§ 11
So it was that the incompatibilities of man and woman arose again in the just recovering love dream of Madeleine Philips. But now the discord was far more evident than it had been at the first breach.
Suddenly her dear lover, her flatterer, her worshipper, had become a strange averted man. He scrabbled up two of his paper scraps before he came towards her, still with no lovelight in his eyes. He kissed her hand as if it was a matter of course and said almost immediately: “I’ve been hoping for you all the endless morning. I’ve had to amuse myself as best I can.” His tone was resentful. He spoke as if he had a claim upon her—upon her attentions. As if it wasn’t entirely upon his side that obligations lay.
She resolved that shouldn’t deter her from being charming.
And all through the lunch she was as charming as she could be, and under such treatment that rebellious ruffled quality vanished from his manner, vanished so completely that she could wonder if it had really been evident at any time. The alert servitor returned.
She was only too pleased to forget the disappointment of her descent and forgive him, and it was with a puzzled incredulity that she presently saw his “difficult” expression returning. It was an odd little knitting of the brows, a faint absentmindedness, a filming of the brightness of his worship. He was just perceptibly indifferent to the charmed and charming things she was saying.
It seemed best to her to open the question herself. “Is there something on your mind, Dot?”
“Dot” was his old school nickname.
“Well, no—not exactly on my mind. But—. It’s a bother of course. There’s that confounded boy....”
“Were you trying some sort of divination about him? With those pieces of paper?”
“No. That was different. That was—just something else. But you see that boy—. Probably clear up the whole of the Moggeridge bother—and you know it is a bother. Might turn out beastly awkward....”
It was extraordinarily difficult to express. He wanted so much to stay with her and he wanted so much to go.
But all reason, all that was expressible, all that found vent in words and definite suggestions, was on the side of an immediate pursuit of Bealby. So that it seemed to her he wanted and intended to go much more definitely than he actually did.
That divergence of purpose flawed a beautiful afternoon, cast chill shadows of silence over their talk, arrested endearments. She was irritated. About six o’clock she urged him to go; she did not mind, anyhow she had things to see to, letters to write, and she left him with an effect of leaving him for ever. He went and overhauled his motor bicycle thoroughly and then an aching dread of separation from her arrested him.
Dinner, the late June sunset and the moon seemed to bring them together again. Almost harmoniously he was able to suggest that he should get up very early the next morning, pursue and capture Bealby and return for lunch.
“You’d get up at dawn!” she cried. “But how perfectly Splendid the midsummer dawn must be.”
Then she had an inspiration. “Dot!” she cried, “I will get up at dawn also and come with you.... Yes, but as you say he cannot be more than thirteen miles away we’d catch him warm in his little bed somewhere. And the freshness! The dewy freshness!”
And she laughed her beautiful laugh and said it would be “Such Fun!” entering as she supposed into his secret desires and making the most perfect of reconciliations. They were to have tea first, which she would prepare with the caravan lamp and kettle. Mrs. Geedge would hand it over to her.
She broke into song. “A Hunting we will go-ooh,” she sang. “A Hunting we will go....”
But she could not conquer the churlish underside of the Captain’s nature even by such efforts. She threw a glamour of vigour and fun over the adventure, but some cold streak in his composition was insisting all the time that as a boy hunt the attempt failed. Various little delays in her preparations prevented a start before half-past seven, he let that weigh with him, and when sometimes she clapped her hands and ran—and she ran like a deer, and sometimes she sang, he said something about going at an even pace.
At a quarter past one Mrs. Geedge observed them returning. They were walking abreast and about six feet apart, they bore themselves grimly, after the manner of those who have delivered ultimata, and they conversed no more....
In the afternoon Madeleine kept her own room, exhausted, and Captain Douglas sought opportunities of speaking to her in vain. His face expressed distress and perplexity, with momentary lapses into wrathful resolution, and he evaded Judy and her leading questions and talked about the weather with Geedge. He declined a proposal of the Professor’s to go round the links, with especial reference to his neglected putting. “You ought to, you know,” said the Professor.
About half-past three, and without any publication of his intention, Captain Douglas departed upon his motor bicycle....
Madeleine did not reappear until dinner-time, and then she was clad in lace and gaiety that impressed the naturally very good observation of Mrs. Geedge as unreal.