Arnold became alarmed. ‘Something ... physiological?’
‘Yes. The doctor told him. Nothing very dreadful, I believe, in the ordinary way. But it makes it improbable that he’ll ever have a child.’
‘And he wants one?’
Betty turned her head away for one moment. ‘I want one; I want one bitterly. And he too, in his way.’
Arnold kept his gaze steadily upon the moving water, lest he should see her tears. He was shocked to think that this girl, so robust, so affectionate, so ripe for motherhood, should be cheated by the accident of marriage of a tremendous experience. And why must it be so? In a sensible society would it be so? Before he had begun to work out all the implications of that challenge, Betty spoke again.
He was amazed to hear her phrasing his own thoughts. ‘If people were decent-minded, it wouldn’t so much matter,’ she said. ‘There could be a temporary marriage with someone else.’
Arnold was delighted with this proof of her emancipation. ‘Exactly. Nothing simpler. But society won’t change in a hurry. No use waiting for society. It rests with you and Charlie.’
‘He would agree, of course. He would do anything for my happiness.’
Arnold glowed in agreement. Charles was a good fellow, the best fellow in the world; he had a level head and a wonderfully rational outlook. Nothing niggardly about Charles.... And then an extraordinary thought presented itself. Why could not he himself give Betty her heart’s desire? Could she possibly have any such notion in her mind? Was it possible that she liked him enough for that? The dream blossomed in his imagination. He saw the baby laughing up at him from its cradle; saw it growing up as the son of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cowley. He himself would see the boy—for a boy it would be—only occasionally, and he would be known as ‘Uncle Arnold’ or some such nonsense. The situation would be quite impossibly romantic, like something in a novel, and yet a triumph of decency and good sense over vulgar middle-class morality. Betty and he would resume their friendship unchanged and desiring no change. His respect for her was invincible. She was the wife of his friend, and that she would always be. He conceived the whole episode dispassionately, an act of pure friendship. Was it possible that she...? No, it was not possible. Talk was all very well, but confronted with the need for action she would falter. His thoughts had been mere presumption. Some other man, perhaps, but he—he could not expect so great an honour, and certainly he could not seek it. If she had meant that she would have said so. Of that he was sure. He dared not make a suggestion that might be repellent to her: she would be so cruelly embarrassed, and the perfection of their comradeship would be marred for ever.
And yet, in a situation so excessively delicate, he must venture something if he wished to be her friend. He tried to say: ‘You know I too would do anything to make you happy.’ But the words as they formed in his mind frightened him. How could he make her realize the utter purity and loyalty of his desires?