The Matchmaker (29 page)

“Somebody ought to get that man out of that place, he’s wasted there and I don’t know how he stands it,” said Alda suddenly, with a glance at her friend. “What do you think of him, Jean?”

Jean considered. “I’m sorry for him,” she said slowly, at last.

“Jean,” Alda said abruptly, “could you pull yourself together about him? Make up your mind to marry him
and do it
?”

Jean surprised her by answering, “I don’t suppose so,” in a tone different from any she had ever heard from her; it was both reserved and dry; but even as Alda, startled, turned quickly to look at her, she went on in her usual voice:

“He’s marvellously good-looking, of course, but, darling, I do think he’s the least bit dreary, don’t you?”

“He’s very dreary,” admitted Alda handsomely, “but he’s also kind. He is really, J., underneath all that pussyishness, and that’s what you want in a husband.”

“Pussyishness?” Again the dry, unfamiliar tone.

“No, kindness. (At least you would want it; Ronald is very kind, of course, but I could probably get on with him if he weren’t quite so kind, I’m tougher than you.) And Waite only seems dreary to us because we’re both used to other kinds of men. But most men, even dreary ones, are nice, if you get to know them,” concluded Alda.

Now this opinion, with all that it implied, contained the secret of such success as a woman as Alda enjoyed. To
like
men: their company, their conversation, their approval, and sometimes to challenge them a little—that, for a woman, is the passport to men’s affection and the love that leads to marriage. If she can also be prettily dressed, kind, and gay in the middle of an earthquake occurring on a Monday morning while she is doing the week’s wash, there is absolutely nothing to stop her from marrying as often, and whom, she chooses. (These remarks are addressed to all women who would like to be married, not to those straying outside the ring of domestic firelight who prefer children or music or even dogs to men.) We would add that the liking must be genuine, and not feigned to conceal rapacious or parasitic intentions.

“Are they?” said Jean, wonderingly.

To her, men meant love, and since the age of sixteen she had seen all men through that amethyst haze. It had not occurred to her to decide whether she truly preferred their company to that of any other, because she had been so feverishly sure that she did, but now, living down here in the country with no masculine society save occasional encounters with Mr. Waite, she was beginning for the first time to muse about what and whom she really did like.

“Of course they are,” said Alda carelessly, “and if you
concentrated
on him you’d soon get to like him.”

“I don’t
dis
like him, Alda. It’s only——”

“You can’t afford to be too fussy, J. They always seem to slip away from you somehow or some witch gets them at the last minute—I don’t know how it is—but down here there’s absolutely
no
competition. And he’d soon get to—see your point of view.”

They both laughed, and Meg stirred on Alda’s shoulder.

“He approves of you, and that’s a good beginning,” said Alda, as they went up the path to the cottage.

“Oh, does he, darling? Do tell me how you know; I never can tell, myself.”

“By the way he looks at you. But he does
not
approve of me,” and she chuckled.

Jean was silent. It had suddenly occurred to her that Captain Ottley and Michael Powers, two elderly men whom she had first met at Alda’s house, had approved of herself and slightly disapproved of Alda. And the more she thought about concentrating upon marrying Mr. Waite, the less she liked the idea, for she knew that she would never be able to keep to a plan of campaign, no matter how skilfully Alda mapped one out for her.

She began to talk in an amused, protesting tone:

“It’s so difficult, darling, having him living so near. I shall always be barging into him——”

“All the better,” said Alda. They were now in the cottage, and she turned to shut the door on the twilight fields.

“Yes, but
rather
embarrassing, darling. Besides, he hasn’t any money.”

“He’s got more than he seems to have, I expect,” said Alda (who thought that he surely could not have less). She did not add that Jean had more than enough for both.

A wail came from the kitchen:

“
Do
buck up, we’re simply starving.”

“Start without us, then, I’m going to put Megsy into bed, she’s asleep,” Alda called softly in reply, and went upstairs.

Jean was relieved by the interruption and went into the kitchen, where she found Jenny mourning because she could not manage the key of the sardine tin. It seems a pity that the people who are always trying to fly their repulsive aeroplanes at seven hundred miles per hour do not turn their colossal intellects on to simpler problems.

Later that evening, while they were sitting over their sewing, Jean said to Alda:

“Darling, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I do agree with it, only, if you don’t mind and won’t misunderstand it, I don’t think I want to
concentrate
on doing anything. I would rather things just came about
naturally
, if you know what I mean.”

“Just as you like, of course, J., only your affairs do have a habit of going wrong when they’re left to Nature and I’m all for taking the practical view and making a definite plan. French marriages are always arranged, and this idea of letting anyone just drift into marrying anyone else is only about a hundred years old, you know; in England, at any rate. In your case, I’m sure it would be better to try to run the whole affair in a practical way. But of course, if you want romance——”

“It’s not exactly that, darling——”

“By ‘practical’ I mean—never letting the idea of marriage with him out of your mind; not getting vague and sloppy or letting him see you’re attracted by him, keeping him guessing but not frightening him off—oh—it would be so easy!” and her eyes sparkled as if she saw herself stage-managing the affair.

“But—Alda—” Jean said hesitatingly—“there is his point of view—and besides, one hasn’t the right—I mean, don’t you believe that every human soul has a value?—and it may be really
wrong
to try to use other people for one’s own ends, as if they were
things
, not souls—oh, I can’t express myself properly—but——”

“Of course I believe people have souls, I’m not a heathen,” said Alda, staring, “but I’m bothered if I see what the fuss is about. Surely it’s better for the poor man to marry you and get out of that dim life and perhaps develop his brain and be of some use in the world, and for you to have a husband and a home and probably children, than for both of you to stay unmarried because of some extraordinary idea about souls? The fact is, ducky,” she said more gently, “I don’t want to come the Old-Married-Woman over you, but
honestly
you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She was silent for a moment; she gazed down at her work but did not see the little sock she held, for she seemed to be casting her inward eye over the rich varied fields of her possessions, the family of human lives growing and flourishing about her with ripened sheaves or young promise of harvest.

It’s no use, you don’t understand, thought the virgin sadly. I
do
want all the things you have; I know how beautiful they are; but it’s like that Victorian picture called
More Heavens Than One
where the nun is watching the cottager bathing her baby, only in my case the idea is reversed. You’re telling me about your heaven, and I want—or I’m beginning to think I want—quite another kind.

“SYLVIA,” SAID MRS
. Hoadley, a week or so later,“ a nice day out on Sunday would do you good. There’s this chicken I want to send to the old people at the Wild Brooks. How about your taking it over?”

“How about your posting it?” retorted Sylvia, showing her kitten’s teeth in a grin. The two were lingering over the tea-
table
, amid a dazzle of late sunrays falling on the crystal jam dish and the rich brown cake.

“Last time I posted one some miserable thief stole it,” snapped Mrs. Hoadley. She did not look well; her face was sallow and bore dark rings under the eyes.

“Next Sunday’s your day off, isn’t it? I think you’d better go. The old lady likes to see a new face now and then; and you’ll make a change for her,” she went on.

“I hate going places by myself.”

“Take your boy friend then,” and she got up and began half-heartedly to clear the table.

“Who—Fabrio?” Sylvia let out a screech of laughter and clasped her hands round her knees. “What a thought! Still, him and me don’t get on too badly nowadays. It’s an idea. He’d make a change for the old lady, if you like.”

“Take him, then.” She sat down again. “Here, you can clear these things away, and earn your keep for once.”

“But he isn’t allowed out of that monkey cage on a Sunday, is he?”

“He can go anywhere within twenty miles of the camp, all the Italian prisoners can, now the war’s over, only they’re on parole. The Wild Brooks is only about fifteen miles from here.”

“All right, then, I’ll ask him. There’s no harm in asking. We can practise our lessons in the bus.”

“You don’t go by bus, you go by train. And, Sylvia, you’d better dress yourself a bit quieter than you usually do on your Sundays off. I expect you’ll get stared at, an English girl out with an Italian, and the ignorant sort might pass remarks. Take my advice and do your hair in a bun, too. I shouldn’t like to tell you what the old lady said your hair looked like, the last time she was over here.”

“I know; a tart,” said Sylvia defiantly; she cast down her eyes, but her mouth twitched with mischief.

“S’sh!” with an expression of distaste.

“It isn’t a bad word, Mrs. Hoadley, it’s only short for sweetheart.”

“It means a bad woman, and that’s enough. It’s a pretty old word, come to that,” she went on drearily, “but it’s been spoilt by men, like everything else,” and suddenly she put her hands up to her face and began to cry.

“Why, whatever—! Here, cheer up, have some more tea, do,” said Sylvia, nervously moving the cups and saucers about and keeping a half-frightened gaze upon her, “Do you feel bad?”

“I’m all right; leave me alone, thank you, Sylvia,” indistinctly from behind her hands. “You go and mix the chickens’ food. I’ll be better in a minute.” She made no attempt to explain what was the matter. Sylvia, after aimlessly moving the crockery for a little longer, went away.

She spoke precisely the truth when she said of Fabrio and herself: “Him and me don’t get on too badly nowadays,” although Fabrio never expressed interest or pleasure in their lessons together, or showed disappointment when owing to some mischance they had to be missed; never answered or displayed anger when Emilio leered and hinted and tapped his nose as they passed Sylvia in the yard. He only worked silently and diligently at his reading and his English, sitting apart in the crowded hut at night while the other men gambled or sang or gossiped, with his fingers in his ears and his eyes fixed upon the book before him, while his patient peasant’s lips repeated a score of times the craggy English consonants so different from his own cooing, liquid Italian vowels. Sometimes he would push the book angrily aside and join his companions in whatever was going on, but he always returned to his studies, and every day, almost every hour, his English became more fluent.

Sylvia had been very shocked to discover that he could barely read. She had believed that everybody could read except the Indians, who were forcibly prevented by British Imperialists from learning, and Spanish Republicans who were Kept Under by the Church. However, her strong sense of the shamefulness
of
Fabrio’s case prevented her from expressing surprise or making inflammatory comments; she would as soon have thought of lecturing him upon the odour from his unwashed clothes as upon his ignorance, and she taught him to read without once jeering at him or becoming impatient with his slowness. She truly pitied this fellow-being sitting in intellectual twilight, and her pity silenced her boisterous tongue and softened her didactic impulse.

And for his part, Fabrio now pitied her—
La Scimmia
—Monkey-face. Heaven had bestowed upon her a head of hair glossy and brown as the chestnuts of Italy, and a white skin, and what use did she make of these gifts? Dyed the one, like the women who flaunted their sin in the streets, and painted the other as they painted their cheeks. And yet, he felt that
La Scimmia
was not like those shameless girls: she was not even like his own elder sisters, who had slept with strange men when the times were hard and there was no money in the house: that had seemed to make little difference to Nella and Maria, when once they had confessed to Father Domenico and received absolution and done their penance, and they had been cheerful and gay until the next time; and yet she was not like his little unmarried sisters either; she was not like any woman or girl he had ever known;
La Scimmia
was
La Scimmia
, and only like herself, and he pitied her.

He accepted her invitation to accompany her to the Wild Brooks with complacence, for Sylvia told him that the old people had taken a fancy to him and wanted very much to see him again. She made the proposed visit sound like a kindness from two gay, important young people towards two poor old geezers who might not be here long. He liked the idea of the day’s outing, too, and he even liked the idea of spending a holiday with
La Scimmia
, but oh! how he hoped that she would not wear the trousers and that faded rag upon her head! Everyone would pity
him
. And if she cast off the rag, if she bared that high brass roll of her terrible hair, so harsh and conspicuous,
then
everyone would stare at her and say that he was out with a loose woman.