Chapter XIX: The Lonely Unicorn

The lovers went for a walk together on Sunday morning through the woods that lay beyond the village, and they sat on a pile of broken sticks that a charcoal burner had collected for a fire, and they held hands and talked of the future. Her pleasure in this new relationship was a continual fascination to Roland. She regarded love, courtship, and marriage as a delightful game.

“What fun it’s going to be,” she said; “we shall announce our engagement and then everyone will write and congratulate us, and we shall have to answer them, and I shall have to pretend to be so serious and say: ‘I am much looking forward to introducing you to my fiancé. I hope you will like each other.”

“And what sort of a ring am I to get you?”

“The ring! Oh, I had forgotten that. One has to have one, doesn’t one? Let’s see now. What should I like?” And she paused, her finger raised to her lower lip. She remained for a moment in perplexed consideration, then suddenly shook her head.

“Oh, I don’t care, just what you like. Let it be a surprise. But there’s one thing, Roland, dear--promise me.”

“Yes.”

“You will promise, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, promise me you won’t put any writing inside it, because I shall want to show it to my friends and I should feel so silly if they saw it.”

After lunch Mr. Marston asked him to come into the study for a talk.

“I’m not going to play the heavy father,” he said; “in fact, you know yourself how thoroughly pleased we are, both of us, about it all. We couldn’t have wished a better husband for Muriel. But there is such a thing as finance, and you’ve got, I gather, no money apart from what you earn from us.”

“No, sir.”

“And your salary now is----?”

“Four hundred a year, sir.”

“And how far do you think that will go? You could start a home with it, of course, but do you think you could make Muriel happy with it? She’s a dainty little lady, and when she’s free from home authority she will want to be going out to dances and theaters. How far do you think four hundred will take her?”

“Not very far, sir.”

“Then what do you propose to do? Long engagements are a bad thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, what do you think of doing?”

Roland, who had expected Mr. Marston to make his daughter a generous dress allowance, was uncertain how to answer this question. Indeed, he made no attempt.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Marston, “that what you were really thinking was that I should make you some allowance.”

Roland blushed, and began to stammer that, as a matter of fact, that was exactly what--but he never finished the sentence, for Mr. Marston interrupted him.

“Because, if that’s what you were thinking, young man, I can disillusion you at once. I don’t believe in allowances; they put a young couple under an obligation to their parents. And that’s bad. A young couple should be independent. No!” he said, “I’m not going to make Muriel any allowance, but,” and here he paused theatrically, so as to make the most of his point, “I am going to give you a good opportunity of making yourself independent. I am going to offer to both you and Gerald junior partnerships in the business.”

Roland gave a start; he could scarcely believe what he had heard.

“But, sir----” he began.

“Yes, a partnership in our business, and I can’t say how pleased I shall be to have you there, and how proud I am to have a son-in-law who will want to work and not be content to attend an occasional board meeting and draw large fees for doing so. I know a business man when I meet one. We are jolly lucky to have got you, and as for you and Muriel, well, honestly, I don’t know which of you is luckier!”

They were the same words that Gerald had used, and he was convinced of their truth five minutes later when he sat in the drawing-room pouring out this exciting news to Muriel, when he saw her eyes light with enthusiasm, and heard her say on a note of genuine comradeship and admiration: “Roland, I always knew it. You’re a wonderful boy!”

This state of rapture lasted till he said good-night to Gerald on Monday evening in the doorway of the office. Then, and then only, did he realize to what a series of complications he had delivered himself. He had fallen into the habit of regarding his life at Hogstead and his life at Hammerton as two separate entities; what happened to him in one life did not affect him in the other. Hogstead had been his dream country. During the week-end he had retreated within his dream, flung up bulwarks, garrisoned himself securely. He had not realized that, when he returned to Hammerton, he would have to deliver an account of himself. So far, what had happened in that dream country had only mattered to himself. His engagement to Muriel, however, involved the fortunes of persons other than himself, and this fact was presented to him acutely as he sat on top of a bus and drew nearer, minute by minute, to No. 105 Hammerton Villas.

In the course of seventy-two hours he had completely altered the direction of his life. He had left home on Saturday morning with every intention of proposing definitely to April at the first opportunity and of marrying her as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made. Yet here he was on Monday evening returning home the fiancé of Muriel Marston and a junior partner in her father’s firm. He could not imagine in what spirit the news would be received. His parents knew little enough of Gerald and his father; they were hardly aware of Muriel’s existence. Years earlier he may have said, perhaps, in reply to some casual query: “Oh, yes, he’s got a sister, much younger than himself, a jolly kid!” But of late, nothing. He did not see either how he was to introduce the subject. He would be asked hardly any questions about his holiday; he had always been uncommunicative.

“Have you had a nice time, my dear?”

That’s what his mother would say, in the same indifferent tone that she would say “Good morning, how do you do?” to a casual acquaintance. She would then proceed to tell him about the visitors they had received on Sunday.

His father would arrive, lay down his evening paper on the table and begin to change his boots.

“So you’re back all right, Roland?” That would be his only reference to his son’s holidays before he plunged into a commentary on the state of the bus service, the country and the restaurant where he had lunched.

“Coming for a walk, Roland?” That would be his next indication that he was conscious of his son’s presence, and on the receipt of an affirmation he would trudge upstairs, to reappear ten minutes later in a light gray suit.

“Ready, my son?” And they would walk along the High Street till they reached the corner of Upper College Road. There Mr. Whately would pause. “Well, Roland, shall we go in and see April?” And in reality the question would be an assertion. They would have to go into the Curtises’; it would be terrible. He would feel like Judas Iscariot at the Last Supper. He would be received by Mrs. Curtis as a future son-in-law. April would smile on him as her betrothed. Whatever he did or said he could not, in her eyes, be anything but perfidious, disloyal, treacherous. He would be unable to make clear to her the inevitable nature of what had happened.

The red roofs and stucco fronts of Donnington had by now receded into the distance; the bus was already clattering down the main street of Lower Hammerton. The lights in the shop windows had just been kindled and lent a touch of wistful poetry to the spectacle of the crowded pavements, black with the dark coats of men returning from their offices, with here and there a splash of gayety from the dress of some harassed woman hurrying to complete her shopping before her husband’s return.

“In three more minutes we shall be at the Town Hall,” Roland told himself. “In two minutes from then I shall have reached the corner of Hammerton Villas; 105 is the third house down on the left-hand side. In six minutes, at the outside, I shall be there!”

And it turned out exactly as he had predicted. He found his mother in the drawing-room, turning the handle of the sewing-machine. She smiled as he opened the door and, as he bent his head to kiss her, expressed the hope that he had enjoyed himself. Three minutes later his father arrived.

“A most interesting murder case to-day, my dear; there’s a full account of it in _The Globe_. It appears that the fellow was engaged to one girl, but was really in love with the mother of the girl he murdered, and he murdered the girl because she seemed to suspect--no, that’s not it. It was the girl he was engaged to who suspected; but at any rate you’ll find it all in _The Globe_--a most interesting case.” And he opened the paper at the center page and handed it to his wife. As he did so his arm brushed against Roland, and the forcible reminder of his son’s existence inspired him to express the hope that the cricket at Hogstead had reached the high expectations that had been entertained regarding it. This duty accomplished, he proceeded to describe in detail the lunch he had selected at the Spanish café.

“There was a choice of three things: you could either have _hors d’œuvre_ or a soup, and then there was either omelette or fish or spaghetti, with veal or chicken or mutton to follow, and, of course, cheese to finish up with. Well, I didn’t think the spaghetti at that place was very good, so I was left with a choice of either an omelette or fish.”

While he was stating and explaining his choice Mr. Whately had found time to divest his feet of his boots. “Well, and what about a walk, Roland?”

“I suppose so, father.”

“Right you are. I’ll just run up and change.”

Ten minutes later, before Roland had had time to unravel the complicated psychology of the Norfolk murder case, Mr. Whately was standing in the doorway in his gray tweed suit and straw hat. “A bit late for a straw, perhaps, but it’s lovely weather, almost like spring. One can’t believe that summer’s over.” The repetition of the phrase jarred Roland’s conscience. Would it not be better to get it off his chest now, once and for all, before he was taken to see April, before that final act of hypocrisy was forced on him?

“Father,” he said, “there’s something----”

But Mr. Whately did not like to be kept waiting.

“Come along, Roland, time enough for that when we are out of doors. It’ll be dark soon.”

And by the time they had reached the foot of the long flight of steps the moment of desperate courage had been followed by a desperate fear. Time enough when he got back to tell them. He made no effort even to discourage his father when, at the corner of Upper College Road, they paused and the old assertive question was asked. Roland nodded his head in meek submission. What was to be gained at this point by discussion? There would be enough turmoil later on.

But he regretted his weakness five minutes later when he sat in the wicker chair by the window-seat. He looked round the room at the unaltered furniture, the unaltered pictures, the unaltered bookshelves, and Mrs. Curtis eternal in that setting, her voice droning on as it had droned for him through so many years. There was no change anywhere. Mrs. Curtis was sitting beside the fireplace, her knitting on her lap, the bones of her body projecting as awkwardly as ever. His father sat opposite her, his hat held forward before his knees, his head nodding in satisfied agreement, his voice interrupting occasionally the movement of his head with a “Yes, Mrs. Curtis,” “Certainly, Mrs. Curtis.” And he and April sat as of old, near and silent, in the window-seat.

As he looked at April, the profile of her face silhouetted against the window, an acute wave of sentiment passed over him, reminding him of the many things they had shared together. The first twenty years of his life belonged to her. It was to her that he had turned in his moment of success; her faith in him had inspired his achievements. She had been proud of him. He remembered how she had flushed with pleasure when he had told her what the school captain had said to him at the end of the season, and when he had been invited to the cricket match at Hogstead it was of her that he had asked soft encouragement, and it was at her feet that he had laid, a few days later, his triumph. How strange that was, that she should have been the first to hear of Hogstead. The wave of tenderness swept away every little difference of environment and personality that had accumulated round their love during the past three years. What a fine thing, after all, they had meant to make of their life together. What a confession of failure was this parting. And when Mr. Whately rose to go, and Mrs. Curtis followed him to the door, no doubt with the intention of leaving the lovers alone together, Roland put out his arms to April and folded her into them, and for the last time laid his lips on hers in a kiss that expressed for him an infinite kindness for her, and pity, pity for her, for himself, and for the tangle life had made of their ambitions. As he drew back his head from hers she whispered the word “Darling!” on a note of authentic passion, but he could not say anything. His hands closed on her shoulders for a moment, then slackened. He could not bear to look at her. He turned quickly and ran to his father. Was it, he asked himself, the kiss of Iscariot? He did not know. He had buried a part of himself; he had said good-by to the first twenty years of his life.

He walked home in silence beside his father. He was in no mood for the strain of the exacting situation, the astonishment, the implied reproach that lay in front of him. But he was resigned to it. It had to come; there was no loophole.

He made his announcement quite quietly during a pause in the talk just after dinner. And it was received, as he had anticipated, in a stupefied silence.

“What!” said Mr. Whately at last. “Engaged to Muriel Marston!”

“Yes, Muriel Marston, the daughter of my employer, and I’m to become a junior partner in the firm.”

“But----” Mr. Whately paused. He was not equal to the pressure of the situation. He was not perplexed by the ethics of Roland’s action; his critical faculties had only appreciated the first fact, that a plan had been altered, and he was always thrown off his balance by the alteration of any plan. He was accustomed to thinking along grooves; he distrusted sidings. He got no further than the initial “But.” His wife, however, had recovered from the shock and was by now able to face the matter squarely. When she spoke her voice was even.

“Now, please, Roland, we want to know all about this. When did you propose to Miss Marston?”

“During the week-end--on Saturday evening.”

“And her parents agree to it?”

“Yes, yes,” said Roland, a little impatiently. “Didn’t I tell you that I’ve been offered a junior partnership in his business?”

“Of course; I forgot. I’m sorry. This is rather difficult for us. Now, you say----”

But at this point her husband, whose thoughts had by now traveled a certain distance along the new groove, interrupted her.

“But how can you talk about being engaged to this Muriel Marston when you’ve been engaged for nearly three years to April?”

Roland’s retort came quickly.

“I’ve never been engaged to April.”

“You know you have! Why!...”

But Mrs. Whately had held up her hand.

“Hush, dear,” she said. “Roland’s quite right. He’s never been officially engaged to April.”

Roland shivered at the venom that was revealed by the stressing of the word “officially.”

“And how long,” she went on, “have you been in love with Miss Marston?”

“Oh, I don’t know, mother; I can’t tell. Please let me alone.” And there was genuine misery behind the words. “One doesn’t know about a thing like this.”

But Mrs. Whately would not spare him. She shook her head impatiently.

“Don’t be absurd, Roland; you’re behaving like a child. Of course one knows these things. You’ve known Miss Marston for four or five years now. You couldn’t suddenly find yourself in love with her.”

“I suppose not, mother, but----”

“There’s no ‘but.’ You must have been thinking of her for a long time. On Friday night--Saturday morning, I mean--you must have gone down there with the full intention of proposing to her; didn’t you?”

Roland did not answer her. He rose from his seat and walked across to the window.

“It’s no good,” he said, and his back was turned to them. “It’s no good. I can’t make you understand. You won’t believe what I say. I seem an awful beast to you, I know, but--oh, well, things went that way.”

And he stood there, looking out of the window through the chink of the blind towards the long, gray stretch of roofs, the bend of the road, the pools of lamplight, till suddenly, like a caress, he felt his mother’s hand upon his shoulder.

“Roland,” she said, and for the first time there was sympathy in her voice, “Roland, please tell me this. You’re not, are you, marrying this girl for her money?”

He turned and looked her full in the eyes.

“No, mother,” he said. “I love Muriel Marston. I love her and I want to marry her.” As he spoke he saw the kind light vanish from her eyes, her hand fell from his shoulder and the voice that answered him was metallic.

“Very well, then, if that’s so, there’s no more to be said. As you’ve arranged all this yourself, you’ll let us know when the marriage will take place.”

She turned away. He took a step towards her.

“Mother, please----”

But she only shrugged her shoulders, and when her husband asked what was going to be done about April, she said that she supposed that it was no affair of theirs, and that no doubt Roland would make his own arrangements. She picked up the paper and began to read it. Roland wondered what was going to happen next; the silence oppressed him. He listened to the slow ticking of the clock till he could bear it no longer.

“Oh, please, one of you, won’t you say something?”

They both turned their heads in surprise as though they would survey a curiosity, a tortoise that had been granted miraculously the gift of speech.

“But, my dear Roland, what is there to be said?”

“I don’t know, I----”

“Your mother’s quite right,” said Mr. Whately. “You’re your own master; you’ve arranged to marry the girl you want. What is there to be said?”

And their heads were again turned from him. He stood looking at them, pondering the wisdom of an appeal to their emotions. He half opened his mouth, took a step forward, but paused; what purpose would it serve? One could not appeal to stone; they were hard, unreceptive, hostile; they would turn cold eyes upon his outburst. He would look ridiculous. It would do no good.

“Oh, very well,” he said, and walked out of the room.

As he sat on his bed that night he remembered how, five years ago, he had returned to his study after that tempestuous interview with the Chief and had reflected on the impossibility of one mortal making clear his meaning to another. Life went in a circle; here was the same situation in a different setting. Everything was repetition. Had not the Eastern critic laid it down that in the whole range of literature there could be discovered only seven different stories? He remembered the Chief telling him that; it had stuck in his mind: music had evolved from seven notes, painting from three colors, literature from twenty-four letters, the chronicle of mankind from seven stories. Variety, new clothes, new accents, but at heart the same story, the same song.

One problem, however, that he had not previously considered, had become clear for him during that discussion. How was April to be told? He had imagined that he had only to tell his parents for the matter to be settled. They would do the rest. He had never thought that the responsibility of breaking the news to April would rest with him. And he could not do it; it was no good pretending that he could. He could no more tell April himself than he could murder a man in cold blood. He knew also that if he once saw her he would be unable to carry through the part. She would open the door for him and as soon as they were alone in the hall she would throw her arms about his neck and kiss him, and how should he then find words to tell her? His old love for her would return to him; there would be further complications. Perhaps he might write a letter to her, but he had only to take up pen and paper to realize that this was impossible. He could not express himself in writing; the sentences that stared at him from the paper were cold and stilted; they would wound her cruelly. He was accustomed in times of perplexity to turn for advice to Gerald. But this was hardly an occasion when that was possible. Gerald was, after all, Muriel’s brother. There were limits.

The next day brought Roland no nearer to a solution of his immediate problem. Indeed he had not thought of one till, on his way home, he boarded the wrong bus, and on handing threepence and saying “Hammerton Town Hall” was informed that the bus he was on would take him only as far as Donnington before turning off to Richmond. The word “Richmond” gave him his idea. Richmond, that was it, of course that was it! Why had he not thought of it before? He would go round to Ralph at once and send him on an embassy to April. So pleased was he with this inspiration that he was actually shaking hands with Ralph before he realized that the battle was not won yet, and that he had before him a very awkward interview.

“Ralph,” he said, “I want a word with you alone. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Shall we go out for a walk then?”

“Right.”

Ralph went into the hall, fidgeting his fingers in the umbrella stand in search of his walking stick, did not find it, and paused there indeterminate.

“Now, where did I put that stick?”

“Oh, don’t bother, please don’t bother; we’re only going for a stroll.”

“Yes, I know, but if I don’t find it now--let me see, perhaps it’s in the kitchen.” And for the next three minutes everyone seemed to be shouting all over the house: “Mother, have you seen my walking stick?” “Emma, have you seen Mr. Ralph’s walking stick?” And by the time that the stick was eventually discovered, in the cupboard in Ralph’s bedroom, Roland’s patience and composure had been shattered.

“Such a fuss about a thing like that,” he protested.

“All right, all right; I didn’t keep you long. Now, what’s it all about?” And there was firmness in his voice which caused Roland a twinge of uneasiness. Ralph had developed since he had gone to Oxford. He was no longer the humble servant of Roland’s caprice.

“It’s not very easy,” said Roland; “I want you to do something for me. I’m going to ask you to do me a great favor. It’s about April.”

“Why, of course,” said Ralph, “I know what it is; you’re going to be married at once, and you want me to be your best man--but I shall be delighted.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said Roland, “it’s not that at all.”

Ralph was surprised. “No?”

“No, it’s--oh, well, look here. You know how things are; there’s been a sort of understanding between us for a long time--three or four years--hasn’t there? Well, one alters; one doesn’t feel at twenty-three as one does when one’s seventeen; we’re altering all the time, and perhaps I have altered quicker than most people. I’ve been abroad a lot.” He paused. “You understand, don’t you?” he asked.

Ralph nodded, understanding perfectly. Though he did not quite see where he himself came in, he understood that Roland was tired of April. But he was not going to spare him. There should be no short-cuts, no shorthand conversation. Roland would have to tell him the whole story.

“Well?” he said.

Their eyes met, and for the first time in their relationship Roland knew that he was in the weaker position and that Ralph was determined to enjoy his triumph.

“All right,” said Roland, “I’ll go on, though you know what I’ve got to tell you. I don’t know whose fault it is. I suppose it’s mine really, but things have happened this way. I’m not in love with April any more.”

Again he paused and again Ralph repeated that one word, “Well?”

“I don’t love her any more, and I’ve fallen in love with someone else and we want to get married.”

“Who is it?”

“Muriel Marston.”

“The sister of that fellow you play cricket with?”

“Yes, that’s it.” He paused, hoping that now Ralph would help him out, but Ralph gave him no assistance, and Roland was forced to plunge again into his confession. “Well, you see, April knows nothing about it. I’ve been a bit of a beast, I suppose. As far as she is concerned the understanding still holds good. She’s still in love with me, at least she thinks she is. It’s--well, you see how it is.”

“Yes, I quite see that. You’ve been playing that old game of yours, of running two girls in two different places, only this time it’s gone less fortunately and you find you’ve got to marry one of them, and April’s the one that’s got to go?”

“If you put it that way----”

“Well, how else can I put it?”

“Oh, have it as you like.”

“And what part exactly do you expect me to play in this comedy?”

“I want you to break the news to April.”

There was a long silence. They walked on, Ralph gazing straight in front of him, and Roland glancing sideways at him from time to time to see how the idea had struck him. But he could learn nothing from the set expression of his companion’s face. It was his turn now to employ an interrogatory “Well?” But Ralph did not appear to have heard him. They walked on in silence, till Roland felt some further explanation was demanded of him.

“It’s like this, you see----”

But Ralph cut him short. “I understand quite well; you’re afraid to tell her. You’re ashamed of yourself and you expect me to do your dirty work!”

“It’s not that----”

“Oh, yes, it is. I know you’ll find excuses for yourself, but that’s what it amounts to. And I don’t see why I should do it.”

“I am asking it of you as a favor.”

“That’s like you. Since you’ve met these new friends of yours you’ve dropped your old-time friends one by one. I’ve watched you, and now April, she’s the last to go. You haven’t been to see me for three or four months and now you’ve only come because you want me to do something for you.”

The justice of the remark made Roland wince. He had seen hardly anything of Ralph during the last three years.

“But, Ralph,” he pleaded, “how can I go and tell her myself?”

“If one’s done a rotten thing one owns up to it. It’s the least one can do.”

“But, it isn’t----”

“What isn’t it? Not a rotten thing to make a girl believe for four years that you’re going to marry her and then chuck her! If that isn’t a rotten thing I don’t know what is!”

Roland was wise enough not to attempt to justify himself. He would only enrage Ralph still further and that was not his game.

“All right,” he said. “Granted all that, granted I’ve done a rotten thing, it’s happened; it can’t be altered now; something’s got to be done. Put yourself in my place. What would you do if you were me?”

“I shouldn’t have got myself in such a place”; his voice was stern and official and condemnatory. In spite of the stress of the situation Roland was hard put to it not to kick him for a prig.

“But I have, you see, and----”

“Even so,” Ralph interrupted, “I can’t see why you shouldn’t go and tell April yourself.”

“Because April herself would rather be told by anyone than me.”

It was his last appeal and he saw that it had succeeded. Ralph repeated the words over to himself.

“April would rather be told---- Oh, but rot! She’d much rather have it out straight.”

“Oh, no, she wouldn’t; you don’t know April as well as I do. She hates scenes; she could discuss it impersonally with you. With me--can’t you see how it would hurt her; she wouldn’t know how to take it, whether to plead, or just accept it--can’t you see?”

He had won, and he knew it, through the appeal to April’s feelings. Ralph would do what he wanted, because he would think that he was performing a service for April.

“I expect you’re right,” he said; “you know her better than I do, but I’m doing it for her, not for you, mind.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t do it. A man should do his own dirty work. And you know what I think of it.”

“Oh, yes, I know.” He would make no defense. Ralph might be allowed in payment the poor privilege of revenge.

“And you’ll tell me what she says?”

“You shall have a full account of the execution.”

They walked a little farther in silence. They had nothing more to say to each other, and at the corner of a road they parted. It was finished.

Roland walked home, well satisfied at the successful outcome of a delicate situation--the same Roland who had congratulated himself five years earlier on the diplomacy of the Brewster episode.