Thank Heaven Fasting (17 page)

She glanced at his profile, motionless beside her. He was poking little holes in the ground with his stick. At last he spoke.

“Do you remember the first time we met, at the Lester wedding? It seems queer, to think it was only about two months ago.”

“Yes, doesn't it. I feel as if I'd known you so much longer than that.”

“I've sometimes wondered whether——”

He broke off abruptly, then began again.

“Look here, I've been meaning to ask you whether you won't call me Carol, instead of Mr. Anderson. It seems rather absurd, to be so conventional, after all. And may I call you Monica?''

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks awfully.” For the first time, he turned his head and looked at her, smiling rather shyly.

“Because we are friends—Monica.”

A small shiver of excitement passed through her when she heard him speak her name.

“I feel that too.”

She wanted to say much more—to tell him that she cared deeply for his friendship, that she wanted him to tell her everything about himself, and to give him her confidence in return—but she was inhibited by her own emotion, her abiding sense of insecurity, and the ever-present recollection of her mother's reiterated warnings—that to show a man how much one liked him, was to cheapen oneself in his estimation. She dared not risk it.

“The very first time I saw you, at the wedding, I wondered if I should ever get to know you. To know you really well, I mean.”

“Did you—Carol?”

He gave her a quick glance and smile, in recognition of her use of his name.

“I was most dreadfully unhappy that day, and I would have given anything in the world to know that there was someone I could talk to—someone who'd understand.”

“Tell me why you were unhappy.”

“I've never told anyone,” said Carol slowly. “But I think I'd like to tell you.”

“I wish you would,” Monica said, sincerely and earnestly.

She felt that his confidence would be almost a pledge of another, more profound, relation between them.

Presently he began to speak, at first slowly and with hesitation, but afterwards more freely.

“I didn't want to be best man at that wedding—or at any wedding. You see—the only woman I've ever cared for is married to Lester's brother.”

Monica caught her breath.

Two thoughts sprang, almost simultaneously, to life within her.

He cares for somebody else.

But she's married.

Anderson went on speaking, looking down at the little dents that he was still assiduously making with the point of his stick.

“Do you remember talking about weddings that day, and I said they oughtn't to be church affairs at all, but just a contract, civil if they liked, between two people?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Viola Lester is married to a brute—she's been tied to him for seven years—and she won't divorce him or leave him because she's a religious woman,” said Carol bitterly.

“Did you—want her to leave him?”

“Yes, I did.”

He squared his shoulders and then turned and looked at her. There was something faintly histrionic in the gesture.

“Yes, I did. You're not shocked, are you, Monica?”

“No, I'm not shocked,” Monica repeated dully. And after a moment she added:

“Tell me about it.”

“There isn't much to tell, really. I met her two years ago and fell in love with her. I'd had fancies—one or two—and thought myself in love before. But this was quite different. It was something absolutely real.”

He spoke with an intensity of conviction that seemed to require acknowledgement.

Monica said: “I know.”

“I saw she was very unhappy. Her husband drinks, and does other things as well—she was only nineteen when she
married him. That her people should have let her do such a thing——” He spoke through clenched teeth.

A strange, dreamy feeling as though she had heard all this before began to creep over Monica. She did not understand nor attempt to analyse it.

“At first we were just friends. I tried to make things a little easier for her—I hope perhaps I did—I was able to help her over business once or twice. And we used to talk. I hope—in fact, I
know”
—he spoke now with quiet confidence, “that she was less lonely after I had come into her life. But I don't think she really took me seriously until—one night in June. It was the tenth of June. I don't suppose that I shall ever forget that date however long I may live.”

Carol paused and let the walking-stick drop from his hand. When he spoke again his voice had taken on a deep, restrained tone.

“I couldn't stand it any longer. I asked her to let me take her away. I told her that I—loved her.”

His face had flushed darkly, and he was bending and twisting with both hands a stout branch that had lain on the ground at their feet.

“There were no children. If she'd had children, it would have been different. I realize
absolutely
what a woman feels about her children—I have a peculiarly strong imagination, much more so than most men, and I understand women. But there was nothing like that to hold her. Only this—this socalled religion. I don't mean that she wasn't absolutely sincere, of course—she was only too much so. But to me it's so incredible—so utterly monstrous—that anyone should think that God requires a woman to stay with a man she loathes, and who makes her wretched.”

“Did she care for you too?” asked Monica.

He hesitated before replying, but at last said:

“She would never, actually, admit it. But—yes, I think she did.” His voice gained in assurance. “I know she did. I understood her in some ways much better than she understood herself. I know perfectly well that I was the right man for
her. I could have made her happy. She knew it, too, at the bottom of her heart. Only she wouldn't own to it. That sounds as if I'm blaming her—and I couldn't do that.”

The branch snapped between his fingers, and he continued to break it, rather violently, into small pieces as he went on speaking.

“I can't even begin to tell you how much I cared for Viola—and still care.”

Monica's heart sank, and she experienced a fierce resentment against herself. Was she, then, incapable of a generous and self-forgetful response? Carol Anderson was honouring her with his deepest confidence—one that he said he had never bestowed upon anybody else. She could not, and would not, fail him.

“Two weeks before Jack Lester's wedding, I'd seen Viola, and asked her if she'd come away with me. I thought she was nearer saying Yes than she'd ever been before. I let myself hope. I was a fool, I suppose. I'm not a very hopeful person, as a rule. Perhaps I'm rather more free from illusions than most men—I don't know. Anyhow, I thought I'd won Viola. And then—then, Monica——”

The last available fragment of the stick snapped, and was flung away. Carol Anderson hid his face in his hands.

“It's no good. I can't tell you. It goes too deep. Forgive me, please, Monica. You've been a perfect dear to me. But I can't talk—not even to you. I'm not made that way.”

Monica, not knowing what to say, rather timidly laid her hand upon his. It was taken and grasped tightly.

“Thank you for listening to me.”

“Won't you tell me the rest, Carol?”

“There's not anything to tell, really. She wrote to me and said that it must come to an end. She was going abroad with her husband. He was ill, and she was going to forgive him, and let him start again. They—they're going round the world. They'll be away two years, or more.”

“She'll come back,” hazarded Monica.

“Perhaps. But it's over. I know Viola. She means what she says. If she's promised to give him another chance, she'll do it, and stick to it. The only thing that I can do now, is to do as she asked, and never go near her again.”

“Carol—I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He achieved a difficult smile. “Well, now you know my story. It's not a very unusual one, I dare say. And yet” he seemed to recollect himself, “it
is
unusual, I suppose. Most men have something of the kind in their lives, I dare say—but they don't take it as hard as I do. My capacity for suffering is an absolutely extraordinary one. I do know that for a fact.”

“Some day——”

He shook his head.

“No. If you mean that some day I shall mind less about this, you're wrong. It will always be exactly the same to me. I'm like that.”

Monica felt that he did not wish either to be reasoned with or contradicted on the point.

She said nothing.

“Of course, I'm going on with everyday life just as usual. My going to that wedding, as best man, proves that. I
know
that I have a tremendously strong will, and I've put every ounce of it into preventing anybody's knowing what I feel—except you, Monica.”

His smile at her, and deep look straight into her eyes, moved her emotionally, in spite of the dead, cold weight of disappointment at her heart.

“Please always go on telling me things, Carol. I want you to, and I understand.”

“I know you do. And it's been a relief to talk to you. If I don't do it again for a long while—perhaps for years—you mustn't mind, or think it's because you're less my friend. It's only that I'm a person who is naturally very reserved—to whom speech doesn't come at all easily.”

Carol Anderson passed his hand across his eyes, as though clearing from them the mists of some inner preoccupation.
He looked down at the broken fragments of the branch lying all round him.

“Did I do that? How destructive!”

Smiling ruefully, he bent and picked up his own walking-stick once more.

“It's grown chilly, hasn't it?”

Monica had felt that it had for some while. The sun had gone behind a bank of cloud, and they had been sitting on the log a long time. She was cold and cramped when Carol gave her his hand and pulled her up from her low seat.

When they were both on their feet, he still retained her hand for a moment.

“This has been wonderful, Monica. I never thought that I should find anybody like you.”

Words that might, and should, have been used if he had been in love with her, she thought drearily.

It was something to have his friendship, perhaps. It would make life less lonely.

Quite involuntarily that thought was immediately followed by another one—the echo of Imogen Ingram's voice:

“Never be silly enough to let a man talk to you about being
friends
with him. There's no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman. That kind of thing leads to nothing. …”

The only thing that mattered was to get married, and now it seemed unlikely that Carol Anderson would ever ask her to marry him after all. He was all the time thinking about somebody else.

She was able to feel intensely sorry for him, partly because she was more attracted by him physically than she was willing to admit, and partly because of his own intense belief in the reality and immensity of his suffering. It carried conviction, whilst she was with him.

They walked some way further before turning back to the hotel, and Carol earned Monica's fervent gratitude because, very gently and affectionately, he led her on to tell him the story of her youthful love-affair with Christopher Lane.

She had long ago evolved a formula that salved her hurt self-respect. By now she had come to believe in it herself. “There was somebody that I cared for, once. He cared for me too—but only for a little while, and not as much as—as I thought he did. It was marvellous while it lasted.”

Her eyes grew misty as she tried, vainly, to recapture something of the glamour and excitement that had surrounded her brief, youthful romance. It seemed, actually, to have happened to someone else, for she could no longer revive in herself any spark of the innocent, ignorant confidence in the right of youth to love and happiness that had been hers at the age of eighteen.

“So you've known what it is to care for someone too, Monica?”

“Yes. In a way, I shall always care for, him. It's on that account, really, that I haven't ever been able to care for anybody else.”

Monica believed, at least partially, in the truth of what she was saying. Her life would have been so utterly unendurable had she not been able to believe something of the kind, that this legend of her own fidelity had crystallized within her by imperceptible degrees, and had become part of the fabric of existence. She offered it to Carol Anderson without any sense of being other than wholly sincere.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I think that I shall never marry.”

Anxiously, she waited for his reassurance.

“Some people can accept the second-best. I don't think you could, any more than I could. I know perfectly well, for instance, that I shall never marry, because I can never care for any other woman as I cared-care,” he corrected himself, “for Viola Lester.”

“Everyone isn't like that.”

“No, though I think women are more often than men. I suppose I'm exceptional in that sort of way.”

“I think you are,” said Monica.

She knew that was what he wanted her to say, and it would
have been impossible to Monica to risk losing his evident confidence in her sympathy. Far below the regions of conscious thought was the hope that from friendship and sympathy might spring sexual desire.

She was the more deeply unaware of this because of the weight of bitter disappointment that had descended upon her ever since Carol had said that he loved another woman. All through the drive home, she could feel that knowledge waiting to crush the newly born hope that had seemed so fair only that morning. Worst of all, she almost felt, would be the moment when she would have to let her mother know—casually, and as though it mattered not at all to either of them—that Carol Anderson was, after all, “no real use.”