# Encounters (Bowen)/The Lover

Herbert Pilkington rang the electric bell and, taking a few steps back, looked up to contemplate the house-front. In the full glare of the westerly sun it all looked trim and orderly enough; Cicely had not done so badly for herself, after all, by marrying Richard Evans. Herbert congratulated himself on having foreseen the whole thing from the beginning and furthered it with tact and sympathy. Of course it had been difficult to get poor Cicely off. . . . The hall-door was opened suddenly by Cicely's nervous little maid, who, flattening herself against the passage wall to allow of his entrance, contrived, by dodging suddenly under his arm, to reach the drawing-room door before him and fling it wide.
Richard and Cicely were discovered seated at opposite ends of the sofa and looking very conscious. Cicely wore a pink blouse; she looked prettier than Herbert could have imagined and curiously fluffy about the ​head. The white-walled drawing-room, dim in the ochreous twilight of drawn blinds, was hung with Richard's Italian water-colours and other pictorial mementos of the honeymoon; it smelt very strongly of varnish, and seemed to Herbert emptier than a drawing-room ought to be. The chairs and sofas had retreated into corners, they lacked frilliness; there was something just as startled and staccato about the room as there was about Cicely and Richard. Poor Mother and Dear Father eyed one another apprehensively from opposite walls; the very tick of the clock was hardly regular.
They always gave one a warm welcome; Cicely was quite effusive, and long Richard Evans got up and stood in front of the fireplace, delightedly kicking the fender.
"Tea!" commanded Cicely through the crack of the door; just as she had done at No. 17 and at the New House, during the few short months of her reign there.
"Hot day," said Herbert, sitting down carefully.
"Richard's hot," said Cicely proudly; "he's been mowing the lawn."
​"Home early?"
"Well, yes. One must slack off a bit this weather."
"Idle dog," said Herbert archly.
"Doesn't being engaged agree with Herbert!" cried Cicely, slapping his knee. (She had never taken these liberties at No. 17.) "Don't you feel wonderful, Herbert? Isn't it not like anything you ever felt before?"
Herbert ran one finger round the inside of his collar and smiled what Doris called his quizzical smile.
"Only three weeks more," contributed Richard. "And how's the trousseau getting on?"
"My trousseau?"
"Ha, ha! Hers, of course. My dear Herbert, those dressmaker women have got you in their fist. If they don't choose to let her have the clothes in time she'll put the whole thing off."
Herbert was not to be alarmed. "Oh, they'll hurry up," he said easily. "I'm making it worth their while. By Gad, Cicely, she does know how to dress."
​"They are most wonderful clothes—she is lucky, isn't she, Richard?"
Herbert beamed complacency. "She deserves it all," he said.
"I think she's getting handsomer every day."
"Happiness does a good deal for us all," said Herbert gallantly.
"By the way," said Cicely, winking across at Richard (an accomplishment he must have taught her), "look carefully round the room, Herbert, and see if you see anyone you know."
Herbert, who had taken Richard's place on the sofa and was sitting with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out, turned his head as far as his collar would permit and made an elaborate inspection of the chimney-piece, the whatnot, the piano-top.
"Very well she looks up there, too," he said, raising himself a little with arched back for a better view, then relapsing with a grunt of relief. He had seen what he expected, the portrait of his beloved looking out coyly at him from between two top-heavy vases. "Where did you get that, Cicely?"
"She brought it round herself, the day ​before yesterday. She came in just before supper; I was out, but she stayed a long time talking to Richard. Oh, Richard, look at Herbert getting crimson with jealousy!" Herbert, who never changed colour except after meals or from violent exertion, beamed with gratification. "Never mind, Herbert," said Cicely, "I'm jealous, too, you see."
Herbert was often irritated by the way that Richard and Cicely looked at one another across him. He did not enjoy the feeling of exclusion. But of course he and Doris would be able to look at each other across people just like that when they were married.
"Do bring it over here, Richard," said Cicely, nodding at the portrait. "I want to look at it again." Tea was carried in, not noiselessly, but quite unnoticed. The brother and sister were looking at the photograph. Herbert leant back, smiling at it with an absent and leisurely pride. Cicely bent forward in eager and short-sighted scrutiny. She seemed to be looking for something in it that she could not find.
A young lady with symmetrically puffed-out hair returned both regards from out of a ​silver frame with slightly bovine intensity. Her lips were bowed in an indulgent smile —perhaps the photographer had been a funny man—a string of pearls closely encircled a long plump neck.
"She has framed it for you very handsomely," said Herbert. "I said to her when we were first engaged, 'Never stint over a present when it is necessary'—I think that is so sound. 'Of course I do not approve of giving indiscriminately,' I said, 'but when they must be given let them be handsome. It is agreeable to receive good presents, and to give them always makes a good impression.'"
Cicely looked guilty; Richard had insisted on consigning the coal-scuttle that Herbert had given them to the darkest corner of the study.
"Doris always understands me perfectly," continued Herbert, examining the frame to see if the price were still on the back. "I think it will never be necessary for me to say anything to her twice. If I even express an opinion she always remembers. It's quite extraordinary."
​"Extraordinary," echoed Richard. His voice had often an ironical note in it; this had prejudiced Herbert against him at first, he seemed rather a disagreeable fellow, but now Herbert knew that it did not mean anything at all. Richard, though not showy-looking, was really a good sort of chap.
Cicely, a little pink (or perhaps it was only the reflection from her blouse), drew up the tea-table and began pouring out. There was a short silence while Richard replaced the photograph; they heard two blue-bottles buzzing against the ceiling.
Richard hacked three-quarters of a new cake into slices, placed the plate invitingly at Herbert's elbow and sat down on a music-stool. Lifting his feet from the floor he rotated idly till Cicely passed him his cup, which he emptied in three or four gulps and put down, then sat gazing expectantly at his brother-in-law.
"Marriage is a wonderful thing," said Herbert conversationally, recrossing his legs. "Look at you two now, how comfortable you are. It's all been most successful."
​Cicely had never known till this moment whether Herbert really approved of them.
" The most surprising people," he continued, "make a success of matrimony. Of course, people have varying ideas of comfort; everybody does not understand this, therefore there have been, alas, unhappy marriages."
"But the right people always find each other in the end," said Cicely dreamily. "You did sort of feel, didn't you, Herbert, when you first met Doris———"
"Women have these fancies"—Herbert was all indulgence for them—"Doris has confessed to me that she was affected, quite extraordinarily affected, by our first meeting. It made little or no impression upon me. But Doris is a true woman."
"What is a true woman?" asked Richard suddenly. Herbert thought it must be very uncomfortable to live with a person who asked these disconcerting, rather silly questions. He supposed Cicely was used to his ways. Cicely sat stirring her tea and smiling fatuously at her husband.
Herbert, after consideration, decided to ​turn the question lightly aside. "I think we all know," he said, "when we find her." He wished Doris were sitting beside him instead of Cicely; he would have looked at her sideways and she would have been so much pleased. As it was, he looked across the table at the bread and butter, and Richard jumped up and offered him some more.
"Yes, but what does she consist of?" asked Richard excitedly, forgetting to put down the plate. Herbert was silent; he thought this sounded rather indelicate.
"Sensibility?" suggested Cicely.
"Infinite sensibility," said Richard, "and patience."
"Contrariness," added Cicely.
"Inconsistency," amended Richard.
"Oh no. Contrariness, Richard, and weak will."
Herbert looked from one to the other, supposing they were playing some sort of game.
"She is infinitely adaptable, too," said Richard.
"She has to be, poor thing," said Cicely (this did not come well from Cicely).
​"Dear me, Cicely," interposed Herbert, blinking; "so you consider women are to be pitied, do you?" Cicely opened her mouth and shut it again. She clasped her hands.
"This does not speak well for Richard," said Herbert humorously. "Doris would be much amused. Now I suppose Doris is to be pitied, isn't she?"
"Oh no, Herbert," cried Cicely quickly.
"She doesn't seem unhappy. In fact, I believe there are very few young ladies Doris would change places with at present. And I think you are wrong, my dear Richard; I consider woman most consistent, if she is taught—and she can be easily taught. She is simpler and more child-like than we are, of course. Her way in life is simple; she is seldom placed in a position where it is necessary for her to think for herself. She need never dictate—except, of course, to servants, and there she's backed by her husband's authority. All women wish to marry."
Richard and Cicely listened respectfully.
"A true woman," continued Herbert, warming to his subject, "loves to cling."
​"But she mustn't cling heavily, must she?" asked Cicely.
"She clings not only to her husband but in a lesser degree to her household and"—he coughed slightly—"children. Her sphere———"
"—Is the home," said Richard quickly. "But suppose she hasn't got a home?"
"She may now hope till a quite advanced age to obtain a home by matrimony. If she cannot she must look for work. It is always possible for an unmarried woman to make herself useful if she is willing and"—he considered carefully—"bright."
"Do you like women to be bright?" asked Cicely eagerly.
"It depends," said Herbert guardedly. He had hated Cicely when she was skittish; it had sat grotesquely upon her as a spinster, though now that she was married a little matronly playfulness did not ill become her. "Doris is bright, bright and equable."
Remembering with resentment how uncomfortable Cicely had sometimes made him, he raised his voice a little. "She has no moods. She has simple tastes. She is always very bright and equable."
​"So you really suit each other very well," summarised Richard, twirling on the music-stool. "Appreciation is everything to a woman. I congratulate her."
"Yes," said Herbert simply. "But you should congratulate me—it is more usual, I think. But we are past all that now; dear me, how many letters there were to answer! And now there are the presents to acknowledge. A very handsome inkstand and a pair of vases came this morning. And in another three weeks we shall be at Folkestone!" . . .
His sister and brother-in-law were so silent that he thought they must have gone to sleep. They were an erratic couple; matrimony seemed to have made them stupid. Richard sat biting his moustache and staring at Cicely, who, with bent head, absently smoothed out creases in the tablecloth. One might almost have said they were waiting for him to go. It was curious how little of this he had suspected in Cicely, although she was his sister. In the evenings he knew that Richard and she read poetry together, and not improbably kissed; through ​the folding doors he could hear their cold supper being laid out in the dining-room. How could he have guessed that something inside her had been clamouring for these preposterous evenings all her life? She had seemed so contented, sewing by the lamp while he smoked and read the paper and Poor Mother dozed.
It was wasting pity to be sorry for them; he turned from his anæmic relations to review his long perspective of upholstered happiness with Doris. One might almost say that the upholstery was Doris. Herbert, feeling his heart grow great within him, could have written a testimonial to all the merchants of Romance. Having given love a trial he had found it excellent, and was prepared to recommend it personally, almost to offer a guarantee. Dear Doris would be waiting for him this evening; demure, responsive, decently elated; he was going to visit at her home. This intention he communicated to Richard and Cicely, who rose in vague and badly-feigned distress. Herbert had said nothing about going, as it happened, but since they had so understood ​him—well, they were scarcely entertaining; he had been there long enough.
They saw him to the gate and stood together under the laburnum tree, watching him down the road. Richard's arm crept round Cicely's shoulders. "But this, ah God, is love!" he quoted.
And Herbert had forgotten them before he reached the corner.