A marrying man

by G. B. Stern

The vision died down ... left her tired, and a little dazed. But she wrote to Upton at once, saying that she would come to Les Avants, as they had planned it. She did not comment on the rest of his letter; and she left her motive for the acceptance unexplained. He might assume, if he pleased, that she could not suffer total loss of him, preferred his company even under the stated conditions; or else he might suppose it was for the sake of the winter-sports——

No—Dacres was not quite fool enough for that.

As a matter of fact, she had not made allowances for his present thickened perceptions where she was concerned. All his fine keen understandings were employed upon his new love, her moods and ways and exactions. He accepted Patricia's decision in an unquestioning spirit; they had agreed upon this week; it was her due to insist upon it. He could trust her to play up to their unspoken treaty of "no scenes."

He hated spending his seven days of Christmas leave apart from—her. But he owed them to Pat. His strict sense of honour insisted that he owed them to Pat. He could not refrain from wishing, however, that Pat had been woman enough to answer his proposal with an indignant or hysterical avowal that she never wanted to see him again.

He was due back at Aldershot on the morning of the thirty-first.... Perhaps he might just manage to wind up his holiday by an hour with the beloved, on the night of the thirtieth, after he had parted from Pat. One hour—it would be worth the whole strenuous wearisome week preceding it. No matter how fagged he was—somehow it should be managed. So he made his plans. And it was with eyes fixed steadily upon the climax he had promised himself, that he met Patricia at Folkestone among the crowd that pressed on to the gangway to the Boulogne boat.... It was with gaze that had never wavered from that climax, that he bade her good-bye at Charing Cross Station, exactly a week later, at twenty-five minutes past nine on the evening of the thirtieth. His casual farewell was just what it would have been had the days behind them been packed rooms of treasure. Only she would have received a look that denied the careless utterance ... silent assurance of a letter the next morning.

Altogether, Upton's magnificent lack of consideration for her welfare had materially and quite unnecessarily added to the torment of Patricia's self-chosen week of discipline. It was a manner of complimenting her which had required considerable living-up-to in the old days when one was happy and could live up to well-nigh anything: Never to betray discomfort nor emotion—that was all very well, spurred by his approbation. But with his dreamy indifference taking for granted the excellence of her conduct, Patricia could have wished for a little less fatigue duty. She could account for his absent-mindedness easily enough ... then the sudden pull back to recollection ... involuntary atonement rendered by some extra deferential courtesy towards herself, hastily superseded by the brusquer comradeship of the man of the fourth degree. Fully a dozen times on the outward journey Patricia watched him through this little comedy—"Truly man is an amazing work of God!"—mouth tilted to its own slow mocking smile ... but now her eyes were dead; dead green, that had once held their hot gold sparkle. She was tired even before they started; for lying to one's family is another thing that requires to be buoyed up by the sub-consciousness of great delights in store to render the lies worth while. Patricia had not at all enjoyed the invention of a school friend who had invited her to Scotland for a week; so many tiny props went to make this structure dependable; she loathed herself for the smaller quibbles far more than for the one big lie. Hetty, of course, asked dozens of questions; and Anne asked none at all, but insisted on packing for her—which was worse.... "Will you really need your skates in Scotland, Pat?" And all the secret arrangements would have been such fun if.... And the journey itself would have been such fun if....

Mrs. O'Neill had just been peremptorily ordered by her doctor into a nursing-home for six weeks; her health required perfect rest. It was a relief to Pat that no news of her escapade could possibly penetrate in any form of idle gossip, to the person whom it would most grieve.

Patricia was only twenty-two, and notoriously heedless of public opinion, or it might have struck her forcibly that to risk her good name for the love of a man was a foolish and headstrong proceeding; but that to risk her good name for the sake of an idea was more than folly—and approached divine lunacy....

Seven days that were like patterns clearly pricked out by a red-hot needle. She did not suppose she would ever forget a single moment of them. Two days out and two days back. And three days that were outwardly a dazzle of ice and snow and sunshine, and white peaks scissor-cut into dark blue skies; and warning shouts of the bob-sleighers as they shot round the curve of the Loup—Gare! Gare!! Gare!!! ... clean crunch of the steel runners through the hard glittering path of snow; skaters swooping in fantastic postures to and fro on the circular ice-rink; hotels that were mere glorified wooden châlets; shining yellow parquet of floors and corridors littered by skis and luges waiting to be scraped; in all the rooms the smell of soaked woollens drying on the calorifère; young voices clattering ceaselessly their excited sports-jargon.... Three breathless nights of carnival and dancing, dancing till the stiffened limbs relaxed to suppleness; dancing till four in the morning; up again at eight; no respite—Patricia gave thanks to her superb health and fitness that carried her with credit through at least the physical wear and tear of her ... holiday. Carried her through, laughing.

But there were moments whose setting and opportunity craved their fill of passion, that perforce remained empty as beautiful scooped-out cups—too beautiful to be robbed of their meed of glowing wine....