Peter Jameson. Gilbert Frankau
asked her to marry him. He had not—in that brief fortnight of a shipboard friendship—deemed himself worthy. It had seemed to him as though God—a visible speaking God—forbade their union; commanding His creature, Francis Gordon, abandon that dream; take up, in its stead, the burden of vocation, the Work of writing for which He had endowed him with a tiny spark of His own genius.
And so Francis—who imagined himself to have seen, for a moment, behind that Veil of God which does not lift until the time appointed—returned to London; sold his house in Curzon Street, his cars and his pictures, his gold plate and his Aubusson carpets; and retired, taking with him only Prout, his old manservant, to this high apartment at the top of the eighteenth-century Georgian building in Mecklenburgh Square.
All “literary” London knew a Francis Gordon, a versifier whose technique they admired, whose pose they applauded. But the Francis, they did not know. Nor, had they known him, would they have, at that time, admired.
For the Francis—the man who, for all his fine aspirations, was still utterly incapable of formulating clean thought into simple words—had conceived another dream. And this was the shape of it.
He had learned from Beatrice, and from her parents, something—though very little—of the real America. He had taught her something—though very little—of the real England. He realized, as few Englishmen of his time, how the two nations had drifted apart; misunderstood one another. And it seemed to him, in his presumption, that a few words, a trumpery poem, could set this misunderstanding right.
Of course—(he was too much in love with the phantom of Beatrice for any except a prejudiced judgment)—he blamed his own countrymen exclusively. Equally of course, the great poem of his projecting, became—the moment pen touched paper—an artificial web of phrases through which the man’s real belief in a Spiritual Federation of the English-speaking Peoples oozed to nothingness. Still, it says something for the influence of a girl who only wrote in calm friendship, confident of his ultimate success as a writer, but by no manner of means—consciously at any rate—in love with him, that Francis Gordon should have held to this belief, unflinchingly, through all those weary months when other Englishmen—better informed on material points though utterly ignorant of the spiritual reluctance to realize that a world-crime was being committed (which reluctance alone kept America so long out of the War)—were saying to themselves, “Can’t they see things? Won’t they see things? Must we fight this greatest of all battles without them?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, Sir,” announced the elderly manservant.
§ 3
Nothing in the outward appearance of the Francis Gordon who rose at the entrance of his cousin’s wife, suggested the conventional (or unconventional) poet. Short dark hair parted at the side, clipped moustache, well-cared-for hands, creaseless gold-pinned soft collar, well-tailored blue suit—all proclaimed the ordinary idle young man of the period. And as such, to tell the truth, his cousin Peter—to whom, except for a certain lack of dourness about the expression, he bore an amazing resemblance—regarded him.
His surroundings, too, helped this illusion of the idle commonplace. The room was large, white-walled and green-carpeted; crowded mahogany book-shelves completely lined one wall; a spacious writing-table—scrupulously tidy—set square in the centre of two big windows—the other. Chippendale chairs, a tea-table already laid, and a revolving bookcase filled with foreign dictionaries, Roget’s Thesaurus, and other reference-works, completed the furniture. Two mahogany doors—one, through which Patricia and Peter had just entered, leading to the narrow hall—the other to the bedroom and bathroom—glowed darkly against the rough white of the wall-paper.
“This doesn’t look much like poverty,” commented Peter. (Francis had only just taken the flat. This was their first visit to him.)
“I don’t think you’d make much of a welfare inspector, old man,” replied Francis. “Fourth floor. No lift. No telephone. Geyser-bath. Shilling-in-the-slot electric-light meter. A complacent landlord. And the relics of the Curzon Street furniture. Guess again about my poverty.”
“And a manservant,” commented Patricia, taking off hat and gloves, sitting down—as by right—at the tea-table.
“Oh, Prout! Prout would pay to stay on, I believe. Francis Gordon and his faithful valet; or the loyalty of an old retainer. …”
But Patricia knew that the supercilious remark hid real affection for that “old bounder Prout.” She had seen a good deal of Francis since his return to England; revised many of her early unfavourable opinions about him. The good-will was mutual: though Francis, who still thought “Pat.” rather a commonplace young woman, would have been more than surprised to know how near she had come to divining the change in his mentality—and the real reason for that change.
“Who’s this?” commented Peter, his inspection of the new quarters having brought him to Beatrice’s photograph.
“Friend of mine,” said Francis curtly. “Don’t touch those papers.”
“I won’t touch your precious papers.”
At which little passage of arms, Patricia’s last doubts settled into a comfortable certainty.
Prout, bringing tea, restored harmony. They sat long over it, smoking and talking—mostly, as is the habit of near relations, about themselves.
“By Jove,” said Peter—interrupting himself in the middle of a long monologue about advertising—“I almost forgot. We’ve taken a house at Wargrave for a month. Lodden Lodge. It’s rather a decent place. Tennis lawn; river-frontage; bath, h. and c.; usual domestic offices; et cetera et cetera. You are expected to stay with us.”
“Hukkum hai? (Is it an order?),” asked Francis.
“Oh, we all know you spent three months in India,” chaffed Peter. “Question is: are you coming?”
“Of course I’m coming,” said Francis, “and so is Prout—if Patricia doesn’t object.”
§ 4
“Some car!” thought Peter as he stepped into the front seat; slammed the door home; said “You take her for a bit, Murray,” to the uniformed chauffeur; and acknowledged “Pretty” Bramson’s rather overdone salute with a wave of his hand. They purred out from the factory-gates into Brixton Road; swung first right, then left; headed for Hounslow.
Certainly, “some car”—a long, low stream-lined cabriolet, royal-blue in colour, the Crossley cross on her radiator. Peter had discovered her through the advertisement columns of the Morning Post; clinched the deal a week before. But his thought did not centre long on the new purchase.
It was the Thursday before August Bank Holiday 1914. To get away so early, had meant cramming the week’s work into three and a half days. Still, he could afford to take a rest now. For a few minutes, he allowed himself the rare luxury of a dream. Nirvana had arrived! July sales proved it. Nothing could stop their automatic increase. Already, the capital he had sunk was in sight again. Then—what a business he would make it! All over the world, too. … India, China, New Zealand, South Africa. He must have his own factory in the States, in Canada; defeat their confounded protective tariffs. …
“Will you take her now, sir?” asked Murray, as they wriggled out through Hounslow High Street.
“Not for another mile or so.”
Peter’s mind came back to details; wandered off them again. Nothing could stop that automatic increase. Nothing. The political situation? Blow the political situation! Nobody with any sense cared for political situations. Except retail tobacconists,