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," be 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.

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A resource site for the biography of Katherine Mansfield by Kathleen Jones