The Secret Places of the Heart (16 page)

"I don't quite see what you are driving at."

"The intelligence of all intelligent women is better than their
characters. Goodness in a woman, as we understand it, seems to imply
necessarily a certain imaginative fixity. Miss Grammont has an impulsive
and adventurous character. And as I have been saying she was a spoilt
child, with no discipline.... You also are a person of high intelligence
and defective controls. She is very much at loose ends. You—on account
of the illness of that rather forgotten lady, Miss Martin Leeds—"
"Aren't you rather abusing the secrets of the confessional?"

"This IS the confessional. It closes to-morrow morning but it is the
confessional still. Look at the thing frankly. You, I say, are also at
loose ends. Can you deny it? My dear sir, don't we both know that ever
since we left London you have been ready to fall in love with any
pretty thing in petticoats that seemed to promise you three ha'porth of
kindness. A lost dog looking for a master! You're a stray man looking
for a mistress. Miss Grammont being a woman is a little more selective
than that. But if she's at a loose end as I suppose, she isn't protected
by the sense of having made her selection. And she has no preconceptions
of what she wants. You are a very interesting man in many ways. You
carry marriage and entanglements lightly. With an air of being neither
married nor entangled. She is quite prepared to fall in love with you."

"But you don't really think that?" said Sir Richmond, with an
ill-concealed eagerness.

Dr. Martineau rolled his face towards Sir Richmond. "These
miracles—grotesquely—happen," he said. "She knows nothing of Martin
Leeds.... You must remember that....

"And then," he added, "if she and you fall in love, as the phrase goes,
what is to follow?"

There was a pause.

Sir Richmond looked at his toes for a moment or so as if he took counsel
with them and then decided to take offence.

"Really!" he said, "this is preposterous. You talk of falling in love as
though it was impossible for a man and woman to be deeply interested in
each other without that. And the gulf in our ages—in our quality! From
the Psychologist of a New Age I find this amazing. Are men and women
to go on for ever—separated by this possibility into two hardly
communicating and yet interpenetrating worlds? Is there never to be
friendship and companionship between men and women without passion?"

"You ought to know even better than I do that there is not. For such
people as you two anyhow. And at present the world is not prepared to
tolerate friendship and companionship WITH that accompaniment. That is
the core of this situation."

A pause fell between the two gentlemen. They had smoothed over the
extreme harshness of their separation and there was very little more to
be said.

"Well," said Sir Richmond in conclusion, "I am very sorry indeed,
Martineau, that we have to part like this."

"Well," said Dr. Martineau, extending his hand to Sir Richmond on the
Salisbury station platform, "I leave you to it."

His round face betrayed little or no vestiges of his overnight
irritation.

"Ought you to leave me to it?" smiled Sir Richmond.

"I shall be interested to learn what happens."

"But if you won't stay to see!"

"Now Sir, please," said the guard respectfully but firmly, and Dr.
Martineau got in.

Sir Richmond walked thoughtfully down the platform towards the exit.

"What else could I do?" he asked aloud to nobody in particular.

For a little while he thought confusedly of the collapse of his
expedition into the secret places of his own heart with Dr. Martineau,
and then his prepossession with Miss Grammont resumed possession of his
mind. Dr. Martineau was forgotten.

For the better part of forty hours, Sir Richmond had either been talking
to Miss Grammont, or carrying on imaginary conversations with her in her
absence, or sleeping and dreaming dreams in which she never failed
to play a part, even if at times it was an altogether amazing and
incongruous part. And as they were both very frank and expressive
people, they already knew a very great deal about each other.

For an American Miss Grammont was by no means autobiographical. She
gave no sketches of her idiosyncrasies, and she repeated no remembered
comments and prophets of her contemporaries about herself. She either
concealed or she had lost any great interest in her own personality. But
she was interested in and curious about the people she had met in life,
and her talk of them reflected a considerable amount of light upon her
own upbringing and experiences. And her liking for Sir Richmond was
pleasingly manifest. She liked his turn of thought, she watched him
with a faint smile on her lips as he spoke, and she spread her opinions
before him carefully in that soft voice of hers like a shy child showing
its treasures to some suddenly trusted and favoured visitor.

Their ways of thought harmonized. They talked at first chiefly about the
history of the world and the extraordinary situation of aimlessness in a
phase of ruin to which the Great War had brought all Europe, if not all
mankind. The world excited them both in the same way; as a crisis in
which they were called upon to do something—they did not yet clearly
know what. Into this topic they peered as into some deep pool, side by
side, and in it they saw each other reflected.

The visit to Avebury had been a great success. It had been a
perfect springtime day, and the little inn had been delighted at the
reappearance of Sir Richmond's car so soon after its departure. Its
delight was particularly manifest in the cream and salad it produced
for lunch. Both Miss Grammont and Miss Seyffert displayed an intelligent
interest in their food. After lunch they had all gone out to the stones
and the wall. Half a dozen sunburnt children were putting one of the
partially overturned megaliths to a happy use by clambering to the top
of it and sliding on their little behinds down its smooth and sloping
side amidst much mirthful squealing.

Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont had walked round the old circumvallation
together, but Belinda Seyffert had strayed away from them, professing
an interest in flowers. It was not so much that she felt they had to be
left together that made her do this as her own consciousness of being
possessed by a devil who interrupted conversations.

When Miss Grammont was keenly interested in a conversation, then Belinda
had learnt from experience that it was wiser to go off with her devil
out of the range of any temptation to interrupt.

"You really think," said Miss Grammont, "that it would be possible to
take this confused old world and reshape it, set it marching towards
that new world of yours—of two hundred and fifty million fully
developed, beautiful and happy people?"

"Why not? Nobody is doing anything with the world except muddle about.
Why not give it a direction?"

"You'd take it in your hands like clay?"

"Obdurate clay with a sort of recalcitrant, unintelligent life of its
own."

Her imagination glowed in her eyes and warmed her voice. "I believe what
you say is possible. If people dare."

"I am tired of following little motives that are like flames that go out
when you get to them. I am tired of seeing all the world doing the
same. I am tired of a world in which there is nothing great but great
disasters. Here is something mankind can attempt, that we can attempt."

"And will?"

"I believe that as Mankind grows up this is the business Man has to
settle down to and will settle down to."

She considered that.

"I've been getting to believe something like this. But—... it frightens
me. I suppose most of us have this same sort of dread of taking too much
upon ourselves."

"So we just live like pigs. Sensible little piggywiggys. I've got a
Committee full of that sort of thing. We live like little modest pigs.
And let the world go hang. And pride ourselves upon our freedom from the
sin of presumption.

"Not quite that!"

"Well! How do you put it?"

"We are afraid," she said. "It's too vast. We want bright little lives
of our own."

"Exactly—sensible little piggy-wiggys."

"We have a right to life—and happiness.

"First," said Sir Richmond, "as much right as a pig has to food. But
whether we get life and happiness or fail to get them we human beings
who have imaginations want something more nowadays.... Of course we want
bright lives, of course we want happiness. Just as we want food, just as
we want sleep. But when we have eaten, when we have slept, when we have
jolly things about us—it is nothing. We have been made an exception
of—and got our rations. The big thing confronts us still. It is vast,
I agree, but vast as it is it is the thing we have to think about. I
do not know why it should be so, but I am compelled by something in my
nature to want to serve this idea of a new age for mankind. I want it
as my culminating want. I want a world in order, a disciplined mankind
going on to greater things. Don't you?"

"Now you tell me of it," she said with a smile, "I do."

"But before—?"

"No. You've made it clear. It wasn't clear before."

"I've been talking of this sort of thing with my friend Dr. Martineau.
And I've been thinking as well as talking. That perhaps is why I'm so
clear and positive."

"I don't complain that you are clear and positive. I've been coming
along the same way.... It's refreshing to meet you."

"I found it refreshing to meet Martineau." A twinge of conscience about
Dr. Martineau turned Sir Richmond into a new channel. "He's a most
interesting man," he said. "Rather shy in some respects. Devoted to his
work. And he's writing a book which has saturated him in these ideas.
Only two nights ago we stood here and talked about it. The Psychology of
a New Age. The world, he believes, is entering upon a new phase in its
history, the adolescence, so to speak, of mankind. It is an idea that
seizes the imagination. There is a flow of new ideas abroad, he thinks,
widening realizations, unprecedented hopes and fears. There is a
consciousness of new powers and new responsibilities. We are sharing the
adolescence of our race. It is giving history a new and more intimate
meaning for us. It is bringing us into directer relation with public
affairs,—making them matter as formerly they didn't seem to matter.
That idea of the bright little private life has to go by the board."

"I suppose it has," she said, meditatively, as though she had been
thinking over some such question before.

"The private life," she said, "has a way of coming aboard again."

Her reflections travelled fast and broke out now far ahead of him.

"You have some sort of work cut out for you," she said abruptly.

"Yes. Yes, I have."

"I haven't," she said.

"So that I go about," she added, "like someone who is looking for
something. I'd like to know if it's not jabbing too searching a question
at you—what you have found."

Sir Richmond considered. "Incidentally," he smiled, "I want to get
a lasso over the neck of that very forcible and barbaric person, your
father. I am doing my best to help lay the foundation of a scientific
world control of fuel production and distribution. We have a Fuel
Commission in London with rather wide powers of enquiry into the whole
world problem of fuel. We shall come out to Washington presently with
proposals."

Miss Grammont surveyed the landscape. "I suppose," she said, "poor
father IS rather like an unbroken mule in business affairs. So many of
our big business men in America are. He'll lash out at you."

"I don't mind if only he lashes out openly in the sight of all men."

She considered and turned on Sir Richmond gravely.

"Tell me what you want to do to him. You find out so many things for me
that I seem to have been thinking about in a sort of almost invisible
half-conscious way. I've been suspecting for a long time that
Civilization wasn't much good unless it got people like my father under
some sort of control. But controlling father—as distinguished from
managing him!" She reviewed some private and amusing memories. "He is a
most intractable man."

They had gone on to talk of her father and of the types of men who
controlled international business. She had had plentiful opportunities
for observation in their homes and her own. Gunter Lake, the big banker,
she knew particularly well, because, it seemed, she had been engaged
or was engaged to marry him. "All these people," she said, "are pushing
things about, affecting millions of lives, hurting and disordering
hundreds of thousands of people. They don't seem to know what they
are doing. They have no plans in particular.... And you are getting
something going that will be a plan and a direction and a conscience
and a control for them? You will find my father extremely difficult, but
some of our younger men would love it.

"And," she went on; "there are American women who'd love it too. We're
petted. We're kept out of things. We aren't placed. We don't get enough
to do. We're spenders and wasters—not always from choice. While these
fathers and brothers and husbands of ours play about with the fuel and
power and life and hope of the world as though it was a game of poker.
With all the empty unspeakable solemnity of the male. And treat us as
though we ought to be satisfied if they bring home part of the winnings.

"That can't go on," she said.

Her eyes went back to the long, low, undulating skyline of the downs.
She spoke as though she took up the thread of some controversy that had
played a large part in her life. "That isn't going on," she said with an
effect of conclusive decision.