THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ETHEL LINA WHITE. Ethel Lina White
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I'm missing everything, buried here in the country. Yet I must stay, because of the salary. I'm sacrificed to my family.'
Her guess about the lovers was fairly near the mark. As she lingered near the white gate of the Hall, on the other side of the fence, Major Blair was holding Vivian in his arms. But, when he tried to kiss her, she pushed him away.
"I'm not that sort of girl," she said.
As a matter-of-fact, although Vivian had accepted casual kisses as incidental to flirtations, she was timid and conventional by nature. Women have always been the same throughout the Ages, when every girl becomes, in her turn, the modern girl. Her conduct is not dependent on any period, but on her disposition. It is only the popular definition of morality, and the general acceptance or rejection of any breach, which is topical.
At present Vivian was on her guard against any familiarity. She meant to marry Major Blair, and she knew that he was staggering on the brink of a proposal. But until the announcement was sent to the Times and Morning Post, she could not feel sure of her man.
Her tactics met with success, for the Major looked at her with admiration, as she smoothed her fair sleek hair back into its line.
"I know you've not that sort of girl," he said.
"Not very modern, I'm afraid," shrugged Vivian. "It's living in the country, I suppose."
"I'm glad you're not that sort of girl," went on the Major, stressing the point. "I've no use for equal standards of morality or mucking about with experimental marriage. A man will always be a man, but a woman will find that falling off the bus doesn't pay."
Vivian knew of girls who extracted every advantage by sitting on both sides of the fence, but she remained discreetly silent.
"I'd never marry any woman with a past," declared the Major. "Marriage is too big a risk, unless you know all about the girl—who her people are—and all that."
Vivian turned her face away and looked reflectively down the vista of a sweet-briar pergola, grey-green in the twilight. A rabbit ran across the distant tennis court, showing its white scut. The harsh note of the corncrake sounded from the hedge and the scent of honeysuckle hung over all.
It was an ideal pastoral setting for a proposal, and she waited, in happy expectation. She could tell, by his heavy silence, that the Major was thinking of her.
But while he was making up his mind to take the plunge, Joan Brook called to Vivian, from the gate.
"What luck finding you here. It'll save a walk up to the Hall. I've a message from Lady d'Arcy. Can Mrs. Sheriff come to tea to-morrow?"
"I don't know," replied Vivian astringently. "I'm not her secretary, and I don't keep a tab on her engagements."
She regretted her lapse immediately, and summoned up her usual sweetness.
"Shall I run up to the house and find out if she is free for tomorrow? Thanks so much for coming."
As she spoke, she gently disconnected the Major, whose arm was still in hers.
Joan looked from her slim white figure to the Major, who towered above her. His face—burned to the hue of port wine—was a blotch in the dusk, and his teeth were a flash of white over shadow, as he smiled at Vivian. In her present mood of discontent, born of frustrate destiny, she resented the couple.
They were so patently County people, who understood each other. Secure people, with plenty of War Loan, reared in the same traditions, and adherents to the same social code. She felt the gulf between herself and them, and was urged, by savage irony, to speak to them in their language.
"I wonder if your mother would ring up Lady d'Arcy? If I wait for an answer it will be dark before I get back to the Court."
The Major understood this kind of speech, for he opened the gate.
"I'm just pushing off," he said, "so I'll walk back with you. You mustn't go up that drive alone...See you tomorrow, Vivian."
His voice was casual, but his smile conveyed meaning. Then he set off briskly, as if, in his opinion, Lady d'Arcy's companion was a fine girl, and could last the pace.
Unconscious that she had dropped her most devastating brick, and wrecked a proposal, Joan nodded back to Vivian, and increased the pace to five miles an hour, certain that, whenever she stopped, the Major would not walk on alone.
Vivian sauntered back slowly through the rose-garden, past the tennis court and the fish-pond, and up the triple terraces, to the house. Her thoughts were tinged with triumph, for she was positive that the Major was going to propose, although she also knew that it would take very little to put him off.
But for the War, she would probably have been a matron of many years' standing. The Squire and his wife believed in early marriage and had paired off the rest of the clutch. Each girl got engaged automatically during her first Season and each boy had his own home, while still in the twenties.
Vivian, the youngest, was almost engaged to Dr. Perry, in the summer of 1914. But while she was a V.A.D. in the local hospital she fell in love with a Second Lieutenant. It was the most hopeless, inarticulate affair, for, in spite of the crash of social barriers, young Belson was too shy and dazed by Vivian, to do more than worship her, as a miner might stare up his shaft at the evening star.
When the War was over, one flaming memory was left to Vivian, when she and Belson, chaperoned by an officer and his wife, had spent a week-end at a bungalow in the country.
After a blissful interlude of peace and perfect companionship the senior officer was recalled from leave by a telegram. He and his wife rushed off immediately, leaving the others to catch a later train.
They lost it instead. Yielding to the temptation, they called it Fate, and spent their precious respite in the bungalow. Time was so short for lovers, and each knew that their parting was near. It was a completely proper episode, for, in the absence of any chaperonage, they were on their best behaviour.
It was enough for them to feel that they slept under the same roof, and met at breakfast, as though they were actually married.
Only one unlucky incident blotted a perfect holiday. Near midnight, as they sat together in the lounge, someone knocked at the front door. Yielding to panic, they turned out the light, and waited in the dark. But, instead of going away, the intruder hung about the garden. When young Belson thought it was safe to light the lamp again, they had a snapshot glimpse of a face looking at them, through the window.
The man instantly grasped the delicacy of the situation, for he melted discreetly into the night.
That was a long time ago. Young Belson was shot in Flanders and was duly forgotten. Mrs. Sheriff's two young boys were killed at Jutland, and she became a semi-invalid for years. Dr. Perry did not propose, so Vivian became her mother's companion, which justified her spinster status.
But she was tired of being at home and wanted to be her own mistress. Besides, she was really fond of Major Blair. As she undressed in her bedroom, that night, she examined her small flower face closely in the glass. It had fewer lines than Joan's, yet the fact remained that she was in the thirties, and beginning to sag. It was high time she was married.
Suddenly, a dark shadow shook through the cheerful little room, and Fear tapped her on the shoulder.
"The Major is yours," it whispered, "if nothing puts him off. Suppose he knows that you spent a night alone with a man. What would he think of you then? Remember, somebody knows."
Although it was a hot summer night, Vivian felt herself grow cold. In the same period which had succeeded War-madness, she never thought of her indiscretion without a shudder. But she knew that, even though she was merely thoughtless, appearances were against her.
"What would my people say, if they knew?" she asked herself. "Or Mrs. Scudamore?"
It was the thought of Mrs. Scudamore which really made her sweat. She could imagine how those large, mild eyes would film with the frost of incredulous horror if ever she heard the story. For