A Bachelor's Comedy

“How good of you. Dear Andy, how good of you,” said Elizabeth, smoothing the shoulder, of his rough coat with that comforting touch which women keep for their lovers and their children.

“No; it was not good,” said poor Andy, choking a little, “because I never expected to lose you. I thought you loved me.”

Then Elizabeth threw her arms round his neck and sobbed out —

“I do love you. Oh, I do love you!”

So they stood, clasped together, until Andy loosed his arms from about her for a moment; but he took her into them again with a low cry that came from the very depths of his being —

“I can’t let you go!”

Still, in a little while, it became clear to these two foolish – or wise – young people that they must let each other go. Perhaps it was because they stood on the floor of heaven and so saw things beyond the stars, that even their own earthly happiness began to look a small thing beside the destruction of Dick Stamford’s soul.

“What am I to do?” said Elizabeth. “Poor Mrs. Stamford – ”

She broke off, and the memory of that Magnificat in the Attertons’ morning-room swept with desolating conviction across their hearts.

“Why did you accept Stamford when you loved me?” said Andy. “Even if you supposed I didn’t care, you need not have done that.”

“I thought,” said Elizabeth – and here it all came out – “I thought if I could not be happy myself I could make a great many other people happy. I could do some good with my life. I should never have taken Dick Stamford if I had not felt I could do some good with my life in that way. And I knew I could never be happy without you.”

Oh, it was all foolishness, of course; but shadowy generations of good women stood behind Elizabeth as she said that, and the ladder of useless self-sacrifice on which they stood reached very high up: even as far, perhaps, as the dreams of those who know that their first duty is to themselves.

Anyway, there was something rather wonderful about the look of Andy and Elizabeth when they came forth from the shadow of the tree and walked together across the field. Their young faces were a little stern, and the radiance about them seemed in some strange way to be more a white fire of the spirit triumphing over the flesh than any ordinary moonlight.

They walked quietly, and scarcely spoke, but the things which usually seem unreal were near realities, and those things which usually seem real did not matter. Even though they saw the City of Wedded Love, the Enchanted Muddle, in ruins before them, a light streamed from somewhere farther on that made the ruins glorious – a huge altar to the God of Love.

At last they came suddenly, from behind a clump of trees, upon the garden of Gaythorpe Manor. And things began to be real – or unreal – again, according as you may take it.

“How did you get away?” said Andy in a low voice.

“I went to my room with a headache, but when I looked out and saw the moonlight I thought a turn alone would do me good. They’d given me the great guest-chamber where Anne Boleyn once slept; and it has little stone steps leading from a terrace into the garden. So it was easy enough.” Her lip quivered. “I don’t know how women would get on without headaches, Andy.”

Andy smiled tenderly, for all his unhappiness, at the queer mixture which is a woman: and when a man has learned to do that, he understands a great deal.

“Poor little girl,” he said.

But that somehow touched a chord of human and dear things that nearly broke their hearts, and without knowing how, they found themselves clinging together, their faces wet with tears.

“Good-bye,” said Andy, trying to go.

“Good-bye,” said Elizabeth, clinging to him.

Then it was Elizabeth who tried to go, and Andy who held her fast.

They came so, nearer and nearer to the little stone staircase, and when Elizabeth put her foot on the first step, Andy felt as if his life were going from him. Silently she went and silently he watched her go, with beads of sweat standing on his forehead that the night wind changed to drops of ice.

At the top she turned and said —

“Good-bye.”

He tried to answer, but no sound would come from his dry throat – then the door closed, and he went back across the moonlit field.

CHAPTER XXI

It was the day before Elizabeth’s wedding. For three days a gale of wind had been tearing across the country, shrieking through empty houses, rattling loose doors, beating with blasts of sharp raindrops like stones upon unprotected windows – seeming, in a way, to rejoice in its fierce work of changing the enchanted lane past Andy’s house, which had been thick with autumn foliage only three days ago, into something equally beautiful but quite different.

For now it was all over, and the little world rested, tired and lovely, after all the buffeting; there was an exquisite delicacy in the cool sunshine on the fallen leaves, and in the tracery of fine branches on a pale-blue sky, which Andy could not help noticing though Elizabeth was going to be married to-morrow. And it comforted him a little, even in that great sorrow, because there is no grief in life to which such dear sights will not bring a little comfort, when once you learn to really love them.

Andy had been working hard in the wrecked garden for an hour before breakfast, and as he turned to go in he saw the two Simpson children, Sally leading, Jimmy dragging reluctantly, come round the turn towards his gate. So he invited them to walk in and partake of oranges while he ate his bacon; and after awhile, having disposed of her orange, Sally came across to his side with her anxious look on her small face, and said hesitatingly —

“Mr. Deane, I came for something.”

“All right. Go ahead,” said Andy, drinking his tea thirstily and looking as if he had not slept.

“Something partickler,” said Sally. She seemed to find expression a difficulty, but at last continued: “Mother says you earn your living by making people be good. I asked her what you did for a living, and she told me that.”

Andy stared at his small visitor, then glanced out of the window towards the place, beyond the churchyard hedge, where Brother Gulielmus slept in faith: then he sighed and returned to Sally.

“I try,” he said.

“Well, then,” said Sally, dragging Jimmy forward suddenly from his orange, “I want you to begin on him. He’s been so bad the last three days. He doesn’t mean to be, and I didn’t much mind him breaking my dolly, but now he’s pulled the blue china teapot off the table in the best room and smashed that, and we daren’t tell mammy, so we came out. I was minding him,” wept Sally, descending to tears at last, “but how can you mind anybody that won’t be minded?”

Jimmy turned very red and eyed his sister’s tears askance, but he planted his legs wide apart and said sturdily —

“I want to be bad.”

“You don’t love Sally, then?” said Andy.

Jimmy glared at him for a moment, then flew, all arms and legs, across the room and began to pommel such portions of his Vicar’s person as he could reach.

“I do love Sally. I do love Sally. Naughty Parson Andy!” he bellowed.

“Oh, Jimmy,” cried Sally, shocked out of her tears, and clasping her little thin hands distractedly. “You mustn’t call him that. Mammy said he would never let us come here any more if we did – never.”

That did reach Jimmy’s heart.

“No more chocs. No more noranges!” he wept. “I will be a good boy, I will.”

“He can’t help being a bad boy,” wept Sally in concert. “But I brought him for you to make him want to be good.”

“I like you to call me Parson Andy,” said that gentleman, pulling up a weeping parishioner upon each knee, and proceeding to administer choice bits of bread and butter laden with marmalade to each in turn, with the tale of “The White Cat” as a mental restorative.

It was upon this group that Mrs. Stamford was ushered in by the excited little maid-servant.

“Sorry to interrupt you at breakfast, but – ” began Mrs. Stamford. Then she broke off. “What’s this?”

“A lady and gentleman who called to consult me in a spiritual difficulty,” said Andy, rising. “I’ll see them to the door and then I am at your service.”