Livia was gone away. Oliver would be home soon for the summer holidays.
I had called at Livia’s flat unexpectedly and found her packing.
“I’m off,” she said, trying hard to be casual.
“Off?”
“Yes. Holiday. I’ve worked hard for six weeks—harder than I’ve ever worked in my life. You don’t grudge me a holiday, Bill?”
“No—but—”
“But I ought to have told you. Well, see, there’s the letter. I should have posted it at Victoria this evening.”
“But—” I began again.
She stood up, and I thought she looked tense and strained.
“If I had told you, there would have been arguments, persuasions—wouldn’t there? I didn’t want to tell you why I’m going. Oliver will be home soon.”
“I see.”
“I wonder whether you do! Oh, don’t stand there looking anguished! I’m trying to help you. I’ll write to you. I’m going to a tiny place in France where no one ever goes but me.”
She stood there looking at me, white, defensive. There was nothing to be said except that, of course, I would come to Victoria and see her off.
The next evening I walked on the Heath with Dermot.
“You’re looking as cheerful as a sick monkey, Bill,” he said. “You ought to come to Ireland with me. It’ll do you good.”
“Ireland? Oliver’ll be home in a day or two, and I thought of taking him down to Heronwater.”
“Have a change. Bring Oliver, too. Come to Dublin.” I thought the matter over, and liked the sound of it.
“Maeve, of course, can’t come. What about Sheila and Eileen?”
Dermot’s face darkened. “It’s a terrible thing to get middle-aged, Bill. There was a time when I could have said to Sheila: ‘Let’s go to Ireland and buy a couple of guns and pot at the first people we see coming out of Dublin Castle,’ and, begod, she’d have done it. You remember her when we were engaged to be married?”
“I remember the first night you brought her home. She was a darling, and she was shy, and you tried to make her say ‘God damn England,’ and she wouldn’t. I remember all that.”
“She wouldn’t say it, but that didn’t mean a thing. And then there came the time when my work took all my energy, and I had no use for the merely mouthy patriots. She didn’t like that, Bill. You didn’t know, did you?—but there was a stretch when Sheila and I found one another hard to live with. It was just then.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Ah, well; that’s over, thank God. Now it’s all the other way about. And, of course, that’s because it’s not me, but Rory. That’s why she won’t be coming to Dublin with me. She won’t meet Donnelly; she won’t see the life Rory’s living now.”
“And you think that’s just middle-age and a terrible thing? Maybe it’s wisdom.”
“Well, it’s why I’m going to Dublin alone—unless you’ll come.”
“I’ll come. I’d like Oliver to see Rory again.”
*
Oliver and Pogson tumbled out of the train at St. Pancras and came along the platform arm-in-arm. Pogson’s pimples were no better. His voice was an absurd bass amid the shrill chattering of his companions. He was, as usual, overdue for a shave. Oliver never knew, physically, an awkward age. He was as tall as Pogson, nearly six foot, looking extraordinarily well after the summer term. He was hatless. His fair hair was rather long, brushed in a glistening undulation across his forehead. His face was tanned, making his deep blue eyes look very attractive. He never lost the power of startling me. I saw him now so infrequently that there was always some change, some accession to maturity, that made him a new picture. I saw him that day as a man—a young man, but a man, and a man of such beauty that people turned their heads to look at him.
A new and splendid motor-car was drawn up in the road between the platforms. The chauffeur saluted Pogson, who, with Oliver, made ecstatic exclamations about the beauty of the car. They examined the gadgets, the dashboard fitments; then Pogson said to the chauffeur: “I’ll drive her. Didn’t know there was a new car.”
He climbed to the driver’s seat, the chauffeur opening the door for him, and thence called to Oliver: “Well, I’ll be looking you up!”
He drove off masterfully, and Oliver stared at the lovely car till it was out of sight.
Martin was doing some repair job to my car. “We’ll go home by tube,” I said. He looked crestfallen.
*
What on earth was the matter with me? It had given me pleasure to emphasise the difference between Pogson’s seigneurial departure and our democratic ride in the tube train. Not so long ago I should not have thought it possible that anything which caused Oliver to look crestfallen would give me pleasure. I should not have thought it possible that the idea of spending a holiday alone with Oliver would cause me uneasiness. But I was aware of being pleased that we were going to Dublin with Dermot. Maeve working, Sheila and Eileen taking their holiday elsewhere, Livia away: there would have been no one but me and Oliver at Heronwater, and I was glad that that was not to be. As the train jolted northwards, we sat side by side, saying little, and I thought of the times when we had so much to say, when a word—any word—was enough to start “conversations.”
We got out at Hampstead station and walked home—up the hill, past the Leg-of-Mutton pond, past Jack Straw’s Castle.
“Come along to my study as soon as you’re ready,” I said. “We’ll have tea there.”
He went off to his own rooms carrying his suit-case. It was pretty heavy. He had carried it up the hill, effortlessly, splendidly upright.
He came down presently. He had taken the trouble to change completely. He was wearing a grey flannel suit, a blue shirt and a crimson tie. He threw himself down into an easy chair and dandled a neat brown shoe. The tea-table was between us. He balanced a cup of tea in his hand, and his eye roved round the room. It came to rest on a photograph of himself, standing on a low book-case.
“You haven’t had me done lately,” he said, nodding towards the picture and smiling. The white teeth gleamed in his sun-browned face.
He didn’t give me time to reply, but went on: “I asked Mother about that once—you know, the annual ritual.”
He was referring to the visit he had made to a photographer every birthday during his mother’s lifetime.
“She said it was because you were sure I was going to be a great man and you wanted a record for my biographer.”
He smiled again rather mockingly. I had, indeed, said that to Nellie in a fond half-seriousness. The record of Oliver’s years was carefully put away in my desk.
“We’ve missed quite a number of years now,” he said, “and I’d like a new picture. There’s a practical reason for it.”
Then his laughing impudence suddenly broke down. “Honestly,” he said, his colour mounting, “I want to give a picture to Livia Vaynol. I’m terribly fond of her.” He said it with a rush.
My heart gave a thump. I had not expected him to make that avowal.
He went on: “She hasn’t written to me all this term. She used to write.”
Then for a moment he could again say no more. He put down his cup, and it clattered shakily on the table. At last he said: “I’ve wanted to talk to you about this, but it hasn’t been easy. Of course, you think I’m only a boy. I’m not. I feel quite grown-up...”
He stumbled again, confused, unable to find the words he wanted.
“Oliver,” I said, “listen. Don’t think that I misunderstand the feelings of a young man. I know how sincere and real they can be, and what pain they can give. But they pass. They change. I’m sure of this. Otherwise, I could never tell you what I have to tell you now—what Livia herself has asked me to tell you—she and I are going to be married soon.”
My voice sounded like that of someone talking in a dream. “She and I are going to be married soon.” So matter-of-fact. I had often pictured the moment when I should say those words to Oliver. I had arranged the scene in my mind. Now the words were out, suddenly, without frillings. I had often imagined, too, what he would say and do: go very white, perhaps, shout, protest. He didn’t do any of these things. “I feel quite grown-up,” he had said; and before that, at the station, he had struck my imagination suddenly as a man. He answered as a man. There was one sign of emotion: he moistened his dry lips with his tongue. Then he said: “I knew you were very fond of Livia. What you say doesn’t surprise me. But I think you are making a mistake.”
Only when he had spoken the words very calmly did I see from the colour in his cheeks, and from a pulsing vein in his neck, that he was deeply affected.
“What do you mean—a mistake?” I said, half-rising from my chair. Then I sank back again. No. This wasn’t a thing I could argue about. I leaned forward towards him across the table, sought to put my hand on his knee. “Oliver, do please understand—” but he rose and looked down at me, very composed, very haughtily lovely. He put my own thoughts into words. “We can’t discuss it, can we? We have nothing to say to one another.”
He took a cheap gun-metal cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, and held it towards me. I shook my head, and sat staring at the ground. Oliver put a cigarette between his lips, snapped the case to with affected indifference, and walked out of the room.
*
Eight o’clock was our time for dining. I found myself fussing into the dining-room at a quarter to eight to inspect the table. I wanted everything to be perfect for Oliver. I rated the parlourmaid because a salt-cellar was slightly tarnished, and sent her skipping to burnish it quickly. I rearranged the flowers, fiddled with the cutlery. My heart was crying in my breast. I could see, as though I should never cease seeing, that poor little gesture with the cheap cigarette case. I was wondering whether he had rushed away to cry, once the door was closed behind him.
Just before eight, I went up to bring him down. He was not in his room. I shouted “Oliver!” and he replied from the bedroom: “Yes. Come in.”
I went in. He was in bed, sitting up with a dressing-gown over his pyjamas.
“Hallo!” he said, smiling brightly. “Want me?”
“My dear boy, you’ve forgotten the time,” I said, speaking with the same false brightness that had been in his smile. “Aren’t you coming down to dinner? Got something good there?”
“Not bad,” he said, tossing across to me the paper-back he was reading. It was Fergus Hume’s Mystery of a Hansom Cab. “It’s a thing Poggy gave me.”
“It’s jolly good,” I said, finding myself for the first time anxious to discuss the queer books that Oliver chose to read. “Of its sort, I should say it’s very good indeed.”
“Oh, well, I haven’t got much to finish it, then I’ll shut-eye. I’m dog-tired.”
“But don’t you want any dinner?”
“No, thanks. Not a bit hungry.” Again the bright glassy smile.
“Well, what about a tray? Shall I have something sent up?”
“Oh, no—no, really.”
“Well—”
“Don’t bother about me.”
“I’ll tell them to be very quiet, then. Oh, and look, I wanted to give you this.” I pulled the gold cigarette case out of my pocket.
“No—please! I know how you value that. Besides, I’ve got this one now. Poggy gave it to me. I’ve taken quite a fancy to the old thing.” He took up the gun-metal case from the table beside the bed. “Sure you won’t have one?”
I shook my head, and stood there foolishly holding the gold case in my hand for a moment, then slipped it into my pocket.
“Well, I’ll tell them to be very quiet.”
“That’s awfully good of you. Good-night.” He turned to his book, dismissing me.
I hesitated at the door, fiddling the knob in my hand. “See you at breakfast?”
He looked up quickly, as though he had thought I was gone. “Oh, breakfast!” He smiled again, and this time I thought there was something hard and mocking in it, something which said to me: “Ah! I’ve got you jumping now.”
“Breakfast,” he said, considering it. “Well, now, that is an occasion for a tray. Ask ’em to send it up.”
I couldn’t stand the thought of dinner. I told them to take it away. I couldn’t stand being in the house. I called Martin and he drove me to town. I ate in a crowded restaurant and stayed there till the show was nearly over at the St. John’s Theatre. Then I collected Maeve and drove her to her flat in Bruton Street. It was a very hot night. Even at midnight the streets had no coolness. Maeve was tired and rested her head on my shoulder. “Nothing will kill your old play, Bill,” she murmured, “not even this heat. Sometimes I wish it would. Oh, dear. I’m so tired.”
Annie Suthurst was at the flat, fussing round with eggs beaten up in milk. “Now you get out o’ t’place quick, Mr. Essex,” she admonished me. “I’m going to put Miss Maeve to bed. Wearin’ ’erself out, she is, I’m not ’avin’ ’er stoppin’ up half the neet chin-waggin’ wi’ you.”
“Nonsense, Annie,” Maeve smiled, gulping down her milk. “I don’t see Mr. Essex so often as all that. We’re going to have a good old jaw.”
But we didn’t talk much. Mostly, we sat in her darkened room, with the window wide open, and listened to the murmur of the London streets which is never wholly hushed, and watched the leaves of the plane trees in Berkeley Street, still as if cut out of metal, with the light of the street lamps shining on them. Then we went out and walked slowly round the square, and Maeve put her arm through mine, and when we got back to the door of her flat she said: “Feeling better?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad. I could see there was something wrong with you.”
It was two o’clock. A little wind crept round the corner and Maeve shivered slightly. She looked up into my face, as though wondering whether I would give her my confidence. I remained silent, and she shook her head.
“D’you remember old Dobbin, Bill, that poor dumb brute in Vanity Fair?”
“H’m.”
“So long as you do.” She slipped her hand from my arm and ran upstairs.
A letter from Livia at Tour des Roches in Provence came in the morning.
*
“Here I am, down on the farm. How you have taken me on trust! You didn’t even know that my father came from these parts, did you? Well, he did. But I needn’t now tell you the story—after all, a very simple one—of how he found himself in London teaching languages, how he captivated a girl with a bit of money, and how they both died a few years ago, so that the bit of money—such a little bit!—is now mine. My mother’s brothers were stockbrokers, which is why I decided to live alone!
There, you trusting one! Now you know something about me! And here I am on my uncle’s farm which has a little white tower at one corner, and in the tower are two little round rooms, one on top of the other. The bottom one is a sitting-room and you climb from it to the bedroom by a ladder. These two rooms are now mine, and from either you can look out at the rocky hillside behind the farm which, with my tower, gives the place its name.
It’s all very, very nice, Bill, though at the moment very warm, and if you want a pretty good picture of the sort of life it is, read Daudet’s Lettres de mon Moulin.
I didn’t tell Mr. Wertheim that I was leaving London. If you see him, let him know that I do not intend to be lazy—after a day or two. I shall get some good ideas for dresses out of these Provençal villages, and I’m going to work hard on songs.
I expect Oliver is at home now. Have you told him? Give him my love—if you think you ought to. I shall stay here at any rate till the school holidays are over. Love, LIVIA.”
*
“If you think you ought to.” It was not an easy question to decide after a wretched sleepless night. I refilled my coffee cup, and was twiddling the letter in my hand when the parlourmaid, looking flustered, came into the room.
“Have you taken the tray upstairs?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. I was just coming to tell you, sir. Mr. Oliver isn’t there.”
“Isn’t there? But he said he’d have breakfast in bed. Has he got up? Have you seen him about?”
“No, sir. And I’ve asked everybody. Nobody’s seen him. There’s this letter, sir.”
She handed me the letter, addressed to me in Oliver’s writing. I strove not to seem excited. “Let me have some more toast. And—yes, and some more coffee.”
When she was gone I opened the letter.
“MY DEAR FATHER,—I am now just over seventeen years old—old enough to know my own mind. I feel much too old to be at school. I am tall for my age, much taller than most boys, and this makes me feel uncomfortable. I should feel worse if I went back to school now that Pogson is gone. In any case, I should have asked you to let me spend a year in private study or something before going on to the university, but now it may turn out that I shall not go to the university at all. You may not want me to, and if I find a satisfactory job, the university may not be of any use to me. For I am going to try and find something to do. There is no need whatever for you to worry about me. As I told you last night, I am a man now and I have no doubt at my age you were looking after yourself. I’ve got one or two things in mind, though unfortunately I’ve never been brought up to do much either with my hands or my head. I will let you know what I am doing as soon as I have got something. I know a boy leaving school ought to give a term’s notice, so I’m afraid I’ve let you in for £100 or so; but I shall doubtless be able to pay this back, with what you paid the pawnbroker for the cigarette case, one of these days. I was very interested, as you know, in steam yachts, and for some time I have stinted myself by paying into what I called my ‘yacht fund.’ This now proves to be fortunate because I have £10 by me which will keep me for a bit.
Yours, OLIVER.”
Not a word of Livia. Not a word of his real reason for leaving home. I brushed impatiently past the parlourmaid bringing in the coffee and toast, and went up to Oliver’s rooms. The sitting-room, the bedroom, the bathroom. This was to be the place where Oliver and I would find one another again. Working in my own room, I was to know that here a young and eager spirit was unfolding near me.
I knew in my bones that Oliver would never live under my roof again. He never did.
Suddenly the house with its servants and superfluities, its too many rooms, its wanton waste in provision for circumstances that could never be, seemed hateful to me. I sat down in Oliver’s chair and buried my head in my hands.
When I got up, I felt worn and haggard. I noticed a heap of charred paper in the fireplace. The drawers of the desk were open. Evidently he had been having a clean-up. I went over to the fireplace and stirred the ashes with my toe. Here and there, on uncharred fragments, my own handwriting appeared. Letters. It looked from the size of the pyre as though there had been a good many. It looked as though he had burned every letter from me that he had hoarded since he was a boy.