H G Wells Omnibus, page 167
Mr. Magnet did not get his chance therefore until Lady Petchworth’s little gathering at Summerhay Park.
Lady Petchworth was Mrs. Pope’s oldest friend, and one of those brighter influences which save our English country-side from lassitude. She had been more fortunate than Mrs. Pope, for while Mr. Pope with that aptitude for disadvantage natural to his temperament had, he said, been tied to a business that never gave him a chance, Lady Petchworth’s husband had been a reckless investor of exceptional good-luck. In particular, led by a dream, he had put most of his money into a series of nitrate deposits in caves in Saghalien haunted by benevolent penguins, and had been rewarded beyond the dreams of avarice. His foresight had received the fitting reward of a knighthood, and Sir Thomas, after restoring the Parish Church at Summerhay in a costly and destructive manner, spent his declining years in an enviable contentment with Lady Petchworth and the world at large, and died long before infirmity made him really troublesome.
Good fortune had brought out Lady Petchworth’s social aptitudes. Summerhay Park was everything that a clever woman, inspired by that gardening literature which has been so abundant in the opening years of the twentieth century, could make it. It had rosaries and rock gardens, sundials and yew hedges, pools and ponds, lead figures and stone urns, box borderings and wilderness corners and hundreds and hundreds of feet of prematurely-aged red-brick wall with broad herbaceous borders; the walks had primroses, primulas and cowslips in a quite disingenuous abundance, and in spring the whole extent of the park was gay, here with thousands of this sort of daffodil just bursting out and here with thousands of that sort of narcissus just past its prime, and every patch ready to pass itself off in its naturalized way as the accidental native flower of the field, if only it hadn’t been for all the other different varieties coming on or wilting-off in adjacent patches….
Her garden was only the beginning of Lady Petchworth’s activities. She had a model dairy, and all her poultry was white, and so far as she was able to manage it she made Summerhay a model village. She overflowed with activities, it was astonishing in one so plump and blonde, and meeting followed meeting in the artistic little red-brick and green-stained timber village hall she had erected. Now it was the National Theatre and now it was the National Mourning; now it was the Break Up of the Poor Law, and now the Majority Report, now the Mothers’ Union, and now Socialism, and now Individualism, but always something progressive and beneficial. She did her best to revive the old village life, and brought her very considerable powers of compulsion to make the men dance in simple old Morris dances, dressed up in costumes they secretly abominated, and to induce the mothers to dress their children in art-coloured smocks instead of the prints and blue serge frocks they preferred. She did not despair, she said, of creating a spontaneous peasant art movement in the district, springing from the people and expressing the people, but so far it had been necessary to import not only instructors and material, but workers to keep the thing going, so sluggish had the spontaneity of our English countryside become.
Her little gatherings were quite distinctive of her. They were a sort of garden party extending from mid-day to six or seven; there would be a nucleus of house guests, and the highways and byeways on every hand would be raided to supply persons and interests. She had told her friend to “bring the girls over for the day,” and flung an invitation to Mr. Pope, who had at once excused himself on the score of his ankle. Mr. Pope was one of those men who shun social gatherings—ostensibly because of a sterling simplicity of taste, but really because his intolerable egotism made him feel slighted and neglected on these occasions. He told his wife he would be far happier with a book at home, exhorted her not to be late, and was seen composing himself to read the “Vicar of Wakefield”—whenever they published a new book Mr. Pope pretended to read an old one—as the hired waggonette took the rest of his family—Theodore very unhappy in buff silk and a wide Stuart collar—down the avenue.
They found a long lunch table laid on the lawn beneath the chestnuts, and in full view of the poppies and forget-me-nots around the stone obelisk, a butler and three men servants with brass buttons and red and white striped waistcoats gave dignity to the scene, and beyond, on the terrace amidst abundance of deckchairs, cane chairs, rugs, and cushions, a miscellaneous and increasing company seethed under Lady Petchworth’s plump but entertaining hand. There were, of course, Mr. Magnet, and his friend Mr. Wintersloan—Lady Petchworth had been given to understand how the land lay; and there was Mr. Bunford Paradise the musician, who was doing his best to teach a sullen holiday class in the village schoolroom to sing the artless old folk songs of Surrey again, in spite of the invincible persuasion of everybody in the class that the songs were rather indelicate and extremely silly; there were the Rev. Jopling Baynes, and two Cambridge undergraduates in flannels, and a Doctor something or other from London. There was also the Hon. Charles Muskett, Lord Pottinger’s cousin and estate agent, in tweeds and very helpful. The ladies included Mrs. Raff, the well-known fashion writer, in a wonderful costume, the anonymous doctor’s wife, three or four neighbouring mothers with an undistinguished daughter or so, and two quiet-mannered middle-aged ladies, whose names Marjorie could not catch, and whom Lady Petchworth, in that well-controlled voice of hers, addressed as Kate and Julia, and seemed on the whole disposed to treat as humorous. There was also Fraulein Schmidt in charge of Lady Petchworth’s three tall and already abundant children, Prunella, Prudence, and Mary, and a young, newly-married couple of cousins, who addressed each other in soft undertones and sat apart. These were the chief items that became distinctive in Marjorie’s survey; but there were a number of other people who seemed to come and go, split up, fuse, change their appearance slightly, and behave in the way inadequately apprehended people do behave on these occasions.
Marjorie very speedily found her disposition to take a detached and amused view of the entertainment in conflict with more urgent demands. From the outset Mr. Magnet loomed upon her—he loomed nearer and nearer. He turned his eye upon her as she came up to the wealthy expanse of Lady Petchworth’s presence, like some sort of obsolescent iron-clad turning a dull-grey, respectful, loving searchlight upon a fugitive torpedo boat, and thereafter he seemed to her to be looking at her without intermission, relentlessly, and urging himself towards her. She wished he wouldn’t. She hadn’t at all thought he would on this occasion.
At first she relied upon her natural powers of evasion, and the presence of a large company. Then gradually it became apparent that Lady Petchworth and her mother, yes—and the party generally, and the gardens and the weather and the stars in their courses were of a mind to co-operate in giving opportunity for Mr. Magnet’s unmistakable intentions.
And Marjorie with that instability of her sex which has been a theme for masculine humour in all ages, suddenly and with an extraordinary violence didn’t want to make up her mind about Mr. Magnet. She didn’t want to accept him; and as distinctly she didn’t want to refuse him. She didn’t even want to be thought about as making up her mind about him—which was, so to speak, an enlargement of her previous indisposition. She didn’t even want to seem to avoid him, or to be thinking about him, or aware of his existence.
After the greeting of Lady Petchworth she had succeeded very clumsily in not seeing Mr. Magnet, and had addressed herself to Mr. Wintersloan, who was standing a little apart, looking under his hand, with one eye shut, at the view between the tree stems towards Buryhamstreet. He told her that he thought he had found something “pooty” that hadn’t been done, and she did her best to share his artistic interests with a vivid sense of Mr. Magnet’s tentative incessant approach behind her.
He joined them, and she made a desperate attempt to entangle Mr. Wintersloan in a three-cornered talk in vain. He turned away at the first possible opportunity, and left her to an embarrassed and eloquently silent tête-à-tête. Mr. Magnet’s professional wit had deserted him. “It’s nice to see you again,” he said after an immense interval. “Shall we go and look at the aviary?”
“I hate to see birds in cages,” said Marjorie, “and it’s frightfully jolly just here. Do you think Mr. Wintersloan will paint this? He does paint, doesn’t he?”
“I know him best in black and white,” said Mr. Magnet.
Marjorie embarked on entirely insincere praises of Mr. Wintersloan’s manner and personal effect; Magnet replied tepidly, with an air of reserving himself to grapple with the first conversational opportunity.
“It’s a splendid day for tennis,” said Marjorie. “I think I shall play tennis all the afternoon.”
“I don’t play well enough for this publicity.”
“It’s glorious exercise,” said Marjorie. “Almost as good as dancing,” and she decided to stick to that resolution. “I never lose a chance of tennis if I can help it.”
She glanced round and detected a widening space between themselves and the next adjacent group.
“They’re looking at the goldfish,” she said. “Let us join them.”
Everyone moved away as they came up to the little round pond, but then Marjorie had luck, and captured Prunella, and got her to hold hands and talk, until Fraulein Schmidt called the child away. And then Marjorie forced Mr. Magnet to introduce her to Mr. Bunford Paradise. She had a bright idea of sitting between Prunella and Mary at the lunch table, but a higher providence had assigned her to a seat at the end between Julia—or was it Kate?—and Mr. Magnet. However, one of the undergraduates was opposite, and she saved herself from undertones by talking across to him boldly about Newnham, though she hadn’t an idea of his name or college. From that she came to tennis. To her inflamed imagination he behaved as if she was under a Taboo, but she was desperate, and had pledged him and his friend to a foursome before the meal was over.
“Don’t you play?” said the undergraduate to Mr. Magnet.
“Very little,” said Mr. Magnet. “Very little—”
At the end of an hour she was conspicuously and publicly shepherded from the tennis court by Mrs. Pope.
“Other people want to play,” said her mother in a clear little undertone.
Mr. Magnet fielded her neatly as she came off the court.
“You play tennis like—a wild bird,” he said, taking possession of her.
Only Marjorie’s entire freedom from Irish blood saved him from a vindictive repartee.
§ 3
“Shall we go and look at the aviary?” said Mr. Magnet, reverting to a favourite idea of his, and then remembered she did not like to see caged birds.
“Perhaps we might see the Water Garden?” he said. “The Water Garden is really very delightful indeed—anyhow. You ought to see that.”
On the spur of the moment, Marjorie could think of no objection to the Water Garden, and he led her off.
“I often think of that jolly walk we had last summer,” said Mr. Magnet, “and how you talked about your work at Oxbridge.”
Marjorie fell into a sudden rapture of admiration for a butterfly.
Twice more was Mr. Magnet baffled, and then they came to the little pool of water lilies with its miniature cascade of escape at the head and source of the Water Garden. “One of Lady Petchworth’s great successes,” said Mr. Magnet.
“I suppose the lotus is like the water-lily,” said Marjorie, with no hope of staving off the inevitable——
She stood very still by the little pool, and in spite of her pensive regard of the floating blossoms, stiffly and intensely aware of his relentless regard.
“Marjorie,” came his voice at last, strangely softened. “There is something I want to say to you.”
She made no reply.
“Ever since we met last summer——”
A clear cold little resolution not to stand this, had established itself in Marjorie’s mind. If she must decide, she would decide. He had brought it upon himself.
“Marjorie,” said Mr. Magnet, “I love you.”
She lifted a clear unhesitating eye to his face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Magnet,” she said.
“I wanted to ask you to marry me,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Magnet,” she repeated.
They looked at one another. She felt a sort of scared exultation at having done it; her mother might say what she liked.
“I love you very much,” he said, at a loss.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated obstinately.
“I thought you cared for me a little.”
She left that unanswered. She had a curious feeling that there was no getting away from this splashing, babbling pool, that she was fixed there until Mr. Magnet chose to release her, and that he didn’t mean to release her yet. In which case she would go on refusing.
“I’m disappointed,” he said.
Marjorie could only think that she was sorry again, but as she had already said that three times, she remained awkwardly silent.
“Is it because——” he began and stopped.
“It isn’t because of anything. Please let’s go back to the others, Mr. Magnet. I’m sorry if I’m disappointing.”
And by a great effort she turned about.
Mr. Magnet remained regarding her—I can only compare it to the searching preliminary gaze of an artistic photographer. For a crucial minute in his life Marjorie hated him. “I don’t understand,” he said at last.
Then with a sort of naturalness that ought to have touched her he said: “Is it possible, Marjorie—that I might hope?—that I have been inopportune?”
She answered at once with absolute conviction.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Magnet.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “to have bothered you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Marjorie.
A long silence followed.
“I’m sorry too,” he said.
They said no more, but began to retrace their steps. It was over. Abruptly, Mr. Magnet’s bearing had become despondent—conspicuously despondent. “I had hoped,” he said, and sighed.
With a thrill of horror Marjorie perceived he meant to look rejected, let every one see he had been rejected—after encouragement.
What would they think? How would they look? What conceivably might they not say? Something of the importance of the thing she had done, became manifest to her. She felt first intimations of regret. They would all be watching, Mother, Daffy, Lady Petchworth. She would reappear with this victim visibly suffering beside her. What could she say to straighten his back and lift his chin? She could think of nothing. Ahead at the end of the shaded path she could see the copious white form, the agitated fair wig and red sunshade of Lady Petchworth——
§ 4
Mrs. Pope’s eye was relentless; nothing seemed hidden from it; nothing indeed was hidden from it; Mr. Magnet’s back was diagrammatic. Marjorie was a little flushed and bright-eyed, and professed herself eager, with an unnatural enthusiasm, to play golf-croquet. It was eloquently significant that Mr. Magnet did not share her eagerness, declined to play, and yet when she had started with the Rev. Jopling Baynes as partner, stood regarding the game with a sort of tender melancholy from the shade of the big chestnut-tree.
Mrs. Pope joined him unobtrusively.
“You’re not playing, Mr. Magnet,” she remarked.
“I’m a looker-on, this time,” he said with a sigh.
“Marjorie’s winning, I think,” said Mrs. Pope.
He made no answer for some seconds.
“She looks so charming in that blue dress,” he remarked at last, and sighed from the lowest deeps.
“That bird’s-egg blue suits her,” said Mrs. Pope, ignoring the sigh. “She’s clever in her girlish way, she chooses all her own dresses,—colours, material, everything.”
(And also, though Mrs. Pope had not remarked it, she concealed her bills.)
There came a still longer interval, which Mrs. Pope ended with the slightest of shivers. She perceived Mr. Magnet was heavy for sympathy and ripe to confide. “I think,” she said, “it’s a little cool here. Shall we walk to the Water Garden, and see if there are any white lilies?”
“There are,” said Mr. Magnet sorrowfully, “and they are very beautiful—quite beautiful.”
He turned to the path along which he had so recently led Marjorie.
He glanced back as they went along between Lady Petchworth’s herbaceous border and the poppy beds. “She’s so full of life,” he said, with a sigh in his voice.
Mrs. Pope knew she must keep silent.
“I asked her to marry me this afternoon,” Mr. Magnet blurted out. “I couldn’t help it.”
Mrs. Pope made her silence very impressive.
“I know I ought not to have done so without consulting you”—he went on lamely; “I’m very much in love with her. It’s——It’s done no harm.”
Mrs. Pope’s voice was soft and low. “I had no idea, Mr. Magnet…. You know she is very young. Twenty. A mother——”
“I know,” said Magnet. “I can quite understand. But I’ve done no harm. She refused me. I shall go away to-morrow. Go right away for ever…. I’m sorry.”
Another long silence.
“To me, of course, she’s just a child,” Mrs. Pope said at last. “She is only a child, Mr. Magnet. She could have had no idea that anything of the sort was in your mind——”
Her words floated away into the stillness.
For a time they said no more. The lilies came into sight, dreaming under a rich green shade on a limpid pool of brown water, water that slept and brimmed over as it were, unconsciously into a cool splash and ripple of escape. “How beautiful!” cried Mrs. Pope, for a moment genuine.
“I spoke to her here,” said Mr. Magnet.
The fountains of his confidence were unloosed.
“Now I’ve spoken to you about it, Mrs. Pope,” he said, “I can tell you just how I—oh, it’s the only word—adore her. She seems so sweet and easy—so graceful——”
Mrs. Pope turned on him abruptly, and grasped his hands; she was deeply moved. “I can’t tell you,” she said, “what it means to a mother to hear such things——”
