“Yes. She’s even holding it over my head that I may not be cast as Ariel, to Nellie’s horror. Nellie thinks that a good part for me is the price for using Daddy’s garden. I like Val Rich’s way much better; she makes it appear that my own ability has something to do with it. Solly, would you like to come home for awhile?”
“Really, I think I’d better get back to Mother at once, Griselda.”
“I meant it quite nicely. I wasn’t going to kiss you in the garden again or anything unmaidenly like that.”
“You didn’t kiss me. I kissed you. But you know how Mother is.”
“No, I can’t say that I do. I don’t think I’d know your mother if I saw her. I believe I know her voice, though.”
“Oh? How?”
“Somebody called up a couple of days ago, and asked if you were there. I happened to answer the phone. It was a very discreet sort of voice, but something whispered to me that it was your mother.”
“ ‘Oh great, just, good God! Miserable me!’ “ said Solly.
“What?”
“Browning.”
“Solly.”
“Yes?”
“Doesn’t your mother want you to see me?”
“Well—I don’t know.”
“Is it me particularly, or is it any girl?”
“Mother has been very ill,” said Solly. “It makes her extremely sensitive. She’s afraid that I’ll forget about her. And I don’t think she realizes that I’m not a child.”
“A very nice, loyal speech. Well, here we are at your home, and it’s still well before midnight.”
“It’s no good being huffy, Griselda. I have to take care of my mother. There’s nobody else to do it.”
“I quite understand. But I’d hoped that you cared for me, a little, as well.”
“Of course I care for you. I think I’m in love with you.”
“But you can’t be sure until you’ve asked your mother. Well, in the meantime, will you let her know where you are going when you are out? Because I don’t really like having people who don’t say who they are calling up to ask if you are with me.”
“Don’t be silly, Griselda. You’re being unfair.”
“That’s what men always say.”
“How do you know what men always say? Now listen to me: while my mother is unwell my first duty is to her. If you don’t like that we’d better drop this whole business right now.”
“Neatly put. Good-night.”
“Oh Griselda, darling; it’s stupid to quarrel like this.”
“Yes. You’d better go now.”
“But I don’t want to leave you until we’ve straightened this out.”
“It’s perfectly straight now. I certainly don’t intend to dispute your mother’s claim to all your attention and love. So what more is there to say?”
“Griselda, you’re indecently ready with your tongue. You can think up nasty things to say much too fast for your own good. Please don’t say things that will drive us apart just for the fun of saying them.”
“I can’t help it if I am not stupid enough to be good company.”
“Oh, hell!” said Solly and tried to kiss her. But she turned away her face, and he was left with his neck stretched, feeling foolish. He opened the door of the car and stepped out.
“When can we meet again and talk this over reasonably?” he asked.
“I don’t see much point in talking about it at all,” said Griselda. “Don’t bang that door or your mother will want to know who brought you home.” Solly’s face was white with anger and humiliation. But he took care not to bang the door.
As Hector walked back to the YMCA he felt himself uplifted and renewed. He had done it! He had wanted a part in the play, and he was now assured that a part—the very part which he had chosen—was his. Of course, he had planned it, and he brought common sense to bear upon this, as upon all his ambitions. But until the cast was read out by Valentine Rich he had felt, far at the back of his mind, that this was conceivably a matter in which planning and common sense, those two invaluable secrets of life, might not work their accustomed magic. But they had done so! He reproached himself affectionately for his doubts. He would never doubt again. Anything he wanted could be brought about by a proper direction of his energies. Anything within reason, he reminded himself cautiously. It was not certain, for instance, that planning and common sense would make him Prime Minister of Canada. But then, he did not want that office. If he had chosen politics as a career, however, who could say? But the part of Gonzalo was his, and what was more, he had already memorized all his words in the first two acts. He ran over a few speeches in his mind. Poetry—even such poetry as Shakespeare has given to Gonzalo—is like wine; it is not for unseasoned heads. The rhythm and the unaccustomed richness of the words worked powerfully upon Hector’s sensibilities, which had until this time been teetotallers in the matter of poetry. He was in a melting mood. How very good of the casting committee, he thought, to meet his wishes in this way. He had supposed, that night at Mrs Forrester’s, that there had been some unspoken opposition to his plan to act. But obviously they had thought better of it. Generous, large-hearted people! Well, they should not be disappointed in him. He had not reached beyond his capacities. If he had wished to play Prospero, now, or Caliban—. But he knew himself, and he knew what he could do. It was a great thing to know yourself.
It was a fine May night, and the moon shone brightly as Hector crossed the park. It had been nice of Miss Webster to congratulate him. He had not taken much notice of her before, but there was no doubt about it, she was an uncommonly nice girl. She had spoken so—he searched for the right word—well, so nicely. This was all the more meritorious in her because she had been educated in private schools. Boarding schools. He did not approve of private schools. It was a well-known fact that many of the teachers in them were not really qualified to teach; they had received no instruction in pedagogy; they merely had a knowledge—sometimes, he admitted, quite a thorough knowledge—of the subjects they taught. He was not a bigot in pedagogical matters. Still, if pedagogy were not a necessary study for a teacher, the Department would not lay so much stress upon it. Yet, in this expansive, unbuttoned mood, Hector was ready to admit that Miss Webster was a good advertisement for whatever school she had attended. Nevertheless, he chuckled to himself, he would like to throw a few quick problems in factoring at her, just to see what she made of them.
At some distance from the path, under the trees, was a bench, and upon it were a boy and girl in a close embrace. Ordinarily Hector would not have noticed them, for the eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend. He saw them now; Hector the actor, rather than Hector the teacher of mathematics, took note of what they were doing. He felt indulgent. It was a fine night; why should they not seek romance?
Romance, he realized, had been a scarce ingredient in his own life. There was, of course, romance in his steady rise from a country lad to his present position, but that was not the sort of romance he meant. There had been that awful business at the Normal School “At Home”. But had he not put that behind him? He flushed at the recollection; twenty-one years since that painful evening, but it still had power to shame him. Nevertheless, that was water under the bridge, and Millicent Maude McGuckin was a married woman in a distant city, doubtless with children near to the age that he and she had been when it all happened. Down into oblivion he thrust the dismaying memory. Just before it disappeared however, he told himself that things would be different if he had that evening to live through again. If one could have the keen appetite of youth, with the experience of age! This cliché of thought rose in his mind as fresh and rosy as Venus from the sea, and he pondered delightedly upon it.
It would be different now. He was master of himself now. If he could have his chance again! And then, so suddenly and sharply that it made him catch his breath, came the thought: Why not? But no, it was out of the question. He thrust the thought from him. But again it returned: Why not? Well, was not he the head of the mathematics department of a large school, past the time for—the expression which his mother had used, when speaking of such matters—for girling? But why not? The question returned with an insistency which made him doubt that it arose in his own mind; it was as though another voice, a clear, insistent voice, spoke to him. Why not? Why not?