Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life.         
          ANDREW MARVELL

WITH consummate skill Gertrude invented contrivances to conceal the change that had come about in her affairs and feelings, but, as she never deceived herself, she deceived no one else either. However, everybody pretended to be deceived, and painlessly her engagement with Bennett Lawrie was allowed to fade out of existence. He came less and less to the house until the transformation in his status was complete, and then he came more and more.

Gertrude grew restless, her unease infected her mother, who had begun to tire of Fern Square and to think it and its neighbourhood squalid. The Clibran-Bells had left Fern Square and gone to a more expensive and more modern house in the select neighbourhood of Burdley Park. Little hints were thrown out, but nothing definite was said to Francis, until he expressed a desire to enlarge his greenhouse in the back garden and return to his old pastime of gardening. He had tired of reading. He could not bring himself to tackle new books, and the old had lost the potency of their appeal. His parish work was organised into a comfortable routine, so that he had plenty of leisure, and he disliked being left alone with tobacco and his thoughts. Gradually he had fallen into a nearer companionship with his wife, reading and discussing her foolish books with her and every evening playing three games of bezique and allowing her to win. He wanted [Pg 228]some new form of activity, and one day, the post bringing a seedsman’s catalogue, he found what he wanted. He would grow ferns and bulbs and fuchsias and geraniums and cactuses and have a very pleasant refuge from any malign stroke that fate might be keeping in store for him.

Near the Clibran-Bells Gertrude found a house with a large conservatory, and, all leaping to the prospect of a change, the decision was come to, the remainder of the Fern Square lease disposed of, and the household was moved. The new house was one room smaller than the old. Serge took a studio at the top of a huge caravanserai of offices near the Town Hall Square and arranged to live there. He had painted a portrait of Mrs. Clibran-Bell which had brought him a commission or two, and he regarded himself as sufficiently opulent to pay the not very exorbitant rent.

The removal took place in March, and a very pleasant house-warming was held. Gertrude sent out the invitations and expressly did not invite Bennett Lawrie. He turned up all the same, more silent, melancholy and romantical than ever. He sat in a corner and spoke to nobody, and looked so entirely dejected that at last Minna took pity on him, smiled her sweetest, and said:

“Why do you always play the skeleton at the feast? Are you really thinking of death or only of what there is for supper?”

“I didn’t know I looked like that,” answered Bennett with an effort. “I was feeling rather happy listening to you all.”

“Looking on,” said Minna, “is a dreadfully bad habit. Whenever I do it, I always find myself wondering who is going to be married to whom, or, at any rate, who is in love with whom, and how it is all going to turn out. That is too horribly depressing. It is much better to be an airy trifler. Why don’t you try a little airy trifling?”

“You can’t do it alone.”

“That is quite good. . . . Now then—one—two—three—hop.”

“I really couldn’t trifle with you, Minna.”

This was true. The memory of the day by the river [Pg 229]was much too vivid. Bennett was nothing if not rigidly monogamous. Minna did not know that. This new game, which had never occurred to her before, amused her. She went on:

“But you’re doing it quite nicely.”

Bennett dropped back into the darkest gloom. He began to feel angry with her and said savagely:

“Am I?”

“Indeed you are. And as you ain’t going to be a little clergyman, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does. It always matters.”

“It only matters if—shall I say it?”

“You generally say what you feel inclined to say.”

“It only matters if our little gentleman is in love.”

Bennett scowled. Minna went on with her banter until Annette came into the room with a tray bearing lemonade and claret. Bennett sprang up and hurried to meet her. Minna laughed and nodded to Basil Haslam to come and take Bennett’s seat. When he had done so, she said:

“Have you ever noticed my little sister, Annette?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

“She is over there, by that young Lawrie.”

“Young idiot.”

“What do you think of her?”

“She is looking quite pretty. Has she done her hair differently?”

“No, nothing is different.”

“Excitement, perhaps.”

“Per—haps.”

Basil turned to Minna. He was not interested in Annette.

“Minna, you look . . .”

“Ta, ta, ta . . . Are we to have it all over again?”

“Yes. Every time I see you. It’s not long before I go away now. Will you come with me? I can do better with you than without.”

“You don’t know. You have never lived with me. I should hate being really poor in a house of my own.”

“I’d make you rich with love.”

[Pg 230]

“And feed me with it and clothe me, and feed and clothe an enormous family?”

“We shouldn’t have an enormous family at once. I’ll make you rich before there are . . .”

Minna tapped his hand with amused affection, got up and left him. She went and stood near Bennett and Annette and she heard him say:

“Thank you for wearing them.”

She saw then that Annette was wearing two little red roses in her bosom.

“It was kind of you to send them,” said Annette.

“I hardly dared,” said Bennett. “I didn’t know if I might. I never see you now.”

Annette looked up at him between fear and delight. His mournful eyes met hers, and with a small envy Minna saw that they were entirely oblivious of everybody in the room. Annette’s lips pouted. A little sigh escaped her. She turned and hurried away.

Basil Haslam came up, took Minna rather roughly by the arm and dragged her away to sit on the stairs. In her heart she was pleased by his masterfulness, but superficially she was irritated, and they sat quarrelling.

The party engaged two rooms, one for cards and one for music. The room in which Bennett stood began to fill as Mary produced her violin. Annette returned from the kitchen with biscuits, sandwiches, cakes and a trifle, and when she had disposed them on the table she turned to Bennett and said:

“Come.”

He followed her.

She led the way into the little back garden, where, in a plot of grimy grass, grew a sycamore-tree. At the end of the garden was a decayed old summer-house of rustic wood. Bennett’s heart thumped as they approached it. They entered and stood for a moment in the darkness, glad of it. Tears came to his eyes. He could not see her. His hands groped in the darkness and soon found hers, warm, trembling. Very gently he drew her to him and kissed her forehead and her hair many times. Closer and closer she pressed to him, her hand went up to his shoulder. [Pg 231]He felt enormous strength come to him; the faintest little cry came from her and their lips met.

For each it was the first kiss of the beloved, a greater joy than either had dreamed of, and therefore almost more pain than joy. Holding her to him, Bennett murmured:

“Annette, love, I love you.”

And she gave little crooning sounds and was the first to kiss again.

Presently they crept back to the house and stole into the rooms again, Bennett looking more miserable and feeling more aloof than ever. Minna saw that Annette’s roses were crushed, so that one of them had lost its petals. Annette’s lips were red and her eyes shone with a new light. Bennett sought Minna and stood in silence by her side. Minna turned to him and said tartly:

“Annette is looking quite pretty to-night, isn’t she?”

“Is she?” Bennett’s voice quavered.

“I should advise you, as a friend, to make yourself very amiable to Ma.”

“I have always,” said Bennett, “had a great respect for Mrs. Folyat.”

“Bah!” answered Minna. “You take yourself much too seriously. You’ll never learn the wisdom of running away.”

“I ran away from you.”

“Of course you did; because I never take you seriously.”

Bennett said with asperity:

“You never take anything seriously. Some day you’ll have to.”

“Pooh!” Minna tossed her head and laughed. “I shall always know when to run away.”

Feeling that the remark was idiotic and inappropriate Bennett closed with:

“The world is very beautiful.”

“Great heavens! We shall have you writing poetry next!”

Bennett went very red. He had already written much poetry, as Minna well knew, for she had purloined and [Pg 232]read many of his effusions to Gertrude. She wondered if it would be going too far to quote, decided that it would, and mentally adapted certain verses to meet the new circumstances.

Bennett was called away to take a hand at whist—he was a fair player—and to pass out of the room he had to go by Annette. He avoided looking at her, but she followed him with her eyes, and, turning, met Minna’s gaze, curious and mischievous. Minna saw her expression harden into pride and defiance, and it was Minna who looked away.

The party was very late in breaking up, and as Bennett was putting on his overcoat Annette came and helped him. He turned to her and they smiled at each other. She said:

“Serge is going to make a picture of me. I begin to-morrow, at his studio.”

“I’ll write to you—then, if I may.”

Annette was called away by her mother, very peevish and anxious to go to bed. She caught Bennett’s hand, pressed it to her bosom and ran away.

“Good night,” he murmured, and when he was out in the street, walking home, he whispered to himself:

“Good night, my love.”

 

With the two crushed roses in her hand Annette slept like a child, hardly stirring all night, smiling. She had prayed to God, as usual, for her father and mother, and had particularly begged Him to bless her love.

Bennett on the other hand had suffered from a violent reaction. He hardly slept, or, when he did so, it was to dream feverishly, seeing himself in ignominious positions with no clothes on, in church, for instance, or at his office. His thoughts flopped like frogs in a pond; his emotions whirled, rushed in a flood up to the memory of that moment of ecstasy, but were driven back by other memories, the Jew, Kraus, Annette by the river, Minna and Haslam. He wanted so terribly to understand, but he could not. He longed for nothing but to be with Annette, to give her all her desire, to rescue her, fly with her. . . . [Pg 233]He fell asleep. In a chariot with swift horses he drove along a wild, dismal road. Clothed all in brightness he found Annette under a gallow’s tree. Three bodies hung on it and swung in the wind, but she was singing a beautiful song. She mounted into the chariot, and away they sped, so fast, so fast, that presently they soared, and then down they came with the air rushing in their ears. Soon the road caught them again. There were hedges on either side of it now. They grew and grew, taller, taller, taller. It was very dark. Soon he saw that they were in a church. The chariot vanished. Annette vanished. He was alone in a dark empty church, and with a bitter cry he exclaimed . . . He awoke, shivering. He had thrown the bed-clothes off and torn his night-dress from his body. He was so unhappy that he began to cry. Utterly exhausted he fell asleep.

He was late in the morning, dull and dead. The monotonous day’s work in the office soothed him. It was not until he left that he thought again of Annette and remembered that he had not written to her as he promised. He went round to Serge’s studio and found him smoking and surveying the rough beginnings of a charcoal drawing of Annette.

“Hullo! sir,” said Serge. “Anything wrong? Yo............