Stephen Morris (30 page)

Antony snuggled down a little beneath his bedclothes. He had been worrying over Sheila. He had hoped that she would come to see him; now that she was here he was prepared to employ every means in his power to reach a solution of the problem that had been puzzling him. He was very fond of Sheila, and it distressed him to see her unhappy.

He threw an arm up round his head and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. ‘What’s Dennison doing?’ he inquired,

The girl avoided his gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ she said indifferently. ‘We haven’t seen anything of him.’ She picked up a book from the table and fingered the binding. ‘I do like these editions. They get them up so well.’

‘Do you know,’ said Antony, ‘I think you made a frightful mistake in sending him away. I do hope,’ he added, ‘that you aren’t going to go away, but you may if you want to. But it would be nicer of you to stay and amuse me, and it amuses me to talk to you about Dennison. And it’s very good for me, too. I’ve been thinking such a lot about you. I do wish you’d married him.’

Sheila was dumbfounded. For a moment all that she could think of was – ‘This serves me right for coming. I’ve brought this on myself.’ His last words threw her into a panic and brought back the worst of her fears redoubled. How much did Antony know and why – oh, why had he put it so definitely in the past tense? She remained silent.

‘You know,’ said Antony, ‘when I was a boy I used to think I was in love with you myself. I found out later that I wasn’t, of course. I don’t think I’m capable of
ever loving anyone better than myself, and you simply weren’t in it beside me, you see, and so I knew that I couldn’t be in love with you. And ever since I found that out I wanted to see you marry someone you really cared about, and who cared for you. And then it didn’t come off.’

Sheila found her voice. ‘I suppose you thought I was going to marry Peter,’ she said. ‘Well, how do you know I’m not?’

Antony gazed at her round-eyed. ‘But you sent him away!’ he said.

‘He’d have been perfectly miserable in China,’ said the girl.

For a moment Antony’s brain worked rapidly, then he sat up in bed. ‘You sent him away because of that?’ he said. ‘But didn’t you tell him?’

The girl turned away her head. ‘Not about that,’ she said at last. ‘I – I just told him that I couldn’t go to China. It was better that way.’

‘I see,’ said Antony slowly. ‘But what’s going to happen now?’

Sheila raised her head and smiled. ‘I think he’ll poke about and get a job in England that we can marry on,’ she said. ‘And then he’ll come back.’

Antony lay back in bed and gazed out of his window. Outside there were chimney-pots, russet and black, and sparrows, and a great expanse of blue sky and white cloud. The girl, expecting some commendation, waited, and as she waited the smile died from her lips. Antony thought she had done wrong.

‘He’ll never come back,’ said Antony.

He turned to her before she could reply. ‘It’s only the small men who come back,’ he said, ‘the men of no courage or the men of no principle. A man who acts on principles will never come back, because that would be giving in. Didn’t you know that? Lots of men would far
rather go unmarried than marry a girl who keeps then dangling on a string and expects them to come back. They stand by the first answer.’

The girl gazed at him steadily. ‘Do you mean I’ve lost him?’ she said.

Antony leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. ‘I’m frightfully glad you came today,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’ve lost him at all. But you hurt him frightfully, you know. It was the wrong way to take him altogether. You see, he was giving up everything that he cared for to go to China for you … and you told him that you couldn’t give up even the little things. Didn’t you think it would pay to be honest with him?’

He paused and continued, ‘Do you remember the morning he left, when he and I got up early to photograph the birds? You remember that etching I made of you? He asked if he might have it once before, and I had it all ready for him then, done up in paper. And he wouldn’t take it.

‘And then of course, I knew that he wasn’t coming back. He’s not the sort, you know.’

He lay back on his pillows. A copy of a gaudy French comic paper slipped from under the bedclothes and fluttered to the floor. Sheila realised that probably it had been secreted on her arrival. Mechanically she picked it up and placed it on the table.

After a time she got up. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’ she said. ‘I’m going to walk up to the Turl and get you a bowl of hyacinths, in peat, you know. It’s silly of you not to have any flowers. What colours would you like?’

Antony considered. ‘White and blue, please, in a blue bowl,’ he said. ‘And think it over.’

The girl stood looking down on him, chewing her glove. ‘You’re rather a dear,’ she said at last. ‘I think I shall have to write to Peter, shan’t I?’

‘I should think it’s the best thing you can do,’ said Antony cheerfully. ‘You ought to have done it weeks ago.’

It was a very long letter. Sheila wrote it in her bedroom one evening; it took a long time to write partly on account of its length and partly on account of the view over the woods from her window. It was evening, and whether the sunset influenced her letter or her letter drew her attention to the sunset is a point that probably will never be cleared up. For the rest of her life she remembered every detail of that evening; years afterwards she could sit down in the sunset and recall the phrases that she had written to her lover.

It was a very bulky letter, but she squeezed it into an envelope, walked down to the post, and posted it to Dennison in London.

It is curious how seldom one gets the answer to a letter of importance. One calculates the posts and one determines the hour of the arrival of the reply; it should come by the second post next Wednesday. On Wednesday morning, lying awake in bed, one admits a doubt, born perhaps of previous experience. Perhaps Wednesday was a little too soon to expect an answer. The answer to such a letter would take a little time to prepare; one could not really expect it on Wednesday and, whatever happens, one will not be disappointed if it doesn’t come. Wednesday passes, and Thursday.

And perhaps the answer never comes at all.

Sheila was dismayed. She had been prepared for a rebuff, unlikely though she had thought it. But that Dennison should not have answered her letter at all was incomprehensible. It was not his way.

In her letter she had suggested that they should meet in town to discuss their affairs. Now she sent him a postcard,
stating very briefly where she would be lunching when she went to town on the following Saturday. To that there was no reply.

She lingered over her lunch till three o’clock, then took a taxi for Chelsea. Already she suspected that he must be away, yet she must put the matter to the test, whatever the cost. She could not return home with nothing accomplished, nothing discovered to bring her peace of mind.

Dennison lived in the middle of a long row of drab grey houses. Sheila paid off her taxi, marched up the steps, and rang the bell.

The maid came to the door. ‘Can I see Mr Dennison?’

The maid hesitated. ‘He’s gone away, miss,’ she said.

So that was it.

‘I see,’ said Sheila. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘I don’t know, miss,’ said the girl. ‘He’s gone flying – on the sea, you know. With them in the papers.’ Then, with evident relief, ‘Mr Lanard is upstairs if you would like to see him. He knows all about it.’

Sheila produced a card. ‘Will you ask Mr Lanard if he can give me Mr Dennison’s address?’

The maid took the card and went upstairs. Presently she returned. ‘Will you come up?’

Sheila followed her upstairs and into the sitting-room. Gazing past the maid and past Lanard she saw her letter and her postcard on the mantelpiece.

Then her attention was directed to Lanard. He stood on the hearth-rug with her card in his hand, tall, dark, and very neat. He was not a handsome man at the best of times, and he greeted her with a particularly unpleasant smile. The girl’s first impression was that this was the coldest and rudest man that she had ever had to deal with. His smile in itself was an insult, as though he had spat at her.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Wallace,’ said Lanard. He
spoke with little cordiality, and he said no more. He knew perfectly well with whom he had to deal. He had read Sheila’s postcard to Dennison. Dennison was in New York at the moment; Lanard had determined to wait in that afternoon in case the girl turned up. He had been desperately worried over the flight. His was the temperament that broods and magnifies every danger in the imagination; he had been miserable since his friend had left. He blamed the girl who had started his friend on the run; he blamed himself that he had not gone with Dennison on the
Irene.
There were times when a man needed looking after. That had been one of them.

Well, here was the girl. This was the girl who would be glad enough to marry Dennison if he remained in England, but who could not face the prospect of going out to China with her husband. And yet, one who could not let him go, but must tag on to him as long as he remained in reach to prevent him settling down to forget that he had loved. As she came into the room the fire blazed up in Lanard.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ said Sheila, ‘– but I wonder if you could give me Mr Dennison’s address? Is he away for long?’

‘He’s gone to America,’ said Lanard crisply. ‘He’s in New York.’

The girl faltered. ‘In – in New York?’ she said. ‘Why – when did he go over there? Is he going to be away for long?’

‘He’ll be back in about a fortnight’s time.’

The girl was evidently puzzled. ‘Do you know what he went over there for? I mean, I saw him quite recently and there was no mention of it then.’

‘I don’t suppose so,’ said Lanard. He paused and eyed her gravely, then continued picking his words with cruel care.

‘He has had a good deal of trouble recently. After it
was all over he went away for a bit, and got mixed up in this attempt to fly the Atlantic. In an aeroplane. You have heard about it? Dennison is the navigator. I believe the pilot is a friend of yours. Mr Morris.’

The girl gazed at him steadily. ‘I knew nothing of this,’ she said.

Lanard smiled again and raised his eyebrows. ‘No?’ he said. ‘Your brother knows the details. I believe he dined with Morris the other day. Perhaps it would be better if you were to ask him to tell you about it. He can probably tell you more than I.’

The girl flushed angrily. ‘When is the flight to take place?’ she demanded.

‘On June the second.’

‘Can you give me Mr Dennison’s address in New York?’ She took a paper and pencil from her bag.

Lanard stiffened visibly. ‘I wonder if I may ask – why?’

‘Certainly,’ answered the girl coldly. ‘I am sending him a cable of good wishes for the flight.’

For a moment there was a battle of glances. ‘No,’ said Lanard. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you the address.’

‘Why not?’ demanded the girl.

Lanard did not answer at once, but put his hands into his pockets, crossed to the window, and stood for a moment looking down into the street. When he spoke again it was in a gentler tone.

‘Don’t you think it would be better to let him alone for the present?’ he said. ‘This flight is a serious matter – a dangerous matter. It’s very dangerous. People who do that sort of thing have to work very carefully on the preparations, you know. Nothing must be forgotten, nothing must be left to chance. They have to give the very best work there is in them to the preparations. If they don’t, they get killed. The flight itself is nothing in importance to the work done beforehand. You see
that? If you cable to him now, you’ll put him off his stroke and spoil his work entirely. You’ll upset him.’

He turned suddenly from the window. ‘And damn it!’ he said savagely, ‘what right have you got to put him off like that? It was you that sent him into this infernal thing. Now the best thing you can do is to keep out of it. Let him alone. What do you want? You’ll never get him back. You wouldn’t go to China with him – but he’d have gone farther than that with you. He knows you now. He didn’t before. You’ll never get him back. Can’t you make up your mind to let him alone?’

The fit passed, and he stood eyeing her moodily. She did not attempt to speak, but sat down on the edge of a chair and sat leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, playing with her gloves. For a full minute, it seemed to him, they remained like that without a word. Presently she raised her head and smiled at him, a little wistfully.

‘We’ll discount the heroics,’ she said. ‘I had heard nothing at all about all this. Thank you for telling me. I won’t cable to him. I’ll have back my letter and my postcard, please. Thank you.’

She rose, and stood fingering the bulging letter. ‘As for China,’ she said. ‘I see you know all about it. I think you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Do you think it would have been good for Peter to have gone to China?’

‘No,’ said Lanard slowly, ‘I don’t.’

‘Nor do I,’ said the girl. She turned to go. ‘Think it over, Mr Lanard.’ She smiled. ‘I think we shall be good friends one day,’ she said. ‘Good-bye.’