Essentials of MIS 12th Edition Laudon Solutions Manual
Essentials of MIS 12th Edition Laudon Solutions Manual
Essentials of MIS 12th Edition Laudon Solutions Manual
Essentials of MIS 12th Edition Laudon Solutions Manual
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27. days of primeval epics, had never roused in her one tithe of the emotion that
those clippings afforded.
Keeling himself had no such craving to see in print all that he was
perfectly well aware of, and even looked undazzled at the cards which his
wife had ordered, on one set of which he appeared alone as ‘Sir Thomas
Keeling, Bart.,’ to differentiate him from mere knights, whilst on the other
the Bart. appeared in conjunction with her. But the events themselves filled
him with a good deal of solid satisfaction, due largely to their bearing on
the approaching election at the County Club. Never from a business point of
view had there been a more successful ‘timing’ of an enterprise: it was as if
on the very day of his getting out his summer fashions, summer had come,
with floods of hot sunshine that made irresistible to the ladies of
Bracebridge the muslins and organdies and foulards that floated
diaphanously in the freshly dressed windows. The summer of his
munificence and his honours had just burst on the town, and, in spite of
Lord Inverbroom’s warning, he felt, as he walked down to his office on the
morning of the day on which the election took place, that every member of
the Club would be, so to speak, a customer for his presence in future in
those staid bow-windows. During these months of his Mayoralty, he had
come into contact with, and had been at civic functions the host of a
quantity of members of the County Club whose suffrages he sought to-day,
and there was none among them who had not shown him courtesy and even
deference. That no doubt was largely due to his position as mayor, but this
Thomas Keeling who was a candidate for the Club was the mayor, he who
had given the new wing to the hospital, thereby averting a very unpleasant
financial mess, he, too, whom his King had delighted to honour. To the
business mind nothing could have happened more opportunely, and the
business mind was his mind. He could not see how he could fail, after this
bouquet of benefits and honours, to be ‘an attractive proposition’ to any
club. As he walked down to his office that morning he swept the cobweb of
Lord Inverbroom’s apprehensions away, and wondered at himself for
having allowed them to infect him with a moment’s uneasiness, or to make
him consider, even at the very back of his brain, what he should do if he
were not elected. This morning he did not consider that at all: he was sure
that the contingency for which he had provided would not arrive. The
provision was filed away, and with it, shut up in the dusty volume, was the
suggestion his agent had made that he might quite reasonably raise the rent
28. that the Club paid for the premises which were now his property. That
business was just concluded; he proposed to inform Lord Inverbroom at
once of the fact that he was now the landlord of the County Club, and that
the question of a rise in the rental might be considered as shelved. Lord
Inverbroom would be in Bracebridge this morning, since he would be
presiding at the election at the Club at twelve o’clock, and had promised to
communicate the result at once. Very likely Keeling would drop in at the
club to have a bit of lunch there, and he could get a chat with Lord
Inverbroom then.... But as he slid upwards in the droning lift that took him
to the floor where his office was, the Club, the election, and all connected
with it, vanished from his brain like the dispersing mists on a summer
morning, for a few steps would take him along the corridor to the room
where Norah was opening his letters.
That moment of his entry had become to him a matter of daily
excitement and expectation. Sometimes the soft furrow would be ruled
between her eyebrows, and she would give him but the glance of a stranger
and a chilly ‘Good-morning,’ and instantly turn her attention to her work
again. Sometimes she would show such a face as she had shown him that
Sunday morning on the downs when they had listened to the skylark
together, a face of childhood and the possession of spring, sometimes (and
it was this that gave the grizzled elderly man the tremulous excitement of a
boy when his hand opened the door) she would give him that look which
had shot across the town-hall like the launching of a silver spear and
transfixed him. But if he did not get it then, sometime during the morning,
in some pause in the work, or perhaps even in the middle of his dictation, he
would receive it from her, just that one look which made him know, so long
as it lasted, that there was no bar or impediment between himself and her.
‘There was neither speech nor language,’ but her essential self spoke,
revealing, affirming to him its existence. Then without pause she would
drop her eyes to her work again, and her busy pencil scooped and dabbed
over the paper, and he heard in some secret place of his brain, while his lips
pronounced sharp business-like sentences, the words, ‘And thou beside me
singing in the wilderness.’... In the afternoon, when he came to read over
her typewritten transcription of the dictation, he always knew at what point
in some peremptory letter out of all the sheaf that moment of the clear
glance had come. He was always on the look-out for it, but he could never
29. induce it: she gave it him, so it had begun to seem, not in answer to him, but
just when she could withhold it no longer.
This morning the correspondence was both heavy and complicated. A
whole series of widely scattered dates had to be turned up, in order to trace
some question of the payment of carriage on a certain consignment. It was a
tiresome job, which Norah recommended him to leave for verification to
the clerk downstairs whose business it was, and probably for that very
reason Sir Thomas insisted on doing it himself. He was fractious, he was
obstinately determined to have the matter settled here and now, and like a
child, cross with hunger, he wanted the clear look she had not yet given
him. The furrow, that soft smudge, had long been marked on Norah’s
forehead, as she turned up letter after letter that failed to deal with the point,
and she spent what she considered a wasted half hour over it. She was still
rather irritated when she found what she had been looking for, unclipped the
communication from the spring that fastened it into its place and passed it
him.
‘I think that’s what you are wanting, Sir Thomas,’ she said.
He took it from her, and noticing the rather incisive politeness of her
tone, looked up at her. The furrow was still there, very impatiently ruled,
but the clear glance was there also: radiantly it shone on him, quite
undisturbed by the superficial agitation. It concerned not the surface of her,
but the depths.
He did not look at the paper she handed him, on which his unconscious
fingers had closed. He was not going to miss one infinitesimal fraction of
the moment that she had at last given him. She frowned still, but that was
the property of her tiresome search: it was neither his nor hers, as he or she
‘mattered.’
‘You will find it on the third line from the end,’ she said. ‘Messrs
Hampden are perfectly right about it.’
And then the moment was over, except that in the secret place of his
brain the voice sang in the wilderness, and he looked at the letter she had
given him. The words danced and swam; presently they steadied
themselves.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well then, Miss Propert, you must cross out what I have
dictated to you about it. Please read the letter through.... Yes, cross out from
the sentence beginning, “Re the payment for carriage of goods.” Dear me, it
30. is nearly one: what a lot of time we have spent over that. The booking-clerk
would have done it much more quickly.’
The frown cleared, but the clear look did not return. It was over: it
seemed she had satisfied herself.
‘I think we should have saved time,’ she said.
‘Yes, you were quite right. You like being right, don’t you?’
He got a smile for that, the sort of smile that anybody might have had
from her.
‘I suppose I do,’ she said. ‘Certainly I hate being wrong.’
‘But I was wrong this time,’ he said. ‘I gave you a lot of trouble in
consequence.’
That again was no use: he but got another smile and a friendly look of
the sort he no longer wanted.
‘Is that all, then?’ he asked.
‘No, Sir Thomas, there are half a dozen more letters yet.’
He had just taken the next, when there came a tap at the door, and a boy
entered. He was not one of the messenger-boys of the Stores, with peaked
cap and brass buttons, but Keeling had an impression of having seen him
before. Then he recollected: he often lounged at the door of the County
Club.
‘A note from Lord Inverbroom, sir,’ he said. ‘His lordship told me to
give it you personally.’
‘Wait and see if there is an answer,’ said Keeling.
He tore open the envelope: it was already after one, and probably there
would be no answer, since he would see Lord Inverbroom at the Club,
where he proposed to have lunch. The note was quite short.
‘Dear Sir Thomas,—I promised to let you know the result of the
election. The meeting is just over, and I am sorry to say you have not been
elected. Please allow me to express my sincere regrets.
‘Yours truly,
‘Inverbroom.’
Keeling had one moment of sheer surprise: he had been perfectly sure of
being elected. Then without any conscious feeling of rancour or
disappointment, his mind passed direct to what he had already determined
31. to do if this contingency, which since the opening of the hospital-wing he
had thought impossible, actually occurred.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said to the messenger. ‘There will be an answer for
you to take back to Lord Inverbroom.’
He turned to Norah.
‘Please take this down direct on your typewriter,’ he said, ‘with a carbon
copy to file.’
Norah put the two sheets on the roller, dated the paper, and waited.
Keeling thought for half a minute, drumming with his fingers on the
table.
‘Are you ready?’ he said, and dictated.
‘Dear Lord Inverbroom,—Yours to hand re the election at the County
Club to-day of which I note the contents.
‘I wish also to acquaint you as President with the fact that I have lately
bought the freehold of your premises. I see that there is a break in your
lease at Midsummer this year on both tenants’ and landlord’s side, and
therefore beg to give you this formal notice that I do not intend to renew the
lease hitherto held by your Club, as I shall be using the premises for some
other purpose.
‘Yours faithfully,
‘Read it over please Miss Propert,’ he said, ‘and I will sign it. File this
note of Lord Inverbroom’s with your carbon copy, and docket them.’
Norah brought him over the typed letter.
‘What docket shall I put on them?’ she asked.
‘Non-election to County Club. Notice of termination of Club’s lease.’
He signed the letter to Lord Inverbroom and sent the boy back with it.
‘Now we will go on with the rest of the shorthand,’ he said.
Norah came back to the table, took up her pencil and then laid it down
again. The frown was heavily creased in her forehead.
‘May I just say something to you before we begin?’ she said. ‘You may
think it a great impertinence, but it is not meant impertinently.’
‘What is it?’ he said.
32. ‘I beg you to call the boy back, and not send that note,’ she said. ‘I hate
to think of your doing that. It isn’t the act of——’
She stopped suddenly. He easily supplied the rest of her sentence.
‘It isn’t the act of a gentleman,’ he said. ‘But they’ve just told me that
I’m not one, or they would have elected me. They will like to know how
right they are.’
He paused a moment.
‘I am sure you did not mean an impertinence, Miss Propert,’ he added,
‘but I think you have committed one.’
‘I am very sorry then,’ said she.
‘Yes. We will get on with the shorthand, please.’
Keeling seldom wasted thought or energy on irremediable mischances: if
a business proposition turned out badly he cut his loss on it, and dismissed
it from his mind. But it was equally characteristic of him to strike, and
strike hard, if opportunity offered at any firm which had let him in for his
loss, and, in this case, since the Club had hit at him, he felt it was but fair
that he should return the blow with precise and instantaneous vigour. That
was right and proper, and his rejoinder to Norah that the Club who did not
consider him sufficient of a gentleman to enter their doors should have the
pleasure of knowing how right they were, had at least as much sober truth
as irony about it. The opportunity to hit back was ready to hand; it would
have been singular indeed, and in flat contradiction to his habits, if he had
not taken it. But when once he had done that, he was satisfied; they did not
want him as a member, and he did not want them as tenants, and there was
the end of it. Yet, like some fermenting focus in his brain, minute as yet, but
with the potentiality of leaven in it, was the fact that Norah had implored
him not to send his answer to Lord Inverbroom. He still considered her
interference an impertinence, but what stuck in his mind and began faintly
to suggest other trains of thought was the equally undeniable fact that she
had not meant it as an impertinence. In intention it had been a friendly
speech inspired by the good-will of a friend. But he shrugged his shoulders
at it: she did not understand business, or, possibly, he did not understand
clubs. So be it then: he did not want to understand them.
It was with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance that he saw Lord
Inverbroom walking towards him along Alfred Road when he left the Stores
that afternoon. The curiosity was due to the desire to see how Lord
33. Inverbroom would behave, whether he would cross the street or cut him
dead; the annoyance arose from the fact that he could not determine how to
behave himself at this awkward encounter. But when he observed that there
was to be no cutting or crossing the street at all, but perfect cordiality and
an outstretched hand, it faintly and pleasantly occurred to him that, owing
to his letter, there might be forthcoming another election at the Club, with a
request that he would submit himself to a further suffrage. That would
certainly have pleased him, for he had sufficient revengefulness in his
character to decline such a proposition with thanks.
No such proposition was submitted to him.
‘I was just going to leave this note at your office, Sir Thomas,’ said Lord
Inverbroom. ‘May I give it you instead and save myself a further walk? It is
just the acknowledgment of your letter about the termination of our lease.
Perhaps you will glance at it, to see that it is in order.’
Keeling felt, in spite of his business-like habits, that this was
unnecessary. True, this was a matter of business, and he should have
verified the correctness of Lord Inverbroom’s information. But instead he
merely put it into his pocket.
‘That is all right,’ he said.
‘Are you going home?’ asked the other. ‘My wife, I know, is calling on
Lady Keeling, and she will pick me up there. If she has not been so
fortunate as to find Lady Keeling in, she will wait for me in the motor. May
we not walk down there together?’
‘I shall be delighted,’ said Keeling. He still did not know how to behave,
but was gradually becoming aware that no ‘behaviour’ was necessary.
‘Behaviour’ as such, did not seem to exist for his companion, and he could
not help wondering what took its place.
‘My wife is furious with me,’ Lord Inverbroom went on. ‘I have
succumbed to the Leonardo book, instead of having the dining-room ceiling
whitewashed. She has a materialistic mind, preferring whitewash to
Leonardo. Besides, as I told her, she never looks at the ceiling, and I shall
often look at my book. Have you come across anything lately which life is
not worth living without? Perhaps you had better not tell me if you have, or
I shall practise some further domestic economy.’
‘I shall be very pleased to show you anything I’ve got,’ said Keeling.
‘We will have a cup of tea in my library unless Lady Inverbroom is waiting
34. in your motor.’
‘Ah, that would be a great treat. Let us do that, in any case, Sir Thomas.
Surely we can go in some back way so as to escape my wife’s notice if she
is really waiting outside. It will do her good to wait: she is very impatient.’
Keeling was completely puzzled: if he had ventured to speak in this
sense of Lady Keeling, he knew he would have made a sad mess of it. In his
mouth, the same material would have merely expressed itself in a rude
light. He tried rather mistakenly to copy the manner that was no manner at
all.
‘Ah, I should get a good scolding if I treated Lady Keeling like that,’ he
said.
It did not sound right as he said it; he had the perception of that. He
perceived, too, that Lord Inverbroom did not pursue the style. Then,
presently arriving, they found that the waiting motor contained no impatient
Lady Inverbroom, and they stole into the library, at her husband’s desire, so
that no news of his coming should reach her, until he had had a quarter of
an hour there with his host. Then perhaps she might be told, if Sir Thomas
would have the goodness....
Lord Inverbroom sauntered about in the grazing, ambulatory fashion of
the book-lover and when his quarter of an hour was already more than
spent, he put the volume he was examining back into its place again with a
certain air of decision.
‘I should like to express to you by actual word of mouth, Sir Thomas,’ he
said, ‘my regret at what happened to-day. I am all the more sorry for it,
because I notice that in our rules the landlord of the club is ex officio a
member of it. If you only had told me that you had become our landlord, I
could have informed you of that, and spared you this annoyance.’
There was no mistaking the sincerity of this, the good feeling of it.
Keeling was moved to be equally sincere.
‘I knew that already,’ he said.
Lord Inverbroom looked completely puzzled.
‘Then will you pardon me for asking why you did not take advantage of
it, and become a member of the club without any further bother?’
‘Because I wished to know that I was acceptable as a member of the club
to the other members,’ said Keeling. ‘They have told me that I am not.’
35. There was a good deal of dignity in this reply: it sprang from a feeling
that Lord Inverbroom was perfectly competent to appreciate.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘And what you have said much increases my
regret at the election going as it did.’ He paused a moment, evidently
thinking, and Keeling, had an opportunity to wager been offered him, would
have bet that his next words would convey, however delicately, the hope
that Keeling would reconsider his letter of the morning, announcing the
termination of the Club’s lease. He was not prepared to do anything of the
sort, and hoped, indeed, that the suggestion would not be made. But that he
should have thought that the suggestion was going to be made showed very
precisely how unintelligible to him was the whole nature of the class which
Lord Inverbroom represented. No such suggestion was made, any more
than half an hour ago any idea of a fresh election being held was mooted.
‘I had the pleasure of speaking very warmly in your favour, Sir Thomas,’
said Lord Inverbroom, at length, ‘and, of course, of voting for you. I may
tell you that I am now considering, in consequence of the election, whether
I shall not resign the presidency of the Club. It is an unusual proceeding to
reject the president’s candidate; I think your rejection reflects upon me.’
Keeling was being insensibly affected by his companion’s simplicity.
‘Behaviour’ seemed a very easy matter to Lord Inverbroom: it was a mere
matter of being simple....
‘I should be very sorry to have been the cause of that,’ he said, ‘and I
don’t think it would be logical of you. You urged me to withdraw, which
was the most you could do after you had promised to propose me.’
Lord Inverbroom’s sense of being puzzled increased. Here was a man
who had written a letter this morning turning the Club out of their premises
merely because he had been blackballed, who yet showed, both by the fact
of his seeking election in the ordinary way instead of claiming it ex officio,
and by this delicate unbusiness-like appreciation of his own position, all
those instincts which his letter of this morning so flatly contradicted.
‘Yes, I urged you not to stand,’ he said, ‘and that is the only reason why I
hesitate about resigning. I should like you to know that if I remain in my
post, that is the cause of my doing so. Otherwise I should resign.’
The other side of the question presented itself to Keeling. It would be a
rare stroke to deprive the Club not only of its premises but of its president.
Though he had just said that he hoped Lord Inverbroom would not resign,
36. he felt it would be an extreme personal pleasure if he did. And then a
further scheme came into his head, another nail in the coffin of the County
Club, and with that all his inherent caddishness rose paramount over such
indications of feelings as Lord Inverbroom understood and appreciated.
‘Perhaps if you left the County Club,’ he said, ‘you would do us the
honour to join the Town Club. I am the president of that: I would think it,
however, an honour to resign my post if you would consent to take it. I’ll
warrant you there’ll be no mischance over that election.’
Lord Inverbroom suddenly stiffened.
‘You are very good to suggest that,’ he said. ‘But it would be utterly out
of the question. Well, Sir Thomas, I envy you your library. And here, I see,
is your new catalogue. Miss Propert told me she was working at it. May I
look at it? Yes, indeed, that is admirably done. Author and title of the book
and illustrator as well, all entered. Her father was a great friend of mine.
She may have told you that very tragic story.’
‘She has never mentioned her father to me. Was he—well, the sort of
man whom the County Club would not have blackballed?’
Perhaps that was the worst thing he had said yet, though, indeed, he
meant but a grimly humourous observation, not perceiving nor being able to
perceive in how odious a position he put his guest. But Lord Inverbroom’s
impenetrable armour of effortless good breeding could turn even that aside.
He laughed.
‘Well, after what the Club has done to-day,’ he said, ‘there is no telling
whom they would blackball. But certainly I should have been, at one time,
very happy to propose him.’
Keeling’s preoccupation with the Club suddenly ceased. He wanted so
much more to know anything that concerned Norah.
‘Perhaps you would tell me something about him,’ he said.
‘Ah, that would not be quite right, would it?’ said Lord Inverbroom, still
unperturbed, ‘if Miss Propert has not cared to speak to you of him.’
Keeling found himself alternately envying and detesting this
impenetrable armour. There was no joint in it, it was abominably complete.
And even while he hated it, he appreciated and coveted it.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘No telling tales out of school.’
37. ‘Quite so. And now will you take me to find my wife? Let us be in a
conspiracy, and not mention that we have been in the house half an hour
already. I should dearly like another half-hour, but all the time Lady
Keeling is bearing the infliction of a prodigiously long call.’
‘Lady Keeling will be only too gratified,’ said her husband.
‘That is very kind of her. But, indeed, I think we had better go.’
Gratification was certainly not too strong a term to employ with regard
to Lady Keeling’s feelings, nor, indeed, too strong to apply to Lady
Inverbroom’s when her call was brought to an end. The sublimity of
Princesses was not to be had every day, and the fortnight that had elapsed
since that memorable visit, with the return of the routine of undistinguished
Bracebridge, had caused so prolonged a visit from a peeress to mount into
Lady Keeling’s head like an hour’s steady drinking of strong wine.
‘Well, I’ve never enjoyed an hour’s chat more,’ she said, as Keeling
returned after seeing their guests off, ‘and it seemed no more than five
minutes. She was all affability, wasn’t she, Alice? and so full of admiration
for all my—what did she call them? Some French word.’
‘Bibelots,’ suggested Alice.
‘Biblos; that was it. And she never seemed to think how time was flying,
for she never once alluded to her husband’s being so late. To be sure she
might have; she might perhaps have said she was afraid she was keeping me
from my occupations, for I could have assured her very handsomely that I
was more than pleased to sit and talk to her. And it is all quite true, Thomas,
about the Princess’s visit next month. You may be sure I asked about that.
She is coming down to spend three days with them, very quietly, Lady
Inverbroom said; yes, she said that twice now I come to think of it, though I
caught it perfectly the first time. But I shall be very much surprised if I
don’t get a note asking us to dine and sleep, with Alice as well perhaps, for I
said what a pleasure it would be to Alice to see her beautiful house and
grounds some day. But I shall quite understand after what she said about the
visit being very quiet, why there will be no party. After all, it was a very
pleasant evening we spent there before when there were no guests at all. I
said how much we enjoyed quiet visits with no ceremony.’
‘Did you ask for any more invitations?’ said Keeling, as his wife paused
for breath.
38. ‘My dear Thomas, you quite misunderstand me. I asked for nothing,
except that I might take Mamma some day for a drive through their park. I
hope I know how to behave better than that. Another thing, too: Miss
Propert has been there twice, once to tea and once to lunch. I hope she will
not have her head turned, for it seems that she did not take her meals in the
housekeeper’s room, but upstairs. But that is none of my business: I am sure
Lady Inverbroom may give her lunch on the top of the church-steeple if she
wishes, and I said very distinctly that I had always found her a very well-
behaved young woman, and mentioned nothing about her bouncing in in the
middle of my dinner-party, nor when she spent Sunday morning in your
library. Bygones are bygones. That’s what I always say, and act on, too.’
This certainly appeared to have been the case: Lady Keeling’s
miscroscopic mind seemed to have diverted its minute gaze altogether from
Norah. To Keeling that was a miscroscopic relief, but no more, for it
seemed to him to matter very little what his wife thought about Norah.
‘Lord Inverbroom was a great friend of Miss Propert’s father at one
time,’ he said. ‘He told me so only to-day.’
‘Oh, indeed. Very likely in the sense that a man may call his butler an
old friend of the family. I should be quite pleased to speak of Parkinson like
that. I am all for equality. We are all equal in the sight of Heaven, as Mr
Silverdale says. Dear me, I wish I was his equal in energy: next month he
holds a mission down at Easton Haven among all those ruffians at the
docks, in addition to all his parish work.’
‘He is doing far too much,’ said Alice excitedly, ‘but he won’t listen. He
is so naughty: he promises me he will be good, and not wear himself out,
but he goes on just the same as ever, except that he gets worse and worse.’
Keeling listened to this with a mixture of pity and grim amusement. He
felt sure that his poor Alice was in love with the man, and was sorry for
Alice in that regard, but what grimly amused him was the utter impotence
of Alice to keep her condition to herself. He was puzzled also, for all this
spring Alice seemed to have remained as much in love with him as ever, but
not to have got either worse or better. Silverdale filled her with some frantic
and wholly maidenly excitement. It was like the love of some antique
spinster for her lap-dog, intense and deplorable and sexless. He could even
joke in a discreet manner with poor Alice about it, and gratify her by so
doing.
39. ‘Well, all you ladies who are so much in love with him ought to be able
to manage him,’ he said.
Alice bent over her work (she had eventually induced Mr Silverdale to
sanction the creation of a pair of slippers) with a pleased, lop-sided smile.
‘Father, you don’t know him,’ she said. ‘He’s quite, quite unmanageable.
You never saw any one so naughty.’
‘Punish him by not giving him his slippers. Give them me instead, and
I’ll wear them when he comes to dinner.’
Alice looked almost shocked at the notion of such unhallowed feet being
thrust into these hardly less than sacred embroideries: it was as if her
mother had suggested making a skirt out of the parrots and pomegranates
that adorned the ‘smart’ altar-cloth. But she divined that, in spite of her
father’s inexplicable want of reverence for the Master (they had become
Master and Helper, and sometimes she called him ‘sir,’ much as Norah had
called her father, but for antipodal reasons), there lurked behind his rather
unseemly jokes a kindly intention towards herself. He might laugh at her,
but somehow below that she felt (and she knew not how) that a part of him
understood, and did not laugh. It was as if he knew what it meant to be in
love, to thirst and to be unslaked, to be hungry and not to be fed.
She gave him a quick glance out of her short-sighted eyes, a glance that
deprecated and yet eagerly sought for the sympathy which she knew was
somewhere about. And then Lady Keeling put in more of her wrecking and
shattering remarks, which so unerringly spoiled all the hints and lurking
colours in human intercourse.
‘Well, that would be a funny notion for Sir Thomas Keeling to wear
slippers at dinner,’ she said. ‘What a going-back to old days! I might as well
wear some high-necked merino gown. But what your father says is quite
true, Alice. We might really take Mr Silverdale in hand, and tell him that’s
the last he’ll see of us all, unless he takes more care of himself. I saw him
coming out of the County Club to-day, looking so tired that I almost
stopped my carriage and told him to go home to bed. And talking of the
County Club, Thomas, doesn’t your election come on soon? You must be
sure to take me to have lunch in the ladies’ room one of these days. Lady
Inverbroom told me she was lunching there to-day, and had quite a clean
good sort of meal. Nothing very choice, I expect, but I dare say she doesn’t
care much what she eats. I shall never forget what a tough pheasant we had
40. when we dined there. If I’d been told I was eating a bit of leather, I should
have believed it. Perhaps some day when Lord and Lady Inverbroom are in
Bracebridge again, we might all have lunch together there.’
For the last six months Keeling had been obliged to keep a hand on
himself when he was with his wife, for either she had developed an
amazing talent for putting him on edge, or he a susceptibility for being
irritated by her. Both causes probably contributed, for since her accession to
greatness, her condescension had vastly increased, while he on his side had
certainly grown more sensitive to her pretentiousness. It was with the
utmost difficulty that he restrained himself from snapping at her.
‘No, I’m afraid that can’t be, Emmeline,’ he said. ‘The election came off
to-day, and the Club has settled it can do without me.’
‘Well, I never heard of such a thing! They haven’t elected you, do you
mean, the Mayor of Bracebridge, and to say nothing of your being a
baronet? Who are those purse-proud people, I should like to know? My dear
Thomas, I have an idea. I should not wonder if Lord Inverbroom was in it.
He has been quite cock of the walk, as you may say, up till now, and he
doesn’t want any rival. What are you going to do? I hope you’ll serve them
out well for it somehow.’
‘I have done so already. I bought the freehold of the Club not so long
ago, and I have given them notice that I shall not renew their lease in the
summer.’
Lady Keeling clapped her soft fat hands together.
‘That’s the right sort of way to treat them,’ she said, in great glee. ‘That
will pay them out. I never heard of such a thing as not electing a baronet.
Who do they think they are? What fun it will be to see all their great sofas
being bundled into the street. And they bought all their furniture at your
Stores, did they not? That is the cream of it to my mind. I should not
wonder if they want to sell it all back to you, second-hand. That would be a
fine joke.’
For the first time, now that his wife so lavishly applauded his action,
Keeling began to be not so satisfied with it. The fact that it commended
itself to her type of mind, was an argument against it: her praise disgusted
him: it was at least as impertinent as Norah’s disapprobation.
Alice fixed her faint eyes on her father.
41. ‘Oh, I wish you hadn’t done that!’ she said. ‘Does Lord Inverbroom
know that?’
‘Mark my words,’ said his wife, ‘Lord Inverbroom’s at the bottom of it
all.’
‘Nothing of the kind, Emmeline,’ he said sharply. ‘Lord Inverbroom
proposed me.’
Then he turned to Alice.
‘Yes, he knows,’ he said. ‘I gave notice to him. And why do you wish I
hadn’t done it? I declare I’m getting like Mr Silverdale. All the ladies are
concerning themselves with me. There’s your mother saying I’ve done
right, and you and Miss Propert saying I’ve done wrong. There’s no
pleasing you all.’
‘And what has Miss Propert got to do with it,’ asked Lady Keeling, ‘that
she disapproves of what you’ve done? She’ll be wanting to run your Stores
for you next, and just because she’s been to lunch with Lord Inverbroom. I
never heard of such impertinence as Miss Propert giving her opinion. You’ll
have trouble with your Miss Propert. You ought to give her one of your
good snubs, or dismiss her altogether. That would be far the best.’
Keeling felt as some practitioner of sortes Virgilianæ might do when he
had opened at some strangely apposite text. To consult his wife about
anything was like opening a book at random, a wholly irrational
proceeding, but he could not but be impressed by the sudden applicability
of this. His wife did not know the situation, any more than did the musty
volume, but he wondered if she had not answered with a strange wisdom,
wholly foreign to her.
‘Now you have given your opinion, Emmeline,’ he said, ‘and you must
allow somebody else to talk. I want to know why Alice disapproves.’
Alice stitched violently at the slipper.
‘Mr Silverdale will be so sorry,’ she said. ‘He drops in there sometimes
for a rubber of bridge, for he thinks that it is such a good thing to show that
a clergyman can be a man of the world too.’
Keeling rose: this was altogether too much for him.
‘Well, we’ve wasted enough time talking about it all,’ he said, ‘if that’s
all the reason I’m to hear.’
42. ‘But it isn’t,’ said Alice. ‘I can’t express it, but I can feel it. I know I
should agree with Miss Propert and Lord Inverbroom about it. What did
Miss Propert say?’
‘Well, talking of waste of time,’ observed Lady Keeling indignantly, ‘I
can’t think of any worse waste than caring to know what Miss Propert said.’
Keeling turned to her.
‘Perhaps you can’t,’ he said, ‘and you’d better have your nap. That won’t
be waste of time. You’re tired with talking, and I’m sure I am too.’
He left the room without more words, and Lady Keeling settled another
cushion against what must be called the small of her back.
‘Your father’s served them out well,’ she said. ‘That’s the way to get on.
To think of their not considering him good enough for their Club. He has
shown his spirit very properly. But the idea of Miss Propert telling him
what’s right and what isn’t, on twenty-five shillings a week.’
‘I can’t bear to think of Mr Silverdale not having his rubber of bridge
now and then,’ said Alice. ‘It was such a refreshment to him.’
Keeling had intended to pass an hour among his books to wash off the
scum, so to speak, of this atrocious conversation, but when he got to his
library, and had taken down his new edition of Omar Khayyam, which
Charles Propert had induced him to buy, he found it could give him very
little emotion. He was aware of the exquisite type, of the strange sensuous
wood-cuts that somehow affected him like a subtle odour, of the beautiful
binding, and not least of the text itself, but all these perfections were no
more than presented to him; they did not penetrate. He could not rid himself
of the scum; the odiousness of his wife’s approbation would not be washed
off. And what made it cling was the fact that she had divined him correctly,
had rejoiced at his ‘serving the Club out.’ It was just that which Norah
deprecated, and he felt that Lord Inverbroom’s complete silence on the
point, his forbearance to hint ever so faintly that perhaps Keeling would
reconsider his action, expressed disapprobation as eloquently as Norah’s
phrase, which he had finished for her, had done. It was a caddish act, that
was what they both thought about it, and Alice, when she had finished her
nonsense about Mr Silverdale’s rubber of bridge, had a similar protest in her
mind. He did not rate poor Alice’s mind at any high figure; it was but the
43. fact that she was allied to the other two, and opposed to her mother, that
added a little weight to her opinion.
He wanted to be considered a gentleman, and when others declined to
receive him as such, he had but justified their verdict by behaving like a
cad.... He was a cad, here was the truth of it, as it struck him now, and that
was why he had behaved like one.
He shut his meaningless book, now intensely disliking the step he had
taken, which at the time had seemed so smart a rejoinder. Probably if at this
moment Lord Inverbroom had appeared, asking him to cancel it, he would
have done so. But that was exactly what it was certain Lord Inverbroom
would not do. There remained Norah; he wondered whether Norah would
refer to it again. Probably not: he had made clear that he thought the
offering of her opinion was a great impertinence. And now to his annoyance
he remembered that his wife had also considered it as such. Again she
agreed with him, and again the fact of her concurrence made him lose
confidence in the justice of his own view. He had instantly acquitted Norah
of deliberate impertinence; now he reconsidered whether it had been an
impertinence at all.... What if it was the simple desire of a friend to save a
friend from a blunder, an unworthiness?
He had grown to detest the time after dinner passed in the plushy,
painted drawing-room. Hitherto, in all these years of increasing prosperity,
during which the conscious effort of his brain had been directed to business
and money-making, he had not objected after the work of the day to pass a
quiescent hour or two before his early bedtime giving half an ear to his
wife’s babble, which, with her brain thickened with refreshment, always
reached its flood-tide of voluble incoherence now, giving half an eye to
Alice with her industrious needle. All the time a vague simmer of
mercantile meditation gently occupied him; his mind, like some kitchen fire
with the damper pushed in, kept itself just alight, smouldered and burned
low, and Alice’s needle was but like the bars of the grate, and his wife’s
prattle the mild rumble of water in the boiler. It was all domestic and
normal, in accordance with the general destiny of prosperous men in middle
age. Indeed, he was luckier in some respects than the average, for there had
always been for him his secret garden, the hortus inclusus, into which
neither his family nor his business interests ever entered. Now even that had
44. been invaded, Norah’s catalogue had become to him the most precious of
his books: she was like sunshine in his secret garden or like a bitter wind,
something, anyhow, that got between him and his garden beds, while here
in the drawing-room in the domestic hour after dinner the fact of her made
itself even more insistently felt, for she turned Lady Keeling’s vapidities, to
which hitherto he had been impervious, into an active stinging irritation,
and even poor Alice’s industrious needle and the ever-growing pattern of
Maltese crosses on Mr Silverdale’s slippers was like some monotonous
recurring drip of water that set his nerves on edge. This was a pretty state of
mind, he told himself, for a hardheaded business man of fifty, and yet even
as with all the force of resolution that was in him he tried to find something
in his wife’s remarks that could awake a relevant reasonable reply, some
rebellious consciousness in his brain would only concern itself with
counting on the pink clock the hours that lay between the present moment
and nine o’clock next morning. And then the pink clock melodiously
announced on the Westminster chime that it was half past ten, and Alice put
her needle into the middle of the last Maltese cross, and Lady Keeling
waddled across the room and tapped the barometer, which a marble Diana
held in her chaste hand, to see if the weather promised well for the bazaar
to-morrow. The evening was over, and there would not be another for the
next twenty-four hours.
He was always punctual at his office; lately he had been before his time
there, and had begun to open letters before Norah arrived. This happened
next morning, and among others that he had laid on his desk was Lord
Inverbroom’s acknowledgment of his notice to terminate the County Club’s
lease. Norah, when she came, finished this business for him, and in due
course handed him the completed pile. Then, as usual, she took her place
opposite him for the dictation of answers. She wore at her breast a couple of
daffodils, and he noticed that, as she breathed, the faint yellow reflection
they cast on her chin stirred upwards and downwards. No word had passed
between them since she had expressed regret for what he considered her
impertinence the day before, and this morning she did not once meet his
eye. Probably she considered herself in disgrace, and it maddened him to
see her quiet acceptance of it, which struck him as contemptuous. She was
like some noble slave, working, because she must work, for a master she
despised. Well, if that was her attitude, so be it. She might despise, but he
45. was master. At his request she read out a letter she had just taken down. In
the middle he stopped her.
‘No, you have got that wrong,’ he said. ‘What I said was this,’—and he
repeated it—‘please attend more closely.’
She made no reply, and two minutes afterwards he again found her at
fault. And the brutality, the desire to make the beloved suffer, which in very
ugly fashion often lies in wait close to the open high road of love, became
more active.
‘You are wasting your time and mine, Miss Propert,’ he said, ‘if you do
not listen.’
Again he waited for some reply, some expression of regret which she
undoubtedly owed him, but none came. Then, looking up, while her pencil
was busy, he saw that she did not reply because she could not. The
reflection of the daffodils trembled violently on her chin, and her lower
teeth were fast clenched on her upper lip to stifle the surrender of her
mouth. And when he saw that, all his brutality, all the impulse that bade him
hurt the thing he loved, drained out of him, and left him hateful to himself.
He paused, leaving unfinished the sentence he was dictating, and sat
there silent, not daring to look at her. He still felt she despised him, and now
with additional reason; he resented the fact that any one should do that, his
pride choked him, and yet he was ashamed. But oh, the contrast between
this very uncomfortable moment, and the comfortable evenings with
Emmeline!
But he could not bring himself to apologise, and presently he resumed
his dictation. Norah, it appeared, had recovered control of herself, and when
that letter was finished, she read it over to him quite steadily. The next she
handed him was Lord Inverbroom’s acknowledgment, which he had himself
placed among the rest of the morning’s correspondence.
‘Is that just to be filed?’ she said, ‘or is there any answer?’
He took it up.
‘Yes, there’s an answer,’ he said, and dictated.
‘Dear Lord Inverbroom,—Re lease of premises of County Club. If
you will allow me I should like to cancel the notice of termination of said
lease which I sent you yesterday, if this would be any convenience to the
46. Club. I should like also to express to you personally my regret for my
action.’
He paused.
‘I think that’s all I need say, Miss Propert, isn’t it?’ he asked.
And then there came for him the direct glance, a little dim yet, with the
‘clear shining after rain’ beaming through it.
‘Oh, I am so glad,’ she said. ‘And if it’s not impertinent may I suggest
something?’
Never had the clear glance lasted so long. He expanded and throve in it.
‘Well, go on; but take care,’ he said.
‘It’s only that you should write it yourself,’ she said. ‘It would be more
—more complete.’
‘And that will satisfy you?’
‘Quite. You will have done yourself justice.’
He pushed back his chair.
‘I don’t see why you should care,’ he said. ‘I’ve treated you like a brute
all morning.’
‘I know you have. I cared about that too.’
‘Would you like me to apologise?’ he asked.
She shook her head and pointed at the letter.
‘Not again,’ she said. ‘You’ve sent me a lovely apology already,
addressed to Lord Inverbroom.’
‘Have I, indeed? You must have everything your own way. And how are
the bluebells getting on?’
‘Quite well. They’ll all be out in a fortnight, I think. I went to look again
yesterday. The buds, fat little buttons, do you remember, have got tall stalks
now. And the lark is still singing.’
‘May we go there then on Saturday week?’ he asked.
She looked down a moment.
‘Yes,’ she said softly, raising her eyes again. ‘And now shall we get on
with the letters, Sir Thomas. There are still a good many not answered.’
‘I would sooner talk to you,’ he said.
47. ‘You shall dictate. That will be talking. And I will try to listen very
attentively.’
‘Now don’t be mean, Miss Propert,’ said he.
For the second time that morning she let the clear glance shine on him. It
brightened like dawn, filling the space between them. And it smote on his
heart, stupefyingly sweet.
48. CHAPTER X
Keeling had ten days to wait for the Saturday when he and Norah were to
visit the bluebells together. He knew with that certainty of the heart which
utterly transcends the soundest conclusions of reason and logic that she
loved him; it seemed, too, that it was tacitly agreed between them that some
confession, some mutual revelation would then take place. That was to be
the hour of their own, away from the office and the typewriting, and all
those things which, though they brought them together, essentially sundered
them. What should be said then, what solution could possibly come out of it
all, he could form no notion. He ceased even to puzzle over it. Perhaps there
was no solution: perhaps this relationship was just static.
Outwardly the days passed precisely as usual. They had made their
appointment, and no further allusion or reminder was necessary. Each
evening brought nearer the hour of azure in that hollow among the empty
downs, and he desired neither to shorten nor to lengthen out the days that
separated him from it. But to him everything, except that moment, regular
but rarely recurring, when her eye sought his with need and love in it,
seemed dream-like and unsubstantial. Nothing had power either to vex or
please him. He was, as always, busy all day, and transacted his own or
municipal business with all his usual thoroughness and acute judgment. But
it all went on outside him; the terra-cotta cupolas which his industry had
reared in the market-place were as unreal as the new system of drainage in
the lower part of the town, which he had exerted all his influence to get
carried through the obdurate conservatism that pointed to the low-death rate
of Bracebridge under the old conditions. He got his way; all his life he had
been accustomed to dominate and command and organise. Then when his
day’s work was done, and he returned home for dinner and the ensuing
hours, which lately had been so intolerable, he found they irritated him no
longer, and the fatuous drip of his wife’s conversation was no more to him
than some gutter that discharged not into his house but into the street
outside. Simply he cared nothing for it, nor, when his failure to get elected
to the County Club occurred to him, did he care: it appeared to have
happened, but it must have happened to some stranger. Sometimes, before
the pink clock announced that it was half-past ten, he would leave the
49. drawing-room and go to his library, to see whether in his books there was to
be found anything that stimulated his reactions towards life. But they had
no message: they were dumb or he was deaf. Even the catalogue showed no
sign of life: it was Norah’s work, of course, but it was not Norah.
The day before their tryst out among the downs, this stupefied stagnation
of emotion suddenly left him. All morning and through half the afternoon a
succession of Spring showers had flung themselves in mad torrents against
the plate-glass windows of his office, and more than once he had seen
Norah look up, and knew as well as if she had spoken that she was
speculating on the likelihood of another drenching afternoon to-morrow.
But she said nothing, and again he knew that neither storm nor tempest
would keep her back from their appointment, any more than it would keep
him. The thing had to be: it was arranged so, and though they should find
all the bluebells blackened and battered, and the thunder bellowed round
them, that meeting in the bluebell wood was as certain as the rising of the
sun.... And then the clock on his chimney-piece chimed five, and with a
rush of reawakened perception, a change as swift and illuminating as the
return of consciousness after an anaesthetic, he realised that by this time to-
morrow their meeting would be over, and they would know, each of them,
what they were to become to each other. The week’s incurious torpor,
broken once and sometimes twice a day by her glance, rolled away from
him: the world and all that it contained started into vividness again.
Simultaneously with the chiming clock, she got up, and brought him the
finished typewritten letters for his signature. To-day there were but a dozen
of them, and the work of reading and signing and bestowal in their
envelopes was soon finished. But an intolerable sense of restraint and
discomfort surrounded these proceedings: he did not look at her, nor she at
him, and though both were hugely conscious of each other, it was as if they
were strangers or enemies even under some truce. That feeling increased
and intensified: once in handing a letter to him a finger of hers touched his,
and both drew their hands quickly away. She hurried over her reading, he
scrawled his name; they wanted to get away from each other as soon as was
possible. Then the thought that they would have to sit here again together
all morning to-morrow occurred to him, and that to him at least was
unfaceable. In this reawakened vividness to the crisis that now impended in
less than the space of a day and a night, he felt he could not meet her again
over common tasks.
50. It had happened before occasionally that he had given her a holiday on
Saturday morning from the half-day’s work, and he seized at this, as she
handed him the last of the batch to be signed.
‘I don’t think you need come down to-morrow morning, Miss Propert,’
he said. ‘You can take the half-day off.’
He did not look up, but heard her give a little sigh of relief, and knew
that once again he had found the pulse in her that beat with his own.
‘Yes,’ she said, and dropped the letters into his post-box.
She had been working that day at the table in his big room and stood
there tidying it. Then she went back into the small room adjoining, and he
heard her rustle into her mackintosh. Then returning she stood at the door of
it a moment and from underneath his half raised eyes, he saw that she
looked slowly all round his room, as if, perhaps, searching for something,
or as if rather committing it to her memory. Then without another word to
him she went out, and he heard her steps tapping along the cement-floored
corridor to the lift. Once they paused, and he half-longed, half-dreaded that
she was coming back. They began again, and stopped, and immediately
afterwards he heard the clang of the grille, and the faint rumble of the
descending lift. He had one overpowering impulse that brought him to his
feet, to dash downstairs, and see her go out, or if she was gone already to
follow her into the street, just for the sake of setting eyes on her once more,
but it took him no further than that, and presently he sat down again.
That intense vividness of perception that had been lit within him when,
half an hour ago, the clock on his chimney-piece chimed, still blazed. He
noticed a hundred minute details in the room, his ear separated the hum of
the street below into its component ingredients: there was a boy whistling,
there was a motor standing with its engines still working, there was a street-
cry concerning daffodils, another concerning evening papers. Memory was
similarly awake: he remembered that his wife was giving a little dinner-
party this evening, that Silverdale, who was setting out on his mission to the
docks next day, was to be among the guests, and that Alice expected that the
slippers of Maltese crosses would be back from being made up, in time for
him to take them with him. He recalled, out of the well of years, how in the
early days of his married life Emmeline had made him a pair of slippers
which did not fit, and in the same breath remembered the exact look of her
face this very morning when a message had come from her cook saying that
51. she could not get a bit of salmon anywhere. And as each impression
registered itself on eye and ear and memory, he hated it. But nothing
concerning Norah came into his mind: sometimes for a moment a blank
floated across it, behind which perhaps was Norah, but she produced no
image on it. He could not even recollect her face: he did not know what she
was like. There was the horror of it all: everything in the world but she had
the vividness of nightmare, and she, the only thing that did not belong to
nightmare, had gone from him.
He sat there, alone in the darkening room, doing nothing as far as
definite effort went, and yet conscious of an intense internal activity in just
looking at the myriads of images that this magic lantern of the mind
presented to him. Now for a little it seemed to him that he contemplated a
series of pictures that concerned the life which had once been his, and was
now finished and rolled up, done with for ever. Now again for a little it
seemed that all that was thus presented to him was the life that was going to
be his, until for him all life was over. Alice would always be sewing
slippers, his wife would always be ordering a bit of salmon, he would
always be sitting in an empty office. For a few weeks there had passed
across those eternal reiterations somebody whose very face he could not
now recall, and when he tried to imagine her, he could see nothing but a
blank, a black strip where words had been erased. To-morrow by this time
he would know which of those two aspects was the true one: either the
salmon and the slippers and this lonely meditation would be his no longer,
or they would be all that he could call his. He felt, too, that it was already
settled which it was to be: fate had already written in the inexorable book,
and had closed it again. To-morrow the page would be shown him, he
would read what was inscribed there. No effort on his part, no imposition of
his will, no power of his to organise and build up would alter it. Though the
crisis was yet to come, its issue was already determined.
He struggled against this nightmare sense of impotence. All his life he
had designed his own career, in bold firm strokes, and fate had builded as
he had planned. Fate was not a predetermined thing: the book of destiny
was written by the resolute and strong for themselves, they had a hand on
the pen, and made destiny write what they willed. It should be so to-
morrow: he had but to determine what he chose should be, and this was the
hour of his choice....
52. Suddenly into the blanks, into the black erasures, there stole the images
which just now he had tried in vain to recall. All else was erased, and Norah
filled the empty spaces. Her presence, voice and gesture and form pervaded
his whole consciousness: there was room for nothing else. They loved each
other, and to each other they constituted the sum of all that was real. There
was nothing for it but to accept that, to go away together, and let all the
unrealities of life, The Cedars, the salmon, the slippers, pass out of focus, be
dissolved, disintegrated.... And yet, and yet he knew that he did not make
the choice with his whole self. Deep down in him, the very foundation on
which his character was built, was that hidden rock of his integrity, of his
stern Puritanism, of the morality of which his religion was made. He was
willing to blow that up, he searched for the explosive that would shatter it,
he hacked and hammered at it, as if in experiment to see if he had the power
to shatter it. It could hardly be that his character was stronger than himself:
that seemed a contradiction in terms.
And yet all else in the world was hateful to him; he could contemplate
life neither without Norah nor with her in continuance of their present
relations. This afternoon he had longed for her to go away, and when she
had gone he had been on the point of hurrying down like a madman into the
street only to set eyes on her again. He could not imagine sitting here all
day with her week after week, dictating letters, hearing her typing them,
getting the clear glance from her now and again (and that would be the most
intolerable of all), saying ‘good-evening’ to her when the day’s work was
done, and ‘good-morning’ to her when it was beginning. Something must
happen, and whatever that was, was already written in the book. There was
no escape.
The clock chimed again, and his room had grown so dark that he had to
turn on the electric light to see what the hour was. He went downstairs and
through the show rooms, blazing with lights still populous with customers,
into the square. The toneless blue of night had already advanced far past the
zenith; in the west a band of orange marked where the sun had set, and just
above it was a space of delicate pale green on the upper edge of which a
faint star twinkled. As he passed between the hornbeam hedges in the
disused graveyard, the odour of the spring night, of dew on the path, of the
green growth on the trees, was alert in the air. The mysterious rapture of the
renewal of life tingled round him, the summons to expand, to blossom, to
love was echoed and re-echoed from the bushes, where mated birds were
53. still chirruping. As he walked through the gathering dusk, thick with the
choruses of spring, the years fell from him like withered leaves long-
lingering, and his step quickened into the pace of youth, though it only bore
him to The Cedars, and the amazing futility of one of Lady Keeling’s
smaller dinner-parties.
Two very auspicious pieces of news awaited him when he got home, and
found his wife and Alice just about to go upstairs to dress. Alice’s slippers
had come back from the shoe-maker’s, and could be presented to Mr
Silverdale to-night, while, as by a miracle, a bit of salmon had been
procured also. Lady Keeling had been driving by that little fishmonger’s in
Drury Place, and there on the marble slab was quite a nice bit of salmon.
She had brought it home herself on the box of the victoria, for fear of there
being any mischance as to its delivery. Alice was even more excited, for
nobody else had ever been permitted to work Master a pair of slippers, and
Julia Fyson was coming to dinner, who, with eyes green with jealousy,
would see the presentation made. They were to be brought into the dining-
room at the end of dinner, when Lady Keeling gave two short pressures to
the electric bell that stood by her on the table, by the boy covered with
buttons, wrapped round with endless swathings of paper. He was to present
this bale to Mr Silverdale, saying that it was immediate and asking if there
was any answer. Would it not be fun to see the astonished Master take off
all those wrappings, and find the Maltese crosses within?
This entertaining scheme succeeded admirably. Alice showed a
remarkable sense of dramatic by-play, and talked very eagerly to her
neighbour, while Mr Silverdale stripped off layer after layer of paper, as if
she was quite unaware that anything unusual was happening, and it was not
till an unmistakable shape of slippers began to reveal itself in the core, that
Master guessed.
‘It’s my Helper,’ he cried, ‘my sly little Helper.’ Then pushing back his
chair, he took off his evening shoes, and putting on the slippers went
solemnly round the table, saying to each of his hosts and fellow-guests,
‘May I introduce you to my slippers?’ But when he came to Alice he said, ‘I
think you and my slippers have met before!’ There was never anything so
deliciously playful.... But when he had padded back to his place, Keeling
saw poor Alice’s eye go wandering, looking at every one in turn round that
festive table except Master. Finally, for one half second, her eye rested on
him, and Keeling, as one of those who run, could read, and his heart went
54. out to poor Alice. She was prodigiously silly, yet that one self-revealing
glance decorated her. She loved, and that distinguished and dignified her.
After the guests had gone, Lady Keeling launched forth into her usual
comments on the success of her dinner-party.
‘Well, I’m sure I should be puzzled to name a pleasanter evening’ she
said. ‘I thought it all quite brilliant, though I’m sure I claim no share in its
success except that I do think I gave you all a very good dinner. I’m sure I
never tasted a better bit of spring salmon than that. Was it not lucky it
caught my eye this afternoon. And the slippers, too, Alice! It was quite a
little comedy: I am sure I have seen many less amusing scenes in a play. To
introduce everybody to his slippers! That was a good idea, and it must have
been quite ex tempore, for I am certain he did not know what was inside the
packet till he came to the last wrappings.’
...Perhaps this was the last time that Keeling would ever listen to those
maunderings. That would be determined in the bluebell wood. Perhaps to-
morrow evening....
‘And then saying to Alice, “I think you and my slippers have met
before!” That was fun, was it not? I saw you enjoyed that, Thomas, and
when you are pleased, I’m sure the joke is good enough for anybody. I wish
I had asked Lord and Lady Inverbroom to dine to-night. They would have
enjoyed it too, though perhaps he would feel a little shy of meeting you
after that snub you gave him and his Club in taking their premises away
from them.’
...Would the bluebells reflect their colour on to her face, as the daffodils
she wore one day had done? By the way, no word had been said about the
hour at which they should meet. But it did not matter: he would be there
and she....
‘I have cancelled the notice I gave them,’ he said. ‘You will not have the
pleasure of seeing the club furniture coming out into the street.’
‘Well, indeed! You are much too kind to them after what they did to you,
Thomas. I am sorry you did that; they deserved a good slap to serve them
out.’
An awful spirit of raillery seized the unfortunate woman. She would say
something lightly and humorously, just to show she had nothing but
goodwill towards Miss Propert; it should be quite in that felicitous comedy-
style which had made the business of the slippers such a success.
55. ‘Ah, but now I remember that Miss Propert did not want you to give
them notice,’ she said. ‘Now we can guess why you took it back again. Oh,
not a word more. I am discretion itself.’
Even this did not hurt him. He was rather amused than otherwise.
‘Trust you for hitting the nail on the head, Emmeline,’ he said. ‘That was
why.’
Lady Keeling rose in great good humour. Once, she remembered, her
husband had been very rude when she made a little joke about his regard for
Miss Propert. She had hit the nail on the head then, too, for no doubt there
was something (ever so little) of truth in what she said, and it had ‘touched
him up.’ But now he did not mind: that showed that there was no truth in it
at all now. She had never thought there was anything serious, for Thomas
was not that sort of man (and who should know better than she?), but
perhaps he had been a little attracted. She was delighted to think that it was
certainly all over.
‘Ah, I knew I had guessed,’ she said. ‘And perhaps Miss Propert’s right,
for it is always best to be friendly with everybody even if they do behave
shabbily. I have always found Miss Propert very sensible and well-behaved,
and if she and her brother are coming to see your books on Sunday
afternoon, Thomas, and you like to bring them in to tea, you will find me
most civil and pleasant to them both. There! And now I think Alice and I
will be getting to bed. Dear me, it’s after eleven already. Time flies so,
when you are enjoying yourself.’
She gave him a cheerful kiss, she tapped the barometer, and, taking Alice
in tow, she left him. Their cheerful voices, talking about the slippers, died
away as they went upstairs.
It was not one lark but many that were carolling specks against the blue,
as Keeling walked along the ridge of the down next day, to where after an
upland mile it dipped into the hollow where he and Norah had met before,
and where they would meet again now. The afternoon was warm and
windless, and the squalls and showers of yesterday had been translated into
the vivider green that clothed the slopes. But all this epiphany of spring that
had so kindled his heart before, passed by him to-day quite unobserved: he
saw only the tops of the trees, which, climbing up on the sides of the hollow
for which he was bound, fringed the edge of the ridge. Soon he had reached
56. that, the track dipped over down the slope, and on each side, between the
oak-trunks, and the stumps of the felled hazels, there was spread one
continuous sheet of azure, as if the sky had flooded the ground with itself.
But he hardly saw that even, for sitting on the bank, where, at the bottom of
the hollow, the stream crossed the track, was Norah.
She had watched him come down the path, and when he was some ten
paces from her, she rose. She had no word, it would seem, for him, nor he
for her, and they stood in silence opposite each other. But the clear glance
shone on him, steady and quiet and complete. Then, as by some common
impulse, her hands and his were clasped together.
‘Just Norah,’ he said.
The grave smile with which she had welcomed him grew a shade graver,
a shade more tender.
‘Do you know how I love you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I know. And—and I give you all you bring me. You know that,
don’t you?’
Again by some common impulse they moved off the path, still with
hands clasped. They walked through the fallen sky of bluebells, not seeing
it, and came to where a fallen trunk, lopped of its branches, lay on the
ground.
‘We will sit here a little, shall we?’ she said. ‘It mustn’t be long.’
‘Why not for ever?’ he asked.
‘You know that, too,’ she said.
At that moment there was nothing in the world for him but she.
‘I know nothing of the sort,’ he said. ‘We belong to each other. That’s all
I know. I have you now: you needn’t think I shall let you go. You will leave
that damned place this evening with me. That’s the only reason why we
mustn’t be long here.’
She raised her eyes to his, and without speaking shook her head.
‘But it is to be so,’ he cried. ‘There’s no other way out. We’ve found
each other: do you think I am going to let us lose each other? There is no
other way.’
Even as he spoke, that silent inexorable tug, that irresistible tide of
character which sweeps up against all counter-streams of impulse which do
not flow with it, began to move within him. He meant all he said, and yet he
57. knew that it was not to be. And as he looked at her, he saw in her eyes that
fathomless eternal pity, which is as much a part of love as is desire.
‘There is no way out there,’ she said. ‘Look into yourself and tell me if
you really believe there is. The way is barred. You yourself bar it. How
could I then pass over it?’
‘If you loved me——’ he began.
‘Ah, hush; don’t say that. It is nonsense, wicked nonsense. Isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
She was infinitely stronger than he: a dozen times in details she had
proved that. Now, when there was no detail, but a vital issue at stake, she
could show all her strength, instead of but sparring with him.
‘Well, then, listen,’ she said. ‘We are honest folk, my dear, both you and
I. You are under certain obligations; you have a wife and children. And
since I love you, I am under the same obligations. They are yours, and
therefore they are mine. If it weren’t for them—but it is no use thinking of
that.’
‘But I repudiate them,’ he said. ‘They have become meaningless. You are
the only thing which means anything to me. Norah! Norah! Thou beside me
singing in the wilderness! What else is there? What else?’
His passion had lifted him upon his feet: he stood there before her,
strong and masterful. He was accustomed always to get his way: he would
get it now in spite of the swift-flowing tide against which his impulse
struggled, in spite of her who was sailing up on the tide.
‘There is nothing else,’ she said. ‘But there is not that.’
He knelt down on the ground by her.
‘But, my darling,’ he said, ‘it is not our fault. It happened like that. God
gave us hearts, did He not, and are we just to disobey what our hearts tell
us? We belong to each other. What else can we do? Are we to eat our hearts
out, you on one side of the table in that hell upstairs, I on the other? Don’t
tell me that is the way out!
She raised her hands and let them lie with strong pressure on his
shoulders.
‘No, there is no way out there,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stand that, nor could
you. But there is a way out, and you and I are going to take it.’
Again the infinite pity of her strength welled up and dimmed her eyes.
58. ‘I am going away,’ she said. ‘I shall leave Bracebridge to-night. It’s all
settled.’
He shook himself free of her hands.
‘We go together then,’ he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.
It was but a despairing, drowning cry.
She made a little gesture with her head.
‘Come back here,’ she said. ‘Let me put my hands on your shoulders
again. Yes, just like that. It is all settled. Charles agrees. He knows enough:
I think he guesses the rest. I shall go back to London, and get work there. I
shall find it perfectly easy to do that. If you will give me a little testimonial,
it would help me. You mustn’t come to see me. You mustn’t write to me. I
won’t say anything so foolish as to tell you to forget me. You can’t, to begin
with, and also I don’t want you to. I want you to remember me always, with
love and with honour——’
She stopped for a moment, smiling at him through her tears.
‘You made me cry two mornings ago,’ she said, ‘and I felt so ashamed of
myself. I don’t feel ashamed of myself now. I—I am rather proud of myself,
and I want you to be proud of me.’
Her voice broke utterly, and she sat with her head in her hands, sobbing
her heart out. Presently with one hand she felt for his, and sat thus clasping
it.
‘Sit by me,’ she said at length, ‘and very soon we must walk back over
the down, and when we come to the skylark’s nest you shall go on and I
will follow after a few minutes. Let’s go through these few months, as if
pasting them into our memories. We must each have the same remembrance
as the other. I hated you at first, do you know? I hated working for you. The
books began to bring us together, the mischievous things. Then there came
the wood-block for your book-plate, but you apologised. And then came the
catalogue, was not that it? By that time I had got to love working for you,
though I did not guess at once what was the matter with me. Then came the
spring day, that first day of real spring, and I knew. And there is one thing I
want to ask you. Did Lord Inverbroom ever tell you about my people?’
‘No, never.’
‘Well, you might like to know. My father was a great friend of his at one
time. But he went off with another woman, deserting my mother. That was
59. another reason why we have settled our affairs as we have settled them. I
thought I would like to tell you that. We can’t bring on others the misery
they brought.’
She put her hand through the crook of his arm.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘We came to see the bluebells, and we have never
noticed them till now. Did I not say they would be a carpet spread under the
trees. Shall we pick some? I should like to leave a bunch at the hospital on
my way home.’
Very soon her hands were full of them, and she tied her handkerchief
round their juicy stems.
‘We must go’ she said. ‘But there will be bluebells in my heart all my
life.’
They walked together up the slope on to the down, and along the ridge.
As they got near to the end of it, where it plunged down again towards
Bracebridge, their pace grew slower, and at last they stopped altogether.
‘It is good-bye’ she said, and quite simply like a child she raised her face
to his.
He went on alone after that, and she sat down on the turf to wait, as she
had done before, with her bunch of bluebells beside her. She kept her eyes
on his receding figure, and just before it passed downwards out of sight he
turned, as she knew he would do. A moment afterwards he had disappeared.
Late that night he was sitting alone in his library. The evening had
passed precisely as it always did when he and his wife and Alice were by
themselves. Lady Keeling had been neither more nor less fatuous than
usual, Alice, the slippers being off her mind, had played a couple of games
of backgammon with him, and had shown herself as futile an adversary as
ever.
Norah had gone: that fact was indelibly imprinted on his mind, but as yet
it aroused no emotion. It had produced no sense of desolation in him: all the
strainings of doubt and desire which had racked him before were dead. The
suspense was over, his love would enjoy no fruition, and he had been all
evening exactly as is the man who has been condemned to be hung, and
now, though he has passed a month of sleeplessness or nightmare, has no
anxiety to torture him, and for that first night after his trial is over, can rest
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