§ 19

She did not find an opportunity for speaking to him alone till after dinner. He went out, saying that he had some work to do at the garage, and as Rose Alard had dined at Conster and now made the fourth at bridge, Jenny was soon able to slip away after him.

She found him guiding an electric light bulb to and fro among the inward parts of the Ford. Gervase always did his own cleaning and repairs, which meant a lot of hard work, as the run to Ashford must be made every day, no matter how dirty the roads and the weather, and the lorry, which had long lost its youth when he first took it over, was now far advanced in unvenerable old age.

“Hullo, Jenny,” he cried when he saw her—“so you’ve escaped from the dissipations of the drawing-room.”

“Yes, Rose is playing tonight, thank heaven! and I’ve come out to talk to you.”

“That’s good. I’m sorry to be in this uncivilised place, but I can’t help it. Henry Ford has appendicitis, and I must operate at once. He’s got one wheel in the grave, I’m afraid, but with a little care and coddling I can make him last till I’m through with Ashford.”

“When will that be?”

“Next January.”

“And what will you do then?”

“Get some sort of a job, I suppose.”

She thought he looked fagged and jaded, though it might have been the light, and the ugliness of his dirty blue slops buttoned up to his collarless chin. After all, now she came to think of it, he must have a pretty hard life—up every morning at six or earlier, driving fifteen miles to and fro in all weathers, working hard all day, and then coming home late, generally to finish the day with cleaning and repairs.

“Gervase,” she said abruptly—“are you happy?”

“Yes, Jen—quite happy. Are you?”

“Oh, Gervase....”

He looked up at the change in her voice.

“I’ve something to tell you,” she said hurriedly—“I’m going to be married.”

“What! To Jim Parish?”

“Oh, no, not to him. That’s all over. Gervase, I want you to stand by me; that’s why I’m telling you this. I’m making a great venture. I’m marrying Ben Godfrey.”

“Ben Godfrey....”

He repeated the name vaguely. Evidently it conveyed nothing to him. He was so much away that he heard little of the talk of the estate.

“Yes. The farmer of Fourhouses. Don’t you know him? I’ve known him three months, and we love each other. Father and Mother and Peter and everyone will be wild when they know. That’s why I want to have you on my side.”

“Jenny, dear....” He carefully deposited Henry Ford’s appendix on the shelf, wiped his oily fingers on a piece of rag, and came and sat beside her on the packing case where she had perched herself—“Jenny, dear, this is too exciting for words. Do tell me more about it.”

Jenny told him as much as she could—how meeting Ben Godfrey had set her mind on a new adventure and a new revolt—how she had resolved not to let her chance slip by, but had let him know she cared—how eager and sweet his response had been, and how happy life was now, with meeting and love-making. Her manner, her looks, her hesitations told him as much as her words.

“You will stand by me, won’t you, Gervase?”

“Of course I will, Jen. But do you mind if I ask you one or two questions?”

“Ask whatever you like. As you’re going to help me, you’ve a right to know.”

“Well, are you quite sure this is going to last?”

“My dear! I never thought you’d ask that.”

“I daresay it sounds a silly and impertinent question. But I must ask it. Do you think he’s pulled your heart away from your judgment? And do you think it’s possible that you may have been driven towards him by reaction, the reaction from all that long, meandering, backboneless affair with Jim Parish, and all the silly, trivial things that did for it at last? Don’t be angry with me. I must put that side of the question to you, or I’d never forgive myself.”

“Do you think I’ve never put it to myself? Oh, Gervase, it was exactly what I thought at the beginning. I told myself it was only reaction—only because I was bored. But when I met him at Fourhouses I couldn’t help seeing it was more than that, and now I know it’s real—I know, I know.”

“Have you tastes and ideas in common?”

“Yes, plenty. He has very much the same sort of abstract ideas as I have—thinks the same about the war and all that. And he’s read, too—he loves Kipling, and Robert Service’s poems, though he reads boys’ books as well. He really has a better literary taste than I have—you know what Vera thinks of my reading. And he’s travelled much more than I have, seen more of the world. He’s been in Mesopotamia, and Egypt, and Greece, and France. And yet he’s so simple and unassuming. He’s much more of a ‘gentleman’ in his speech and manners than lots of men I know.”

“Have you ever seen him in his Sunday clothes?”

“Yes, I have, and survived. He wears a ready-made brown suit with a white stripe in it. And that’s the worst there is about him.”

“What are his people like?”

“They’re darlings. His mother is solid and comfortable and motherly, and the girls are about my own age, but with much better manners. When Ben and I are married, the others will live in a part of the house which is really quite separate from the rest—has a separate door and kitchen—the newest of the four houses. Oh, I tell you, Gervase, I’ve faced everything—tastes, ideas, family, Sunday clothes—and there’s nothing that isn’t worth having, or at least worth putting up with for the sake of the rest, for the sake of real comfort, real peace, real freedom, real love....”

Her eyes began to fill, and he felt her warm, sobbing breath on his cheek.

“Jennie, I want to kiss you. But I should have to make too many preparations first—take off my slops, wash my hands with soda, and clean my teeth, because I’ve been smoking woodbines all day. So I think I’d better put it off till Sunday. But I do congratulate you, dear—not only on being in love but on being so brave. I think you’re brave, Jenny; it’s so much more difficult for a woman to break away than for a man. But you’d never have found happiness in the family groove, and sometimes I was afraid that ... never mind, I’m not afraid now.”

“And you’ll stand by me, Gervase?”

“Of course I will. But you’ve got to show me the young man. I won’t stand by an abstraction. I want to see if I like him as flesh and blood.”

“I’ll take you over to Fourhouses on Saturday afternoon. And I’m quite sure you’ll like him.”

“I’ve made up my mind to, so he’ll be a pretty hopeless washout if I don’t. I wonder that I haven’t ever met him, but I expect it’s being away so much.”

Jenny was about to enlarge further on her young man’s qualities, when she remembered that there is nothing more tiresome to an unprosperous lover than the rhapsodies of someone whose love is successful and satisfied. Gervase had loved Stella Mount for two years—everybody said so—but nothing seemed to have come of it. It must distress him to hear of her happiness which had come so quickly. She wondered if his worn, fagged look were perhaps less due to hardship than to some distress of his love. She was so happy that she could not bear to think of anyone being miserable, especially Gervase, whom, next to Ben, she loved better than all the world. She checked her outpourings, and took his grimy, oil-stained hand in hers, laying it gently in her satin lap.

“Kid—do tell me. How are things between you and Stella?”

“There aren’t any ‘things’ between me and Stella.”

“Oh, Gervase, don’t tell me you’re not in love with her.”

“I won’t tell you anything so silly. Of course I’m in love with her, but it’s not a love that will ever give her to me. It can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t care for me in that way. I don’t suppose she thinks of me as anything but a boy.”

“Doesn’t she know you love her?”

“She may—I daresay she does. But I’m sure she doesn’t love me.”

“Have you ever asked her?”

“No.”

“Well, then ... Gervase!”

“One can find out that sort of thing without asking.”

“Indeed one can’t—not with a girl like Stella. If you didn’t speak, she’d probably try very hard not to influence you in any way, because she realises that there are difficulties, and would be afraid of leading you further than you felt inclined.”

“I haven’t seen so very much of her lately. We never meet except on Sundays. I can’t help thinking that she’s trying to keep me at a distance.”

“Perhaps she’s surprised at your not speaking. How long have you been friends?”

“About three years, I suppose.”

“And all that time people have been bracketing you together, and you’ve said nothing. I expect she’s wondering why on earth you don’t make love to her.”

“I shouldn’t dare.”

“Not to Stella?—She seems to me a girl one could make love to very easily.”

“I agree—once she’d said ‘yes.’ But she’s a girl one couldn’t take risks with—she’d be too easily lost. I’ve a feeling that if I made a move in that direction without being sure of her, she’d simply go away—fade out. And I’m terrified of losing the little I’ve got of her.”

“But you may lose her through not being bold enough. It sickens a girl frightfully when a man hangs round and doesn’t speak. The reason that she seems to avoid you now may be that she’s offended.”

“Jenny, you don’t know Stella. She’s so candid, so transparent, that if she had any such feelings about me, I’d be sure to see it. No, I think she stands away simply because she’s found out that people are talking, and wants to keep me at a distance.”

“But you can’t be sure. You may be quite mistaken. If I was a man I’d never let things go by default like that. She won’t ‘fade out’ if you do the thing properly. Women are always pleased to be asked in marriage—at least if they’re human, and Stella’s human if she’s nothing else.”

“And so am I. That’s why I can’t bear the thought of her saying ‘no.’”

“I’ll be surprised if she says ‘no.’ But anyhow I’d rather lose a good thing through its being refused me than through not having the spirit to ask for it.”

“Yes, I think you’re right there.”

He fell into a kind of abstraction, stroking his chin with one hand, while the other still lay in her lap. Then he rose suddenly and went over to the shelf where he had put his tools.

“Well, I can’t leave Henry Ford with his inside out while I talk about my own silly affairs. You may be right, Jen—I dunno. But I’m frightfully, ever so, glad about you—you dear.”

“Thank you, Gervase. It’s such a relief to have you on my side.”

“When are you going to spring it on the family?”

“Oh, not just yet—not till Christmas, perhaps. We want to have everything settled first.”

“I think you’re wise.”

“Remember, you’re coming with me to Fourhouses on Saturday.”

“Rather! That’s part of the bargain. I must see the young man.”

“And I’m sure you’ll like him.”

“I can very nearly promise to like him.”

She went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Good night, old boy. I must be going in now—I suppose you’re here till bed time?”

“And beyond—good night, Jenny.”

“Gervase, you’re getting thin—I can feel your bones.”

“I’d be ashamed if you couldn’t. And do run along—I’ve just had a vision of Wills carrying in the barley water tray. Clairvoyantly I can see him tripping over Mother’s footstool, clairaudiently I can hear Father saying ‘Damn you, Wills. Can’t you look where you’re going?’... Leave the busy surgeon now, there’s a dear.”

He stepped back from under her hands, and thoughtfully held up Henry Ford’s appendix to the light.