Читать книгу Kitty - Warwick Deeping - Страница 22

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No war marriage was more singular than Kitty Greenwood’s, for no marriage was ever more sudden and yet more deliberate. She went to it with widely open eyes, and consent in each beat of her vigorous little heart. Alex St. George needed her. And in loving him she knew that there was a need to be assuaged, a fear to be fought, a courage to be made whole.

They were married before a Registrar early on the morning of Alex St. George’s last day in England, and it was wholly their own affair, without applause or interference. Mrs St. George knew nothing and suspected nothing.

That was life’s reply to the suppressionist. Her son came and went during those days of his leave; they sat down together in the presence of the portraits of the dead St. Georges; they appeared the conventional mother and son. For two days Mrs St. George had stood upon her dignity, and yet when her son came home to her one night, and with a mute gentleness kissed her, she misunderstood his gentleness.

“Sorry, mater, about the other night.”

She mistook gentleness for docility. Alex was out and about a good deal, meeting hypothetical friends, but in spite of his absences she conceived him to be very much hers, the beloved son possessed and dominated. To her he was what she wished him to be, and not what he was. She had no knowledge of what was passing in his mind, no glimmerings of insight, nor did she guess that he had grown older, and could look at her almost dispassionately, yet with a young kindness. Poor old mater! He had no wish to tell her about Kitty, at least not yet, for life was his for the moment, to be shared with no one but Kitty, and instinctively he knew that his mother would misunderstand it all, and that were he to tell her, the romance of those few days would be torn to tatters. Nor was it fear that kept him from telling her. His insight had been quickened; he was exercising a sensitive young restraint; he looked at both these women, his mother and his wife, and seemed to realize that during those last few days they had to be kept apart.

On the night before the day of their marriage these two young people did debate the problem of Mrs St. George. Kitty had walked back with him to Cardigan Square, and they wandered round it in the darkness. No. 77 was as dark as the square, a house muffled up against all mischances, and in passing it Kitty had qualms.

“Is it quite fair to her?”

But almost with passion he pleaded for silence.

“It’s our show. You don’t know my mother,—Kitty. She’d spoil it. And to me—it’s rather sacred.—I know it sounds ungenerous. In a way it’s not fair to either of you.”

“In a way it isn’t.”

“But you’ll trust me. I shall write and tell her directly I get across. It’s not because I’m afraid to tell her now.”

“Sure?”

“Quite sure. I’m so proud of you—.”

She held his arm.

“Well,—I feel that the last hours are mine. I’m not going to give them up. I’m not marrying your mother.”

She did not dwell upon the obvious assumption that she would be left behind to face the resentment of a woman who was always so right. For there would be resentment. “My son has been entangled.” Undoubtedly that might be the cry, but Kitty did not wish that cry to resound on her marriage morning. She shut her lips and squared her chin. She was a rather fearless little person.

“The moment’s mine,—ours.”

He was so sure that he could make it right, but that was for the future to decide, and Kitty grasped the present and left to-morrow to look to itself. She was both practical and very warm hearted. She was both mother and mistress; she had come to him as an immense inspiration, and she knew it; she suggested, she strengthened, she consoled. She would be life and love at his elbow out there in France. And he mattered to her very dearly; she made him realize it, and in making him realize it she helped him to be a man.