Patricia Brent, Spinster

  CHAPTER XX

  A RACE WITH SPINSTERHOOD

  Before she had been at Eastbourne twenty-four hours Patricia wasconvinced that she had made a mistake in going there. With no claimsupon her time, the restlessness that had developed in London increaseduntil it became almost unbearable. The hotel at which she was stayingwas little more than a glorified boarding-house, full of "the mostjungly of jungle-people," as she expressed it to herself. Theirwell-meant and kindly efforts to engage her in their pursuits andpleasures she received with apathetic negation. At length herfellow-guests, seeing that she was determined not to respond to theirovertures, left her severely alone. The men were the last to desist.

  She came to dislike the pleasure-seekers about her and grew critical ofeverything she saw, the redness of the women's faces, the assumedyouthfulness of the elderly men, the shapelessness of matrons whoseemed to delight in bright open-work blouses and juvenile hats. Sheremembered Elton's remark that Fashion uncovers a multitude of shins.The shins exposed at Eastbourne were she decided, sufficient toundermine one's belief in the early chapters of Genesis.

  At one time she would have been amused at the types around her, andtheir various conceptions of "one crowded hour of glorious life." Asit was, everything seemed sordid and trivial. Why should people loseall sense of dignity and proportion at a set period of the year? Itwas, she decided, almost as bad as being a hare.

  All she wanted was to be alone, she told herself; yet as soon as shehad discovered some secluded spot and had settled herself down to read,the old restlessness attacked her, and fight against it as she might,she was forced back again to the haunts of men.

  For the first few days she watched eagerly for letters. None came.She would return to the hotel several times a day, look at theletter-rack, then, to hide her disappointment, make a pretence ofhaving returned for some other purpose. "Why had not Bowen written?"she asked herself, then a moment after she strove to convince herselfthat he had forgotten, or at least that she was only an episode in hislife.

  His sudden change from eagerness to indifference caused her to flushwith humiliation; yet he had gone to Galvin House during the raid toassure himself of her safety. Why had he not written after what hadoccurred? Perhaps Aunt Adelaide was right about men after all.

  Patricia wrote to Lady Tanagra, Mrs. Hamilton, Lady Peggy, Mr. Triggs,even to Miss Sikkum. In due course answers arrived; but in only MissSikkum's letter was there any reference to Bowen, a gush of sentimentabout "how happy you must be, dear Miss Brent, with Lord Bowen runningdown to see you every other day. I know!" she added with maidenlyprescience. Patricia laughed.

  Mr. Triggs committed himself to nothing more than two and three-quarterpages, mainly about his daughter and "A. B.," Mr. Triggs was not at hisbest as a correspondent. Lady Tanagra ran to four pages; but as herhandwriting was large, five lines filling a page, her letter wasdisappointing.

  Lady Peggy was the most productive. In the course of twelve pages ofspontaneity she told Patricia that the Duke and the Cabinet Ministerhad almost quarrelled about her, Patricia. "Peter has been to lunchwith us and Daddy has told him how lucky he is, and how wonderful youare. If Peter is not very careful, I shall have you presented to me asa stepmother. Wouldn't it be priceless!" she wrote. "Oh! What am Iwriting?" She ended with the Duke's love, and an insistence thatPatricia should lunch at Curzon Street the first Sunday after herreturn.

  Patricia found Lady Peggy's letter charming. She was pleased to knowthat she had made a good impression and was admired--by the rightpeople. Twenty-four hours, however, found her once more thrown backinto the trough of her own despondency. Instinctively she began tocount the days until this "dire compulsion of infertile days" shouldend. She could not very well return to London and say that she wastired of holiday-making. Galvin House would put its own constructionupon her action and words, and whatever that construction might be, itwas safe to assume that it would be an unpleasant one.

  There were moments when a slight uplifting of the veil enabled her tosee herself as she must appear to others.

  "Patricia!" she exclaimed one morning to her reflection in a ratherdubious mirror. "You're a cumberer of the earth and, furthermore,you've got a beastly temper," and she jabbed a pin through her hat andpartly into her head.

  As the days passed she found herself wondering what was the earliestday she could return. If she made it the Friday night, would it arousesuspicion? She decided that it would, and settled to leave Eastbourneon the Saturday afternoon.

  As the train steamed out of the station she made a grimace in thedirection of the town, just as an inoffensive and prematurely baldlittle man opposite looked up from his paper. He gave Patricia onestartled look through his gold-rimmed spectacles and, for the rest ofthe journey, buried himself behind his paper, fearful lest Patriciashould "make another face at him," as he explained to his mother thatevening.

  "She's come home in a nice temper!" was Miss Wangle's diagnosis of themood in which Patricia reached Galvin House.

  Gustave regarded her with anxious concern.

  The first dinner drove her almost mad. The raid, as a topic ofconversation, was on the wane, although Mr. Bolton worked at it nobly,and Patricia found herself looked upon to supply the necessary materialfor the evening's amusement. What had she done? Where had she been?Had she bathed? Were the dresses pretty? How many times had Bowenbeen down? Had she met any nice people? Was it true that the costumesof the women were disgraceful?

  At last, with a forced laugh, Patricia told them that she must have"notice" of such questions, and everybody had looked at her insurprise, until Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out, and he explained theparliamentary allusion.

  When at last, under pretence of being tired, she was able to escape toher room, she felt that another five minutes would have turned herbrain.

  Sunday dawned, and with it the old panorama of iterations unfoldeditself: Mr. Bolton's velvet coat and fez, Mr. Cordal's carpet slipperswith the fur tops, Mrs. Barnes' indecision, Mr. Sefton's genial andromantic optimism, Miss Sikkum's sumptuary excesses; all presentedthemselves in due sequence just as they had done for--"was itcenturies?" Patricia asked herself. To crown all it was a roast-porkSunday, and the reek of onions preparing for the seasoning filled thehouse.

  Patricia felt that the fates were fighting against her. In nervingherself for the usual human Sunday ordeal, she had forgotten thevegetable menace, in other words that it was "pork Sunday." Mr. Boltonwas always more than usually trying on Sundays; but reinforced byonions he was almost unbearable. Patricia fled.

  It was the Sunday before August Bank Holiday. Patricia shuddered atthe remembrance. It meant that people were away. She did not pause tothink that her world was at home, pursuing its various paths whereby tocultivate an appetite worthy of the pork that was even then sizzling inthe Galvin House kitchen under the eagle eye of the cook, who pridedherself on her "crackling," which Galvin House crunched with noisygusto.

  Patricia sank down upon a chair far back under the trees opposite theStanhope Gate. Here she remained in a vague way watching the people,yet unconscious of their presence. From time to time some snatch ofmeaningless conversation would reach her. "You know Betty's such asport?" one man said to another. Patricia found herself wondering whatBetty was like and what, to the speaker's mind, constituted being asport. Was Betty pretty? She must be, Patricia decided; no one caredwhether or no a plain girl were a sport. She found herself wanting toknow Betty. What were the lives of all these people, these shadows,that were moving to and fro in front of her, each intent upon somethingthat seemed of vital importance? Were they----?

  "I doubt if Cassandra could have looked more gloomily prophetic."

  She turned with a start and saw Geoffrey Elton smiling down upon her.

  "Did I look as bad as that?" she enquired, as he took a seat beside her.

  "You looked as if you were gratuitously settling the destinies of theworld," he replied.

  "I
n a way I suppose I was," she said musingly. "You see they all meansomething," indicating the paraders with a nod of her head, "tragedy,comedy, farce, sometimes all three. If you only stop to think aboutlife, it all seems so hopeless. I feel sometimes that I could run awayfrom it all."

  "That in the Middle Ages would have been diagnosed as the monasticspirit," said Elton. "It arose, and no doubt continues in most casesto arise from a sluggish liver."

  "How dreadful!" laughed Patricia. "The inference is obvious."

  "The world's greatest achievements and greatest tragedies could nodoubt be traced directly to rebellious livers: Waterloo and 'Hamlet'are instances."

  "Are you serious?" enquired Patricia. She was never quite certain ofElton.

  "In a way I suppose I am," he replied. "If I were a pathologist Ishould write a book upon _The Influence of Disease upon the Destiniesof the World_. The supreme monarch is the microbe. The Germans haveshown that they recognise this."

  "Ugh!" Patricia shuddered.

  "Of course you have to make some personal sacrifice in the matter ofself-respect first," continued Elton, "but after that the rest becomeseasy."

  "I suppose that is what a German victory would mean," said Patricia.

  "Yes; we should give up lead and nickel and T.N.T., and invent germdistributors. Essen would become a great centre of germ-culture,and----"

  "Oh! please let us talk about something else," cried Patricia. "It'shorrible!"

  "Well!" said Elton with a smile, "shall we continue our talk overlunch, if you have no engagement?"

  "Lady Peggy asked me----" began Patricia.

  "They're away in Somerset," said Elton, "so now I claim you as myvictim. It is your destiny to save me from my own thoughts."

  "And yours to save me from roast pork and apple sauce," said Patricia,rising. As they walked towards Hyde Park Corner she explained theGalvin House cuisine.

  They lunched at the Ritz and, to her surprise Patricia found herselfeating with enjoyment, a thing she had not done for weeks past. Shedecided that it must be a revulsion of feeling after the menace ofroast pork. Elton was a good talker, with a large experience of lifeand a considerable fund of general information.

  "I should like to travel," said Patricia as she sipped her coffee inthe lounge.

  "Why?" Elton held a match to her cigarette.

  "Oh! I suppose because it is enjoyable," replied Patricia; "besides,it educates," she added.

  "That is too conventional to be worthy of you," said Elton.

  "How?" queried Patricia.

  "Most of the dull people I know ascribe their dullness to lack ofopportunities for travel. They seem to think that a voyage round theworld will make brilliant talkers of the toughest bores."

  "Am I as tedious as that?" enquired Patricia, looking up with a smile.

  "Your friend, Mr. Triggs, for instance," continued Elton, passing overPatricia's remark. "He has not travelled, and he is alwaysinteresting. Why?"

  "I suppose because he is Mr. Triggs," said Patricia half to herself.

  "Exactly," said Elton. "If you were really yourself you would notbe----"

  "So dull," broke in Patricia with a laugh.

  "So lonely," continued Elton, ignoring the interruption.

  "Why do you say that?" demanded Patricia. "It's not exactly acompliment."

  "Intellectual loneliness may be the lot of the greatest social success."

  "But why do you think I am lonely?" persisted Patricia.

  "Let us take Mr. Triggs as an illustration. He is direct, unversed indiplomacy, golden-hearted, with a great capacity for friendship andsentiment. When he is hurt he shows it as plainly as a child,therefore we none of us hurt him."

  "He's a dear!" murmured Patricia half to herself.

  "If he were in love he would never permit pride to disguise it."

  Patricia glanced up at Elton: but he was engaged in examining the endof his cigarette.

  "He would credit the other person with the same sincerity as himself,"continued Elton. "The biggest rogue respects an honest man, that iswhy we, who are always trying to disguise our emotions, admire Mr.Triggs, who would just as soon wear a red beard and false eyebrows asseek to convey a false impression."

  Patricia found herself wondering why Elton had selected this topic.She was conscious that it was not due to chance.

  "Is it worth it?" Elton's remark, half command, half question, seemedto stab through her thoughts.

  She looked up at him, her eyes a little widened with surprise.

  "Is what worth what?" she enquired.

  "I was just wondering," said Elton, "if the Triggses are not very wisein eating onions and not bothering about what the world will think."

  "Eating onions!" cried Patricia.

  "My medical board is on Tuesday up North," said Elton, "and I shallhope to get back to France. You see things in a truer perspective whenyou're leaving town under such conditions."

  Patricia was silent for some time. Elton's remarks sometimes wantedthinking out.

  "You think we should take happiness where we can find it?" she asked.

  "Well! I think we are too much inclined to render unto Caesar thethings which are God's," he replied gravely.

  "Do you appreciate that you are talking in parables?" said Patricia.

  "That is because I do not possess Mr. Triggs's golden gift ofdirectness."

  Suddenly Patricia glanced at her watch. "Why, it's five minutes tothree!" she cried. "I had no idea it was so late."

  "I promised to run round to say good-bye to Peter at three," Eltonremarked casually, as he passed through the lounge.

  "Good-bye!" cried Patricia in surprise.

  "He is throwing up his staff appointment, and has applied to rejoin hisregiment in France."

  For a moment Patricia stopped dead, then with a great effort she passedthrough the revolving door into the sunlight. Her knees seemedstrangely shaky, and she felt thankful when she saw the porter hail ataxi. Elton handed her in and closed the door.

  "Galvin House?" he interrogated.

  "When does he go?" asked Patricia in a voice that she could not keepeven in tone.

  "As soon as the War Office approves," said Elton.

  "Does Lady Tanagra know?" she asked.

  "No, Peter will not tell her until everything is settled," he replied.

  As the taxi sped westwards Patricia was conscious that some strangechange had come over her. She had the feeling that follows a long boutof weeping. Peter was going away! Suddenly everything was changed!Everything was explained! She must see him! Prevent him from goingback to France! He was going because of her! He would be killed andit would be her fault!

  Arrived at Galvin House she went straight to her room. For two hoursshe lay on her bed, her mind in a turmoil, her head feeling as if itwere being compressed into a mould too small for it. No matter how shestrove to control them, her thoughts inevitably returned to the phrase,"Peter is going to France."

  Unknown to herself, she was fighting a great fight with her pride. Shemust see him, but how? If she telephoned it would be an unconditionalsurrender. She could never respect herself again. "When you are inlove you take pleasure in trampling your pride underfoot." The phrasepersisted in obtruding itself. Where had she heard it? What waspride? she asked herself. One might be very lonely with pride as one'ssole companion. What would Mr. Triggs say? She could see his foreheadcorrugated with trying to understand what pride had to do with love.Even Elton, self-restrained, almost self-sufficient, admitted that Mr.Triggs was right.

  If she let Peter go? A year hence, a month perhaps, she might havelost him. Of what use would her pride be then? She had not knownbefore; but now she knew how much Peter meant to her. Since he hadcome into her life everything had changed, and she had growndiscontented with the things that, hitherto, she had tacitly acceptedas her portion.

  "You're fretting, me dear!" Mr. Triggs's remark came back to her. Sherecalled how indignant
she had been. Why? Because it was true. Shehad been cross. She remembered the old man's anxiety lest he hadoffended her. She almost smiled as she recalled his clumsy effort toexplain away his remark.

  She had heard someone knock gently at her door, once, twice, threetimes. She made no response. Then Gustave's voice whispered, "Tea isserved in the looaunge, mees." She heard him creep away with clumsystealth. There was a sweet-natured creature. He could never disguisean emotion. He had come upstairs during the raid, though in obviousterror, in order to save her. Mr. Triggs, Gustave, Elton, all wereagainst her. She knew that in some subtle way they were working tofight _her_ pride.

  For some time longer she lay, then suddenly she sprang up. First shebathed her face, then undid her hair, finally she changed her frock andpowdered her nose.

  "Hurry up, Patricia! or you may think better of it," she cried to herreflection in the glass. "This is a race with spinsterhood."

  Going downstairs quietly she went to the telephone.

  "Gerrard 60000," she called, conscious that both her voice and herknees were unsteady.

  After what seemed an age there came the reply, "Quadrant Hotel."

  "Is Lord Peter Bowen in?" she enquired. "Thank you," she added inresponse to the clerk's promise to enquire.

  Her hand was shaking. She almost dropped the receiver. He must beout, she told herself, after what seemed to her an age of waiting. Ifhe were in they would have found him. Perhaps he had already startedfor----

  "Who is that?" It was Bowen's voice.

  Patricia felt she could sing. So he had not gone! Would her kneesplay her false and cheat her?

  "It's--it's me," she said, regardless of grammar.

  "That's delightful; but who is me?" came the response.

  No wonder woman liked him if he spoke like that to them, she decided.

  Suddenly she realised that even she herself could not recognise as herown the voice with which she was speaking.

  "Patricia," she said.

  "Patricia!" There was astonishment, almost incredulity in his voice.So Elton had said nothing. "Where are you? Can I see you?"

  Patricia felt her cheeks burn at the eagerness of his tone.

  "I'm--I'm going out. I--I'll call for you if you like," she stammered.

  "I say, how ripping of you. Come in a taxi or shall I come and fetchyou?"

  "No, I--I'm coming now, I'm----" then she put up the receiver. Whatwas she going to do or say? For a moment she swayed. Was she going tofaint? A momentary deadly sickness seemed to overcome her. She foughtit back fiercely. She must get to the Quadrant. "I shall have to be asort of reincarnation of Mrs. Triggs, I think," she murmured as shestaggered past the astonished Gustave, who was just coming from thelounge, and out of the front door, where she secured a taxi.