The Crowded Street

by Winifred Holtby

XXXVIII

Marshington was triumphant. The garden fête for the British Legion to be held in the park of the Weare Grange meant far more than a local entertainment. It meant the final abandonment of six years' gloom and difficulty. The war and all the inconvenience of war-time was past. The months following the armistice, months of intoxicating rapture, disorganization, irritating delays, and disillusionment, had gone. August, 1920, marked a turning in the ways.

Indeed, its triumph was not merely negative. It marked the promise of good things to come as well as the forgotten dream of dark things past. Marshington boomed. The new motor-bus service in and out of Kingsport, the projected town hall, the recently opened golf course, were signs of prosperity not lightly to be dismissed. There were, of course, disadvantages. Trade was bad, but undoubtedly it would improve. Unemployment was disquieting, but always this happened after any war. The British Legion, linking up village with village and class with class in memory of a glorious army, was not this a noble thing? And surely the symbolism of this fête to-day, Godfrey Neale opening the ceremony, Major Godfrey Neale, once prisoner of war, now squire of Weare and Marshington and lord of the Mardlehammar property, stooping to comradeship with the men who had once fought with him—surely this was a hopeful sign! And he looked so charming too! No wonder Phyllis Marshall Gurney, pretty and soft and pale in her rose-coloured crêpe de Chine, looked wistfully up at him as before the opening he talked with his mother on the smooth, grass terrace. No wonder that little Miss Dale, radiant in sprigged muslin (pre-war but renovated) should whisper buoyantly to Mr. Potts, the curate, "Isn't he like the Prince of Wales?"

And then the day, too, after that terrible July with its incessant rain, the day was perfect. Little feathery clouds floated along the sky. The spacious lawns of the Weare Grange lay green as emeralds. The stonework on the terraces foamed over with crimson ramblers. The flagged paths lay like white ribbons between herbaceous borders flaming with phlox and sunflowers and campanula. The beeches spread above a company as gay and flowerlike as the crowded borders. Mrs. Marshall Gurney in lilac charmeuse, Mrs. Cartwright in a saxe blue foulard, Mrs. Parker, manly and imposing in a black suit with a white pin stripe, and her flowerlike daughter—how on earth had Daisy Weathergay happened?—delicate as a fairy in pale blue, darting in constant pursuit of a small, charming child, all white frills and pink ribbons, who strayed like a wind-blown flower from laughing group to group on the wide lawn.

Every one, positively every one, was there. The Avenue, in ready-made crêpe de Chine, and ditto suits; the village, in cotton voile and muslin and reachmedowns; the Houses, resplendent in charmeuse and foulard and, even occasionally, in morning coats.

But, of all the people there, the happiest, the most radiant, was probably Mrs. Hammond. She sat below the terrace against a background of gay flowers. Her dress of grey georgette, delicately and demurely coquettish, made her seem more than ever a small and dove-like nun, except for the bright cerise sunshade that had somehow found its way into her little hand. Not far from her stood her husband, hands in pockets, great head thrown back, talking to Colonel Grainger. The Graingers had come over for the ceremony and were staying at the Weare Grange. But they had promised to dine that evening with the Hammonds, and it was at Colonel Grainger's jokes that Arthur Hammond's laugh rang out. But even that had not filled quite the brimming cup of Rachel Hammond's triumph. There, under the trees beside the shallow steps, stood Muriel, her daughter, talking to Godfrey Neale. Every one saw them, and every one could not fail to recognize the significance of their conversation.

Three nights ago, Muriel had come home for her summer holidays. Immediately, Mrs. Hammond's quick, motherly eye had seen the change in her. Quiet she was still and always would be, but her quietness no longer expressed discomfort but composure. Her manner had changed. She was more sure of herself. She expressed her opinions with an assurance that amazed her mother. And people seemed to be interested in her. The Honble. Mrs. Potter Vallery had seen her photograph twice in the papers. Mrs. Hobson, the vulgar, detestable Mrs. Hobson, on tour on a woman's political delegacy (her fare paid out of Marshington funds, so like her to get a nice trip for nothing!) had actually seen Muriel on the platform during an important conference. She did not speak of course, but sat, taking notes or something, and had been seen afterwards speaking to Lady Cooper and Lady Ballimore-Fenton. Then, look at the way she dressed now! That charming mauve frock had amazed Mrs. Hammond, and the deeper mauve hat, charming, charming, and the bunch of violets tucked into her waist. Why, she was quite delightful! Everybody noticed it. Tears had come uncomfortably near Mrs. Hammond's eyes as one lady after another had murmured: "So nice to see dear Muriel again. So well she's looking! And that charming frock! How nice to be able to buy one's clothes in town—or does she go to Paris?" Even Mrs. Harpur's aggrieved: "I suppose that Muriel won't have time to come and see us now? She's much too grand," had been nectar and ambrosia to Muriel's mother.

And then, but nobody except Mrs. Hammond knew this, had come the glorious realization of Godfrey Neale; quite by chance she learned that he had taken to Muriel his trouble over Clare's broken engagement. "By mutual agreement" it was understood, that most unnatural union had been dissolved. "Of course, we really knew all the time," Mrs. Hammond had announced. "Muriel, being such a friend of Clare's—a boy and girl affair—quite, quite unsuitable." But she did no more than smile significantly when people said: "Muriel saw quite a lot of him in London, didn't she?" "Of Godfrey?—oh well, of course—— Now, Mrs. Thorrald, I can't have you thinking things—really nothing in it." But she knew that her tell-tale blush left little doubts in Mrs. Thorrald's mind.

For herself, what need had she to doubt? Indeed, looking back over the past thirty years, how could it have been otherwise? One by one, other women had given way—except Mrs. Marshall Gurney, and her resistance was quite unintentional. By a process of elimination Godfrey and Muriel had been left together. The affair with Clare had of course been inevitable. Godfrey had to sow his devotional wild oats; but with Clare vanished, no other obstacle could stand between them.

Rachel Hammond was justified at last. At least she had paid heavily. Nobody, nobody would know the price. Her marriage to Arthur had been her one act of spontaneous folly. Every other step of the way had been calculated. Well, it had been worth it. The first few fearful years, when she had braved the outraged feelings of the Nonconformist friends of her husband's family; the careful tact of years of social climbing as one by one the houses of the respected and unquestioned had capitulated; the choice of the girls' school; her battle to keep them both at home; the fears, by day and night, lest one single venture should miscarry; the episode of Connie.

Her small kid gloves clenched round the slender stem of her sunshade. Her face, looking downward to the sunlit flags, became grey and haggard.

At last she knew that she had acted wisely on the terrible night when Connie told her about Eric, when Connie had implored that she might not marry Ben, that she might take her child and live alone with it, anywhere rather than tie herself to the man who was not Eric, do anything rather than become Ben's wife with that deception; then Mrs. Hammond had faltered. Could she go on, could she defend her reputation, and that of Muriel and of her husband, at the price of Connie? But Connie's scruples had been madness. To tell Ben would almost certainly have stopped the marriage. To allow her daughter to bear the child of a rough farmer and to face her shame would have been folly, absurd and fruitless. She had been right in her superior wisdom; right, although that deadening stupor of blind acquiescence had descended upon Connie; right, although when she sat by Connie's bedside and guessed, though she had never dared even to hint at her fears, that Connie's death had been avoidable; right, although even now at night terrors would assail her, and she would remember the passion of entreaty in her daughter's face.

But she had been right, for not one shadow of misgiving had touched Marshington, and now, in the awakening interest of Godfrey Neale, she would reap her reward.

Her old fears fell from her. As the sunlight poured upon her arms, her shoulders, her uplifted face, so a great peace descended on her soul. Triumphantly she rose, and moved across the lower terrace to the couple below the trees.

Muriel greeted her with the new assurance that so well became her.

"Mother, Godfrey says that he and Mrs. Neale want us to go up to dinner to-morrow night. We haven't anything on, have we?"

Mrs. Hammond smiled. "Well, really, won't you be tired of us?"

And she was sure, quite sure, that Godfrey smiled down at Muriel as he said:

"No, r—rather not."

"You've got a lovely day for your fête?"

"Yes, splendid."

"Are you nervous about the opening?"

"Beastly." He laughed. And then to Muriel he said: "You swear that you won't tease me if I break down or something?"

"Of course I won't. I'd never dare to do it myself. I'm sure you'll do it well."

"Look here"—with a sudden inspiration—"do come on to the top terrace and back me up." With a concession to decorum, he added, "Both of you."

Mrs. Hammond's eyes flashed. For a moment she hesitated. Here, unequivocal and public, would lie the announcement of her triumph. Godfrey, of course, did not think what he was asking. He was too lordly to see how significant his actions were to Marshington. If anything should happen, if at the last moment her plans should all miscalculate—— A cold terror seized her. The rose-pink frock of Phyllis Marshall Gurney floated towards them down the terrace. No, no, it was impossible, for here was Muriel and here Godfrey. To refuse now might offend him. She had been bold before.

"Well, if you like," she said, and, lordly as he, never hinted that she could have no right there.

So when the opening ceremony was announced, Marshington saw assembled on the terrace, together with officials of the British Legion and the Graingers and the Neales, the small but conquering figures of the Hammond ladies, mother and daughter, applauding Godfrey Neale.

Like wild-fire the rumour ran round Marshington that Godfrey Neale at last had come to his senses, and that a Marshington girl would become lady of the Weare Grange. Even Mrs. Neale's gaunt, sallow face bent above Muriel with a gracious smile as she said: "Nice of you to come and back the boy up. He's a bit nervous about speaking."

"It g—gives me very great pleasure," said Godfrey Neale, standing upon the rose-covered terrace, his face turned above the throng below him towards Marshington, "to be here again, among my own people. I shan't say much. I'm no great hand at speaking, and anyway the place to speak is hardly mine on this occasion. It was the fellows who fought all through the war, and not us who just sat and ate our heads off with the B—Boches"; laughter and applause and cries of "No, no!" "Good old Neale" interrupted him. "I mean——" he stammered, he lost the place in his carefully thought-out speech, prepared for him partly, it must be confessed, by Miss Hammond of the Twentieth Century Reform League. Then his own charming smile broke out. He looked down at the people. "Here, I can't talk, we're all friends together, this fête's open. Let's get on with it."

They clapped, they cheered, but always through their cheering they seemed to look beyond Godfrey to Muriel, as though they included her also in their approval. And Mrs. Marshall Gurney, with dignified resignation, clapped her white gloves, and Phyllis, rising gallantly above spite and jealousy, looked straight up into his dear, forbidden face, and clapped him too. And Godfrey, who liked Phyllis Marshall Gurney, and thought her a pretty kid, and wondered why on earth she'd never married, and liked the way that her chin uplifted when she smiled, looked back at her, and their eyes met, and she faced with courage the happiness that she might have known.

The crowd scattered. There were coco-nut shies in the park, and tea on the top terrace, and stalls in the rose garden, and a bran-tub and fortune-telling and a concert. The British Legion band blared suddenly into brave music, and the group on the upper terrace prepared itself to be gracious to less-favoured groups. Finally Mrs. Hammond found herself drinking tea beside Lady Grainger, while Muriel handed cakes to Mrs. Neale.

"How well she fits in to this charming atmosphere," reflected her proud mother. "That little air of quiet dignity—Mrs. Neale of the Weare Grange. 'Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Hammond request the pleasure of Mrs. and Miss Marshall Gurney's company at the marriage of their daughter, Muriel, with Mr. Godfrey Reginald Mardle Neale at Holy Trinity Church, Marshington, and afterwards at Miller's Rise.'" They would have a real reception this time.