Chapter: <CHAPTER>
4. MR. AND MRS. DOVE.

Of course he knew--no man better--that he hadn't a ghost of a chance,
he hadn't an earthly. The very idea of such a thing was preposterous.
So preposterous that he'd perfectly understand it if her father--well,
whatever her father chose to do he'd perfectly understand. In fact,
nothing short of desperation, nothing short of the fact that this was
positively his last day in England for God knows how long, would have
screwed him up to it. And even now... He chose a tie out of the chest
of drawers, a blue and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed.
Supposing she replied, "What impertinence!" would he be surprised? Not
in the least, he decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it down
over the tie. He expected her to say something like that. He didn't see,
if he looked at the affair dead soberly, what else she could say.

Here he was! And nervously he tied a bow in front of the mirror, jammed
his hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacket
pockets. Making between 500 and 600 pounds a year on a fruit farm in--of
all places--Rhodesia. No capital. Not a penny coming to him. No chance
of his income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and all
that sort of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn't
even boast of top-hole health, for the East Africa business had knocked
him out so thoroughly that he'd had to take six months' leave. He was
still fearfully pale--worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought,
bending forward and peering into the mirror. Good heavens! What had
happened? His hair looked almost bright green. Dash it all, he hadn't
green hair at all events. That was a bit too steep. And then the green
light trembled in the glass; it was the shadow from the tree outside.
Reggie turned away, took out his cigarette case, but remembering how the
mater hated him to smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and drifted
over to the chest of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of one
blessed thing in his favour, while she... Ah!... He stopped dead, folded
his arms, and leaned hard against the chest of drawers.

And in spite of her position, her father's wealth, the fact
that she was an only child and far and away the most popular
girl in the neighbourhood; in spite of her beauty and her
cleverness--cleverness!--it was a great deal more than that, there
was really nothing she couldn't do; he fully believed, had it been
necessary, she would have been a genius at anything--in spite of the
fact that her parents adored her, and she them, and they'd as soon let
her go all that way as... In spite of every single thing you could think
of, so terrific was his love that he couldn't help hoping. Well, was
it hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to have the chance of looking
after her, of making it his job to see that she had everything she
wanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn't perfect--just love?
How he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and
murmured to it, "I love her, I love her!" And just for the moment he was
with her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep.
Her soft chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay
on her cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips,
her ear like a baby's, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it.
They were passing through the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away.
Then she woke up and said, "Have I been asleep?" and he answered, "Yes.
Are you all right? Here, let me--" And he leaned forward to... He bent
over her. This was such bliss that he could dream no further. But it
gave him the courage to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from
the hall, and to say as he closed the front door, "Well, I can only try
my luck, that's all."

But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the least, almost immediately.
Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, the
ancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the mater
and all that. She--she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on.
But there was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there had
been moments, many of them, in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alick died
and left him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow's
only son was about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made
it rougher than ever was that she was positively all that he had. She
wasn't only a combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled with
all her own and the governor's relations before Reggie had won his first
trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sitting
on his dark veranda by starlight, while the gramophone cried, "Dear,
what is Life but Love?" his only vision was of the mater, tall and
stout, rustling down the garden path, with Chinny and Biddy at her
heels...

The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead
something or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie.

"You are not going out, Reginald?" she asked, seeing that he was.

"I'll be back for tea, mater," said Reggie weakly, plunging his hands
into his jacket pockets.

Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped.

"I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last
afternoon," said she.

Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every word of the mater's.
Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she
looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny's porcelain eyes
gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world
were one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor little
beggars; they were getting it!

"And where are you going, if your mother may ask?" asked the mater.

It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was out
of sight of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor's. Then only he
noticed what a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all the
morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was
clear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailing
over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off
the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!--another drummed
on his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how
big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here
was Colonel Proctor's--here it was already. His hand was on the gate,
his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scattered
over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether.
He'd meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was
walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can't
be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull,
and started it pealing wildly, as if he'd come to say the house was on
fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door
flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that
confounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the
big room, shadowy, with some one's parasol lying on top of the grand
piano, bucked him up--or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet
in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling
was not unlike that of being at the dentist's; he was almost reckless.
But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself
saying, "Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done much for me... " That
pulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it was. Too
late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space
between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice,
"I'm so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town,
hat-hunting. There's only me to entertain you, Reggie."

Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered
out, "As a matter of fact, I've only come... to say good-bye."

"Oh!" cried Anne softly--she stepped back from him and her grey eyes
danced--"what a very short visit!"

Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft
peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it,
playing with the tassel of the parasol.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "to be laughing like this. I don't know why I
do. It's just a bad ha--habit." And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe,
and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. "I really
must conquer it, it's too absurd," said she.

"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie, "I love to hear you laughing! I
can't imagine anything more--"

But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing;
it wasn't really a habit. Only ever since the day they'd met, ever since
that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to
God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter where
they were or what they were talking about. They might begin by being
as serious as possible, dead serious--at any rate, as far as he was
concerned--but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would
glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips
parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing.

Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn't herself
know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her
cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peal
sounded, even while she cried, "I don't know why I'm laughing." It was a
mystery...

Now she tucked the handkerchief away.

"Do sit down," said she. "And smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes in
that little box beside you. I'll have one too." He lighted a match for
her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl
ring she wore. "It is to-morrow that you're going, isn't it?" said Anne.

"Yes, to-morrow as ever was," said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of
smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn't the word for it.

"It's--it's frightfully hard to believe," he added.

"Yes--isn't it?" said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled
the point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful
she looked like that!--simply beautiful--and she was so small in that
immense chair. Reginald's heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her
voice, her soft voice, that made him tremble. "I feel you've been here
for years," she said.

Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. "It's ghastly, this idea
of going back," he said.

"Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo," sounded from the quiet.

"But you're fond of being out there, aren't you?" said Anne. She hooked
her finger through her pearl necklace. "Father was saying only the other
night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own." And
she looked up at him. Reginald's smile was rather wan. "I don't feel
fearfully lucky," he said lightly.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo," came again. And Anne murmured, "You mean it's
lonely."

"Oh, it isn't the loneliness I care about," said Reginald, and he
stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. "I could stand any
amount of it, used to like it even. It's the idea of--" Suddenly, to his
horror, he felt himself blushing.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!"

Anne jumped up. "Come and say good-bye to my doves," she said. "They've
been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don't you, Reggie?"

"Awfully," said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French window
for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the doves
instead.

To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove
house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One
ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly
bowing and bowing. "You see," explained Anne, "the one in front, she's
Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runs
forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her laugh
again. Away she runs, and after her," cried Anne, and she sat back on
her heels, "comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing... and that's their
whole life. They never do anything else, you know." She got up and took
some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove house. "When
you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is what
they will be doing... "

Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word.
For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to
tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. "Anne, do you think
you could ever care for me?" It was done. It was over. And in the little
pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, the blue
quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and Anne
turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then
slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured
slowly, "No, never in that way." But he had scarcely time to feel
anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the
steps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across the
lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced
Reginald. "It isn't that I'm not awfully fond of you," she said. "I
am. But"--her eyes widened--"not in the way"--a quiver passed over her
face--"one ought to be fond of--" Her lips parted, and she couldn't stop
herself. She began laughing. "There, you see, you see," she cried, "it's
your check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one really
would be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie that cats
wear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid, please!"

Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. "There's no question of
forgiving you," he said quickly. "How could there be? And I do believe I
know why I make you laugh. It's because you're so far above me in every
way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were to--"

"No, no." Anne squeezed his hand hard. "It's not that. That's all wrong.
I'm not far above you at all. You're much better than I am. You're
marvellously unselfish and... and kind and simple. I'm none of those
things. You don't know me. I'm the most awful character," said Anne.
"Please don't interrupt. And besides, that's not the point. The point
is"--she shook her head--"I couldn't possibly marry a man I laughed at.
Surely you see that. The man I marry--" breathed Anne softly. She broke
off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled strangely,
dreamily. "The man I marry--"

And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger
stepped in front of him and took his place--the kind of man that Anne
and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from
nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one
long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere...

Reggie bowed to his vision. "Yes, I see," he said huskily.

"Do you?" said Anne. "Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid
about it. It's so hard to explain. You know I've never--" She stopped.
Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. "Isn't it funny?" she said.
"I can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very
beginning."

He tried to smile, to say "I'm glad." She went on. "I've never known any
one I like as much as I like you. I've never felt so happy with any one.
But I'm sure it's not what people and what books mean when they talk
about love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I feel.
But we'd be like... like Mr. and Mrs. Dove."

That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and so terribly true that he
could hardly bear it. "Don't drive it home," he said, and he turned away
from Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener's cottage,
with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparent
smoke hung above the chimney. It didn't look real. How his throat
ached! Could he speak? He had a shot. "I must be getting along home," he
croaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him.
"No, don't. You can't go yet," she said imploringly. "You can't possibly
go away feeling like that." And she stared up at him frowning, biting
her lip.

"Oh, that's all right," said Reggie, giving himself a shake. "I'll...
I'll--" And he waved his hand as much to say "get over it."

"But this is awful," said Anne. She clasped her hands and stood in front
of him. "Surely you do see how fatal it would be for us to marry, don't
you?"

"Oh, quite, quite," said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes.

"How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it's all very well for
Mr. and Mrs. Dove. But imagine that in real life--imagine it!"

"Oh, absolutely," said Reggie, and he started to walk on. But again Anne
stopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and to his astonishment, this
time, instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who was going
to cry.

"Then why, if you understand, are you so un-unhappy?" she wailed. "Why
do you mind so fearfully? Why do you look so aw-awful?"

Reggie gulped, and again he waved something away. "I can't help it," he
said, "I've had a blow. If I cut off now, I'll be able to--"

"How can you talk of cutting off now?" said Anne scornfully. She stamped
her foot at Reggie; she was crimson. "How can you be so cruel? I can't
let you go until I know for certain that you are just as happy as you
were before you asked me to marry you. Surely you must see that, it's so
simple."

But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly
difficult.

"Even if I can't marry you, how can I know that you're all that
way away, with only that awful mother to write to, and that you're
miserable, and that it's all my fault?"

"It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just fate." Reggie took her
hand off his sleeve and kissed it. "Don't pity me, dear little Anne," he
said gently. And this time he nearly ran, under the pink arches, along
the garden path.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!" sounded from the veranda. "Reggie,
Reggie," from the garden.

He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, she
gave a little laugh.

"Come back, Mr. Dove," said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across the
lawn.




</CHAPTER>

 Reggie knew he had little chance of convincing Anne Proctor to marry him. While dressing in his room Reggie imagined the different ways in which Anne would reject his proposal but he felt he had to at least try before he left. His Uncle had given him a fruit farm in Rhodesia and he was due to leave England for the island the next day. Putting his tie on, and lamenting his less than handsome appearance, Reggie daydreamed of taking Anne away to his fruit farm and holding her in his arms. He loved her with all of his heart and perhaps his love would be enough for both of them. Reggie knew that Anne was the most popular desirable woman in the neighborhood and thought she was absolutely perfect. He admired her parents, Col. Proctor and his wife very much but knew they would not want Anne to move so far from home. Reggie understood all that was stacked against him, including his frequent bouts of ill health and modest income but he had to know if Anne could ever care for him as he did her. Setting out Reggie came upon his mater as she was walking up the garden path with her two dogs and a pair of scissors. She asked in an authoritative voice where he was going and told him he should be staying home to spend his last day with her. Reggie noted her tone of disapproval and winced as she trimmed flower stems. He did not tell her where he was going and set out for the Proctor house. On his way he reflected that being a widow's only son was a terrible burden. He had no other family to turn to -- his mother had isolated herself when he was a boy. Reggie loved and admired his mother especially her iron spirit but he thought her a grim parent overall and wished things had been different between them. The air was moist as he turned onto the Proctor property. Reggie realized he did not know what he wanted say to Anne. Just as his hand rang the bell he panicked, realized he wasn't ready to talk at all and needed more time but the maid answered the door almost immediately and ushered him into the sitting room. Reggie prayed for courage "Lord Thou knowest, Thou has not done much for me..." The bell was still sounding when Anne herself came into the room. Anne extended her hand to Reggie and told him her parents were out but she would be happy to entertain him. Reggie stammered a reply and told her he had come to say goodbye. Anne was startled by this news for a moment and then she began to laugh uncontrollably. Anne had done this to him many times before. In fact there were times when she could not stop laughing at him even when there was nothing to laugh at. She called it her bad habit and apologized. Reggie told her he loved to hear her laugh although neither knew why she laughed at him. Reggie suspected it troubled her and presently she calmed herself and offered him a cigarette. Reggie thought she looked stunning sitting as she did. They made small talk about his plans to return home and they could hear the cooing of Anne's pet doves. Reggie confided that he hated the thought of going back to the fruit farm. Anne told him her father deeply admired Reggie for making his own way in life but she thought he must be lonely all by himself so far from home. Reggie began to blush and said he didn't mind the loneliness but he would miss... As Reggie's voice trailed off, his meaning became uncomfortably clear and Anne had jumped up from her chair and moved away from him, inviting him into the side veranda to see her doves. Reggie opened the door of the veranda for Anne and she walked past laughing, he assumed at the doves. In their cage the two doves walked back and forth: the male dove bowing and chasing the female, the female beckoning him forward but never allowing herself to be caught. Anne said they did this all the time and she had named them Mr. and Mrs. Dove. While she was feeding the doves, Reggie asked Anne if she could ever care for him and she replied that she could not. Reggie hardly had time to come to terms with what she said. Anne had walked past him and down the garden path to the lawn. There she told him that she did care for him and liked him very much but she couldn't marry a man she laughed at and she did just that. Anne began to laugh at Reggie saying it was his tie that she thought was funny but she could see it upset him and she apologized. Reggie grasped her hand and said he understood that she was above him in everyway and knows he's ridiculous but he would like the chance to prove his worth to her. She cut him off. Anne said she was the one with the flawed character, she was a dreadful person and Reggie was kind and he deserved better. Anne said the way she felt for Reggie was not like the love she read about in books or what she had imagined love would feel like. Anne hoped he understood because she did care for him, as a person, and she did not want him to go away with sad thoughts and to think she was horrible and to only have his mater to write to... Then she compared them to Mr. and Mrs. Dove saying it wouldn't be fair to either of them. That he would always be chasing her and she would be laughing at him and running away. They would not have a good marriage. It was too much for Reggie. To be compared to doves. He walked across the lawn and said he would get over her in time and for her not to worry about him but Anne called out to him. "How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it's all very well for Mr and Mrs Dove. But imagine that in real life- imagine it!" Reggie was surprised to see that Anne was no longer laughing: she looked as if she wanted to cry. She said he was cruel to walk away now before she was satisfied that he would be happy when he went away. She could not stand the thought of him being upset with her. She asked him to go back to how he felt before he had asked her to marry him but Reggie could not do that. He told her not to pity him and said it was fated that they should not be together and he turned and fled down the lawn away from her. Then Anne called out to him and he stopped and turned and she saw his puzzled face and she laughed. "Come back, Mr. Dove" . And he did.

