed real and permanent, the ponies--ironically robust--were creatures of an hour, a fashion, a convention.