The Privet Hedge Part 18

"Carrie, we can't leave it like this," he said. "I can't do without you; that's a fact. We must arrange something." He hesitated.

"You--you won't cease to be friends with me just because I'm married, will you?"

She moved so quickly out of the reach of his hand that she stood poised on the extreme edge of the cliff. "What do you mean?" she said fiercely. "Is that what you take me for? Then let me tell you I never carried on with a married man in my life and never shall. You're as good as married now. Leave me alone. You think you can talk to me like that because I'm fond of you. But before I'd have anything to do with those underhand ways, I'd jump over this cliff and have done with it. I would, too. I aren't _that_ sort, you know--though I have behaved like a silly fool."

But her very defiance only gave his curiosity a keener edge, and he moved towards her with his hand outstretched. "You won't get out of it like that," he said. "Do you suppose I'm going to let you go now, and never see you alone again? I will see you, or I'll chuck the whole thing up to-morrow morning, come what may."

She glanced at him sideways, temporizing: "I shall be meeting you, no doubt."

But he was not to be deceived. "You mean you have done with me unless I break off my engagement. Very well. I'll do it."

She shook her head. "That's nonsense," she said sharply. "You know you can't do it."

"It is only what you did yourself," he said sullenly. "You threw over that young man I saw you with at the dance, and I don't suppose you considered it a crime."

They spoke as enemies, throwing the barbed words back and forth.

"Of course I didn't."

"But why not? It was the same thing."

"No; that was quite different," she said.

"I don't see it. Why different?"

"Because----" She struggled: but suddenly her voice began to tremble.

"Oh, I didn't know what love was like then. But he never cared as Miss Laura does. And I shouldn't have minded so much about her, if I hadn't found out for myself----" She broke off. "Only three weeks from the wedding. You couldn't do it, either. Not when it came to only three weeks from the wedding, you couldn't. You know that as well as I do."

"But you always say everybody ought to do the best for themselves. I remember your saying so. What sense is there in spoiling our two lives for the sake of a third?" he said, eagerly and yet heavily. "Why can't you act up to what you believe in this instance, just as you did when you threw over that young man?"

She shook her head, looking at him through unshed tears. "I don't know," she said. "But when it comes to, you can't do it. You know you can't, either. If we were the weak sort, we might."

He let fall her hand which he had been holding and sat down heavily, almost with a groan, upon the wooden bench. It was true enough, what she said. They were both better than their word.

And yet it was not any hope of a future reward which sustained them as they sat there side by side, not touching each other, while the Flamborough lights swung out monotonously across the sea and the waves washed up with regular beat upon the sh.o.r.e. They imagined they believed this life to be probably all--and yet they did not seize what they could get and let everything else go. It was because love constrained them. They felt within themselves the stirring of their own immortality. But they experienced none of the exultation of sacrifice as they turned away from the cliff edge and walked silently, glumly, towards the high road, she trying to wipe the tears away with her fingers so that he should not notice.

As they neared the gate of the Cottage, G.o.dfrey said suddenly: "You don't think I'm frightened of what people say?"

She shook her head. "I aren't so silly as that." She hesitated, then held out her hand. "It's good-bye, then." But her voice trembled again, though she tried to keep it steady, and the next minute she was in his arms, crying her heart out.

"Caroline! What are we to do? What are we to do?" he said, the tears hot in his own eyes. "I can't give you up. I can't live without you."

She clung to him, not answering, and his mind darted back to the name he had given her that first time he had his arm about her at the promenade dance. A nymph on fire. There was something just so fresh and cool about her in the midst of all her pa.s.sion----

Then he felt her releasing herself gently, but with determination.

"What's the use of beginning it all over again?" she said. "You know there's nothing to be done. I aren't that sort. And you aren't either. Don't you know she's got the bride-cake bought, poor girl?"

He could not speak. Her childish insistence on the wedding-cake having been purchased was like a knife through his heart. If only he had left her alone!

"I deserve to be shot for letting you in for this," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

Then he broke out again. "I can't stand it! I must break off my engagement--whatever it costs and however she suffers. You're suffering. And I am! Good G.o.d, I should think I am."

But he spoke the last word to empty air--and the next moment he could hear the click of the gate as she slipped away from him up the dark drive.

_Chapter XV_

_The Cinema_

On Monday evening Caroline stood at the corner of Emerald Avenue, not sure whether to go down it or not, for she had not visited the Creddles since Mr. Creddle so ignominiously took her back to the Cottage at midnight.

While she was hesitating a cab-load of sunburnt children, accompanied by a stout, jolly-looking mother, went by on their way to the railway station. It was the beginning of that exodus which would grow more general every day during the next fortnight until the season was over.

Already cards had appeared in one or two windows, and those who had let their houses furnished for "August month" while they found shelter in tumble-down cottages, tents or converted railway carriages, were coming back--glad now the money was in their pockets that they had borne the discomfort, though each year on departing they said "Never again!" A sea-gull flew across the sky with the pink sunset on its outspread wings, and below, the grey church stood in a tender haze against a sheet of gold. But this peaceful time at the end of summer only increased Caroline's restlessness. There was nothing she wanted to do.

She neither liked to walk alone, nor to find friends.

So she stood there listlessly, trying to make up her mind whether she should go to see Aunt Creddle or not; and as she did so a slim woman of about forty who had been very pretty came down the Avenue. Caroline remembered quite well what Mrs. Creddle had said about her. She had gone into an office as typist instead of being in service like the other sisters, and thought herself too fine for those who wanted her, but was not fine enough for those she wanted. So one sister married a farm labourer who became a prosperous farmer, the other did not disdain a chimney sweep, and both now possessed houses and children and warm places of their own in the world, while the prettiest still tripped with a rather over-bright smile about the Thorhaven streets, aware of really superior refinement, but not finding much comfort in it.

She stopped to speak to Caroline--and without knowing why, Caroline felt as if a cold wind out of the future had blown drearily across her mind.

"Waiting for Wilf?" asked the girl, smiling. "He must have missed you, for I met him a minute ago. I suppose you are going to this new play there is on at the Cinema."

"Oh, I don't know," said Caroline vaguely. "I don't see much of Wilf now. Lovely night, isn't it?"

This was crude but sufficient, and the woman went on, leaving Caroline once more aimlessly pondering. At last she began to walk slowly down the Avenue to the Creddles' house, calling out at the door as usual: "h.e.l.lo, aunt!"

Mrs. Creddle at once came out of the kitchen, her jolly face rather anxious. "You never came near yesterday, Carrie. We couldn't think what had gotten you."

"I was busy at home when I wasn't at the prom.," said Caroline. "I've come now to see if Winnie would like to go with me to the pictures."

"Well----" Mrs. Creddle hesitated. "Your uncle was in a fine taking on Thursday night. He seems to have an idea in his head that you were with somebody you daren't speak about. But you'd never have aught to do with a married man, I'm sure, Carrie."

"Well, you may make your mind easy, aunt. The man I was with was single. But I'm not going to say anything more about him. If I have to be answerable to you and uncle for every young fellow I chance to walk home from the prom. with----"

"You know we don't expect that," said Mrs. Creddle, still a little uneasy. "But I told your uncle I could trust you, and I do."

"Where is uncle?" said Caroline, seizing on the nearest pretext for changing the subject.

"Oh, he's gone to the Buffaloes," said Mrs. Creddle; and though her tone implied contempt and disapproval, it was but the natural prejudice of all good women for an inst.i.tution purely masculine. "They have a Grand Council or some such rubbish to-night," she added; then she raised her voice and called "Winnie!" and imparted the joyful news to a little, rosy-faced girl whose eyes shone with ecstasy. To go to the pictures--at night--and with Cousin Carrie--Life could hold no more, and she sped off to change her frock, like an arrow from the bow.

Caroline had turned away and was staring rather moodily out of the window. Then she felt a hand on her arm. "Carrie, it wasn't young Mr.

Wilson you were with, was it?" Mrs. Creddle said in a low voice.

In the involuntary start which followed the words she had her answer; letting her hand drop, she turned an agitated face towards Caroline.

"Then you weren't after no good on Thursday night. Your uncle was right. Oh, Carrie, how could you--with him going to be married in a fortnight? I should have thought you would have more self-respect."

Caroline swung round upon her, eyes ablaze. "Who told you I was with Mr. Wilson? You don't want to listen to everything you hear in Thorhaven, surely! And if I was, I was doing no wrong."