The Light Heart (21 page)

Phoebe sat biting the pencil thoughtfully. A whole afternoon to themselves—did Cousin Eden suspect anything, and was she being tactful and kind, or was it simply that they all looked on Oliver as a kind of relation? Phoebe had thought a good deal about Cousin Sue lately, and Oliver’s story about the major who had fallen in love with her and later been killed in South Africa. Cousin Sue must have brought back a secret to Williamsburg too. Phoebe found comfort in the thought. If things got too bad, one could always confess to Cousin Sue
about Oliver, and she would understand. It would be nice to be able to talk about him to somebody—sometimes—not to have to lock this shining thing away in darkness and silence for the rest of her life.

It would feel very strange, going home to Williamsburg now—like trying to crawl back into the chrysalis after one’s butterfly wings were grown. Cousin Sue would know how that was. In Williamsburg one would meet again one’s own age of innocence, full of simple joys and without taboos and reservations—childish, bread-and-milk days forever outgrown now that Oliver Campion had bereft one of reason and peace of mind, and taught one the art of easy laughter and gay, foolish talk and lighthearted living of the sunny days as they came.

Oliver never burdened today with the encroaching complications of tomorrow or the stale worries of yesterday. Oliver took what came and was grateful, kissed, and let go. Oliver knew better than to fight destiny tooth and nail for favours. Destiny couldn’t be bullied. It saved a lot of useless effort not to try, and left you time and energy to enjoy what you already had in your hands. Almost she had learned from Oliver to count their meeting as a prodigal gift of chance, and not a meagre glimpse of paradise withheld. “But suppose I had never seen you at all!” he had cried once, and the idea of this hypothetical loss had come nearer to upsetting his equanimity than the almost certain prospect of never seeing her again.

His was more than a soldier’s fatalism. It was a whole
philosophy
, deep and strong and sustaining. They had met, in spite of terrible odds against it. They had loved at first sight, without wasting time, and snatched golden hours which nothing could ever take from them. They were just that much ahead of other people, who had to make do with ordinary lives which ran in ruts. But for the grace of God they would have gone in ruts themselves to the end of their days.—Easy to say, easy to believe, while their hands could still touch. But now the night was drawing in. Now one went back to Williamsburg and
married Miles, who was a worrier. And Oliver? Oliver would have to beg for everything he got from Maia….

Phoebe pushed the thought away hastily. Not yet. Not today. Today was still theirs, and must be free of shadows, undefaced by tears. She must tell Oliver about October and Septimus—that would make him laugh. It didn’t take much to tickle Oliver, he met all one’s jokes half way.

Their last afternoon together went the way it was expected to—cheerful and foolish and content, as though it would never end—no tension, no tragedy, no yearning silences. He’s such
fun,
Phoebe thought, for she couldn’t get used to that, after Miles. It’s like floating, to be with him. Everything else can wait, you are so happy
now.

Finally they were sitting at one of Gunter’s corner tables, Oliver’s back to the room, and the tea had come, in hot, gleaming pots, and toasted buttered scones and a silver tray of iced cakes and pastries. And then a pause crept in on them, while he watched her pour the tea.

“What nice hands you have,” he said, not as though he had just discovered them, but rather congratulating himself on an old, remembered delight. “I shall always see your hands like this, pouring out my tea.”

“
Both
milk and sugar,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Like a nursery. There you are.”

Their fingers brushed as he took the cup and Phoebe kept her eyes down.

“I spent last evening with Charles,” he said. “To avoid the general effect of a wake, we got drunk and went to the Alhambra. Case of the blind leading the blind. To-night we’re going to try what a Turkish bath will do.”

“I wish
I
could get drunk,” said Phoebe recklessly, and he shook his head.

“Charles says it’s no good in the long run,” he said. “And I fancy he’s right about that.”

Phoebe accepted a scone, dripping with butter, and bit into it.

“You know, if I were writing a farewell party like this in a
book,” she remarked, “I should have said the girl couldn’t eat a thing. Shows you how wrong I’d be. We’re both of us ravenous!”

“Maybe that comes later,” he suggested. “When we start pining. Promise me not to go into a decline, or anything silly like that.”

“No,” said Phoebe. “I shall begin my book instead.”

“Going to put me in it?” he asked, it seemed hopefully, and she laughed.

“Not a word of you! I wouldn’t know how, any more than Cousin Sue has ever written Father.”

“What’s the book about?” he asked with interest. “You never talk about it. Would you rather not?”

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about till we know whether it is a book or not,” she said sensibly. “One that can be published, that is. I’ve got a lot of notes and a lot of ideas, and it’s not a bit autobiographical, that’s one thing to be said for it. Most first novels are likely to be, but I think I’ve passed through that phase now.”

“How do you know what to write?” he marvelled. “I thought since you were going to write novels I’d like to know more about ’em, so I went into that place in Piccadilly and bought some, and now I’m more at sea than ever.”

“What did you buy?” she inquired curiously, touched at the picture of Oliver determined to improve his mind because of her.

“What the man gave me. He picked out the ones he said were going very well just now, and I carried ’em away, and sat up most of the night with ’em. What I can’t understand is, how do you know what the people are going to say to each other?”

“They’re your own people. You can tell them what to say,” she tried honestly to explain. “Of course once a character is drawn, if he’s alive and right, he’s likely to tell
you
.”

“And you don’t have to live through everything you write about?”

“Heavens, no, that would be impossible! Of course travelling and knowing people and seeing how they react to things always helps in the end. But Cousin Sue wrote a successful book about London in the eighteenth century long before she had ever been here at all, and every last detail was correct. A writer is supposed to
know
things—it’s a sort of sixth sense. I’m not sure yet if I’ve got it.”

“Did your Cousin Sue ever write about poor old Forbes-Carpenter?”

“Never. None of us at home ever dreamed of such a thing. Darling, don’t you be alarmed, I’m not going to use you for copy,” she assured him, laughing.

“I think I should be rather flattered if you did,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “But at least you will write me letters sometimes?” he added anxiously, and Phoebe hesitated.

“Would that be—all right?”

“To the club,” he said, unabashed. “And what about you, had I better not? Or shall we send each other a single red rose once a year, like
The
Prisoner
of
Zenda?
You see, I can’t make up my mind to lose you entirely.”

“Miles wouldn’t understand,” she said thoughtfully.

“Jealous?” he asked with a quick frown.

“No, not like that. But he would wonder and worry. He would be afraid I had known someone here that he couldn’t ever measure up to. And he would be right, which makes it awkward.”

“Then you’d rather I didn’t write at all,” he said gravely.

“Not to Louisville. But—once in a while—you could send something by Dinah in New York. She wouldn’t ask questions, would she, and Miles wouldn’t notice if it came in a letter from her. Or is that terribly dishonest, and tempting Providence?” She lifted guilty, questioning eyes. “Maybe if we’re going to do this thing right we ought to make a complete break from the time I sail.”

Oliver sighed, and passed his cup for more tea.

“We had to come to this sometime, didn’t we.” Neither of
them spoke till she handed the newly filled cup back to him. “I still find it impossible to believe that this is the last time you will ever do that,” he said suddenly. “It seems so utterly right and natural, to sit across a table from you and wait for my tea. We did it years ago—we shall be doing it years hence. Nothing else is conceivable.”

Phoebe stared at him dumbly, conscious of a perverse
satisfaction
that at last Oliver seemed to be hurting the way she did, that for once his light touch had failed him. Much as she loved him for the lift of his spirit and his casual, tender humour, she needed to know that Oliver had his bad moments too. And he, whose gaiety had been for her protection from the rough reality of their impending separation, felt himself sliding down hill into blackness and was powerless to find a foothold on his way to the bottom. He had witnessed the bleak vacuum in which Charles moved now that Rosalind had gone. The same purgatory was just around the corner for himself. He leaned across the table to her.

“Phoebe—it’s only jilting we’d be guilty of now—not the other thing, in the Commandments. It makes me a cad, but I’d commit a worse sin if I marry Maia now, loving you like this. You saw Rosalind’s face yesterday, I can’t let you—Phoebe, we’ve tried, but suddenly I can’t face it. Let me tell Maia. Go home if you must, and tell Miles. And then come back to me and let’s start again, together.”

Phoebe sat looking down at her empty teacup through a blinding blur, her hands knotted in her lap, striving for composure. She had not expected anything like this. She was taken off guard, and it softened her very bones. But she heard her own voice, rather dim and far away, telling him about Miles’s letter that morning, and the house in Louisville, and how the family were expecting a Christmas wedding—

And then she heard Oliver interrupt her crisply, a thing he had never done before.

“All right,” he was saying. “That’s enough. It was a crazy idea. Please forgive me.” He signalled for the bill and paid it
with the change for the tip, and waved it away, so there was no need to wait.

Phoebe gazed at him piteously.

“You aren’t—offended?” she begged, and he gave her his small rueful smile which did not show his teeth.

“No, I’m anything but offended,” he assured her gently, and helped her gather up her parcels. Outside in Bond Street he put her into a cab and told the driver to take them to Claridge’s.

She sat silent beside him in the hansom for the short drive. It was ending all wrong. The bright bubble had burst in their faces. An agony of doubt invaded her. Had she ruined everything? Had she answered wrong? Was there any other possible answer to give him?

As the cab turned into Brook Street his hand caught hers out of her lap and raised it, glove and all, to his lips.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he murmured. “I never meant to cave in like that. Don’t hold it against me, will you!”

“I—” she began faintly, and the cab came to a stop in front of the hotel.

Oliver handed her out, asked the driver to wait, gave the parcels to the doorman, and held out a formal hand.

“I won’t come in if you don’t mind,” he said quietly, and smiled down at her in the usual way. “Tell them I had to dash off to meet a man at the club!”

“Then—good-bye.” Phoebe put her hand in his.

He refused the word, with a little jerk of his chin.

“God bless you,” he said, and stepped back into the cab, which moved away at once.

Phoebe walked blindly to the lift, and arrived at their sitting-room on the second floor, where she found Eden alone, reading an evening paper.

“We got all the things,” she said unnecessarily. “The boy is bringing them up. Oliver had to go on to the club.”

“Did he, dear?” Eden’s response was deliberately vague, and she pretended not to notice the quiver of Phoebe’s chin, returning gravely to the paper after one discerning glance.
“Come and look at this,” she said, and Phoebe bent to read over her shoulder:
His
Serene
Highness,
Prince
Hugo
zu 
Polk
witz
-Heidersdorf
,
is
gravely
ill
at
his
castle
in
Silesia.
On
account
of
his
great
age,
considerable
anxiety
is
felt
because
of
the
repeated
heart
attacks
which
have
recently
become
more
and
more
frequent
—

“Virginia said Rosalind would have to go into mourning before she got any good of that trousseau!” Phoebe cried. “Prince Conrad will be sent for, won’t he. Bracken thinks he’ll have to leave the Diplomatic for good when his father dies.”

“Well, Beryl Norton-Leigh has brought it off,” Eden sighed. “She’ll get a Serene Highness for a son-in-law even sooner than she had any right to expect, and her daughter will be one of the richest women in Europe—without a penny of it to call her own!’

“Wasn’t there some kind of marriage settlement?” Phoebe asked.

“Entirely controlled by her husband!”

“You mean Rosalind can’t write a cheque?”

“Rosalind won’t even have pocket money. Her credit is good anywhere in Europe if she wants to buy a diamond necklace. But if she only wants a
pfennig
in her hand she will have to ask her husband for it.”

“Oh, how awful! Perhaps I could slip something in my letters sometimes.”

“American money?” said Eden and shook her head. “No. It’s no use now.” She threw down the paper and ran a hand across her forehead as though it ached. “Perhaps I should have interfered somehow—I did try, but Beryl always bit my head off—I couldn’t see my way to anything more—it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my days. Archie says if there’s a war Rosalind’s life will be simply unbearable—”