So John sat glowing with sentiment and resolution, and Margery pondered the happiness of life, and Stephen brooded darkly in the window, and they were all silent. Then Margery suggested that the two men should sing together as they used to do; and they sang. They sang odd things from an Old English song book, picked out at random as they turned over the leaves. And it seemed as if every song in that book must have for those two some hidden and sinister meaning. It was bad enough, in any case, to stand there together behind Margery at the piano, and try to sing as they had sung in the old days, when nothing had happened. But these songs had some terrible innuendoes: “Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” they sang first, and “Sigh no more, ladies.” And when they came to “a friend’s ingratitude” and “fellowship forgot” and “Men were deceivers ever,” the two men became foolishly self-conscious. They looked studiously in front of them, and each in his heart hoped that the other had not noticed, hoped that his own expression was perfectly normal and composed. It was exceedingly foolish. There were other songs like this, and after a few more Stephen said shortly that that was enough.
Then they tried to talk again; but the men could think of no topic which did not somehow lead them near to Emily Gaunt and such dangerous ground. Even when Margery began to speak of the motorboat, the men seemed to be stricken silly and dumb. Margery wondered what ailed them, till she remembered about John’s “wood-collecting” evidence, and blushed suddenly at her folly.
Stephen went down with John to the front door feeling certain that he would there and then “have it out.” But John said nothing, only a quick “Good night.” He did not look at Stephen. They felt then like strangers to each other. And Stephen, marvelling at John’s silence and strangely moved by his coldness, became suddenly anxious to get at his thoughts.
He said, “John—I—I—I hope you’re not … hadn’t I better … I—I mean … are you being worried much … by this? …”
His vagueness was partly due to a new and genuine nervousness and partly to calculation—a half-conscious determination not to commit himself. But John perfectly understood.
“No, Stephen, we’ll forget all that … you’re not to do anything. … It’s a bit trying, but I can stand it. I don’t want to upset things any more now. … Margery and you … a fresh start, you know. … Good night.” And he was gone.
Stephen went slowly upstairs, astonished and ashamed, with a confused sense of humiliation and relief. And while he felt penitent and mean in the face of this magnanimity of John’s, he could not avoid a certain conceited contentment with the wisdom and success of his planning.
Yes, it was very satisfactory. And now he could get on with the poem about “Chivalry.” He sat down at his table and pulled out the scribbled muddle of manuscript. But he wrote no word that night. He sat for a long time staring at the paper, thinking of the chivalry of John Egerton. And it brought no inspiration.
XI
John went home thinking pitifully of Margery Byrne and vowing hotly that he would sacrifice himself for her sake. In the hall he found a letter from Miss Muriel Tarrant. The neat round writing on the envelope stirred him deliciously where it stared up from the floor. Almost reverently he picked it up and fingered it and turned it over and examined it with the fond and foolish deliberation of a lover for whom custom has not staled these little blisses. The letter was an invitation to a dance. The Tarrants had just come home and they were taking a party to the Buxton Galleries on . And they were very anxious for John to go. It was clear, then, that they had declined to join the faction of Mrs. Vincent, though they must have heard the story, numbers of stories, by this time. And John, as he argued thus, was almost overwhelmed with pride and tenderness and exultation. He felt then that he had known always that Muriel was different from the malicious sheep who were her mother’s friends. And this letter, coming at this moment, seemed like some glorious sign of approbation from Heaven, an acknowledgment and a reward for the deed of sacrifice to which he had but just devoted himself. It was an inspiration to go on with it—though it made the sacrifice itself seem easy.
He took the letter to his bed and laid it on the table beside him. And for a long time he pondered in the dark the old vague dreams of Muriel and marriage which, since the coming of the letter, had presented themselves with such startling clearness. He had not seen her for many weeks, but this letter was like a first meeting; it was a revelation. He knew she was not clever, perhaps not even very intelligent; but she was young and lovely and kind; and she should be the simple companion of his simple heart. He was very lonely in this dark house, very silent and alone. He wanted someone who would bring voices and colour into his home, would make it a glowing and intimate place, like Margery Byrne’s. Poor Margery! And Muriel would do this.
But he would have hard work to
