Wherein Patricia's judgment fell short of the mark. But then she did not know of the Napier Kirby episode. None of Kathleen's animosity had been for the girl who was a second and more vivid edition of herself; none at all.
"I wonder what has become of her?" mused Patricia, also without any rancour. "Fallen on her feet somehow, certainly. If only Gareth, bless him, didn't look so unutterably miserable at every subject I manage to broach, I'd ask him quite merrily if he corresponds with her."
Gareth did not correspond with Kathleen. He spent his intervals between busy reading for the firm—it was an eruptive season for new authors,—in chafing at the shortcomings of housekeeping in his home; in wondering where Pat could be; in wishing she had not quite such a large and clamorous circle of friends, and would not rush about such a lot, and would attend to him more. Put into words, his own words, there was nothing lacking in the description he inspired, of grey-haired scholarly husband looking indulgently upon his young wife's unconquerable questing spirit. He welcomed her always with his old adoring smile and slow courtliness of manner, when she did eventually return from whatsoever bout of new energy had engaged her.... And within five minutes, as she had herself noticed, she would by some quite inconsequent remark contrive to render him unutterably miserable.
For there was so much he dreaded to hear, and which at any moment he might be forced to hear, and to which any haphazard topic might be introduction. For instance: "Gareth, when are you going to set to work at another book?" But that question he fancied he could shelve adroitly when it came, by the reply: "Oh, directly 'The Round Adventure' comes out in the autumn; I want to benefit by what the critics have to say." Temporary reprieve, at all events. Much, much worse than this, Would be: "Gareth, I'm going to set to work at another book."... And here he was helpless; for after all, though she had voluntarily withdrawn "The Reverse of the Medal" from the press, because it had trespassed on his chances, that was no guarantee that she never intended to write again. He might have to sit week after week watching her pen tearing its way towards success. That it would be very definite success, his discrimination did not allow him to doubt. She was the very incarnation of triumphant achievement. Which led to the next unspoken possibility: "You know, Gareth," and quite simply this could be said, "my book is better than yours." And: "Queer, isn't it, that our marriage is as much a failure as though——Well, I mean, it doesn't make much difference in the long run whether one is married or not, does it?"
This was one of the things that Gareth had realized very slowly, and with the painful astonishment of a disappointed child. The actual fact of the ceremony had made no difference whatsoever! It must therefore be something in himself that prevented harmony with either of those different two who had at different times so passionately and inevitably attracted him. Comparing the then and the now, he speculated in a troubled unhappy sort of fashion whether it were really impossible for a pair to dwell together without their peace forever threatened by the one thing unmentionable, the worst of all. One?—a great many things ... they knocked wearily about in his brain, until, to escape their persistent clangour and jar, he drifted again into the habit of dreams ... old dreams—wan shadow-dreams—dreams of a girl ... whose touch was cool.
CHAPTER II
"Armageddon!" said Gareth several times aloud to himself. "Armageddon...." And then, with a proud upward jerk of the head: "Jellicoe and the Grand Fleet!" After a pause: "... 'And the shores of Ireland will be defended by her armed sons, North and South together!'" ... He broke off, once more to rumble, with a curious slow relish: "Armageddon."
For he was not yet muted to the thrill of this thing that the summer of nineteen-fourteen had brought along with it; and which had made of him a nervous responsive instrument for all the unwonted word-fragments swarming about haphazard, as men fumbled to express the new conditions, to find a language significant of their new emotions:
"The making of history—the war that will end war—violation of neutral territory—the Allied Armies—crush the menace of Prussianism—mobilization—transport—commissariat—Press Bureau—moratorium——"
So quickly they poured in, these coins of the new mintage, that Gareth had scarcely time to let his fancy handle them lovingly: