On her return home she went straight upstairs to her bedroom and, without waiting to take off her hat, opened the little drawer in her desk in which were stored the letters and the gifts that she had at various times received from Roland. There was the copper ring there that he had slipped on to her finger at the party, the tawdry copper ring that she had kept so bright; there was the score card of a cricket match, the blue and yellow rosette he had worn at the school sports when he had been a steward, a photograph of him in Eton collars. She held them in her hand and her first instinct was to throw them into the fireplace. But she thought better of it. After all he loved her still. Why should she not keep them? Instead, she sat down in the chair and laid the little collection in her lap and, opening the letters, she began to read them through, one by one; by the time she had finished the room had darkened. She would have to put on another dress for the evening and do her hair. Already she could hear her father’s voice in the hall, but she felt lazy, incapable of action; her hands dropped into her lap, and her fingers closed round the letters and cards and snapshots. Her thoughts traveled into the past and were lost in vague, wistful recollection. Her mother’s voice sounding in the passage woke her from a reverie. It was quite dark; she must light the gas, and she would have to hurry with her dressing. It was getting late. She rose to her feet, walked over to the bureau and put the letters back into the little drawer. Her fingers remained on the handle after she had closed it. And again she asked herself the question to which she could find no answer: “What is going to happen to me now?”
CHAPTER XXI
THE SHEDDING OF THE CHRYSALIS
THE official position of fiancé was a new and fascinating experience, in the excitement of which Roland speedily forgot the unpleasantness that its announcement had caused in Hammerton. It was really great fun. Important relatives were asked to meet him, and he was introduced to them by Mr. Marston as “my future son-in-law.” Muriel insisted on taking him for walks through the village for the pleasure of being able to say to her friends: “This is my fiancé.” And when he complained that he was being treated like a prize dog, she asked him what else he thought he was. Muriel had always been a delightful companion and the engagement added to their relationship a charming intimacy. It was jolly to sit with her and hold her hand; and she was not exacting. She did not expect him to be making love to her the whole time. Indeed, he did not make love to her very often. They kissed each other when they were alone, but then kisses were part of the game that they were playing. April had at first been too shy to pronounce the actual word “kiss.” She had evaded it, and later, when she had come to use it, it had been for a long while accompanied by a blush. There was no such reserve between Muriel and Roland. Kisses were favors that she would accord to him if he were good. “No,” she would say to him sometimes, “I don’t think I’m going to let you kiss me this afternoon. You haven’t been at all the faithful and dutiful lover. You didn’t pay me any attention at lunch; you were talking to father about some silly cricket match and I had to ask you twice to pass me the salt. I oughtn’t to have to ask you once. You ought to know what I want. No! I shan’t let you kiss me.”
And then he would entreat her clemency; he would hold her hand and kneel on the wet grass, an act of devotion to which he would call her notice, and beseech her to be generous, and after a while she would weaken and say—yes, if he was very good he might be allowed one kiss. No more! But when his arms were round her he was not satisfied with one, he would take two, three, four, and she would wriggle in his arms and kick his shins and tell him that he had taken a mean advantage of her; and when he had released her she would vow that as a punishment she would not kiss him again—no, never, not once again, and then would add: “No, not for a whole week!” And he would catch her again in his arms and say: “Make it a minute and I’ll agree,” and with a laugh she had accepted his amendment.
There were no solemn protestations, no passion, no moments of languid tenderness. They were branches in neighboring boughs that played merrily in the wind, caring more, perhaps, for the wind than for each other.
They talked exhaustively of the future—of the house they were going to build, the garden they would lay out. “We’ll have fowls,” he said, “because you’ll look so pretty feeding them.”
“And we’ll have a lawn,” she repeated, “because you’ll look so hot when you’ve finished mowing it.”
They would discuss endlessly the problem of house decoration. She was very anxious to have bright designs, “with lots of red and blue in it.” And he had told her that she could do what she liked with the drawing-room as long as she allowed him a free hand with his own study.
“Which means that you’ll have a nasty, plain brown paper, and you’ll cover it with ugly photographs of cricket elevens, and it’ll be full of horrid arm-chairs and stale tobacco.”
One day he took her up to Hammerton to see his parents and his friends. They intrigued her by the difference from the type to which she was accustomed.