Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 13

'I don't think I want to marry anybody. I think I'd rather marry you.'

'Yes, but you've got to be practical, you know. You've got to be practical in this world. You want to marry a man with a good lot of money, a nice chap, one you like, who can give you a good time and look after you properly, give you all the things you ought to have.'

'I only want to marry the person I want to marry; I don't mind about a lot of things.' things.'

'Yes, but they are important, old girl. They are important in this world. It is no good being young and romantic.' He went on, 'My leave's up in another ten days. I thought I'd better speak before I went. Before that I thought I wouldn't...I thought that I'd wait. But I think youwell, I think I'd like you just to know that I'm here. When I come back in two years' time, if there isn't anybody'

'There won't be anyone,' I said. I was quite positive.

And so Reggie and I became engaged. It was not called an engagement: it was on the 'understanding' system. Our families knew we were engaged, but it would not be announced or put in the paper, and we would not tell our friends about it, though I think most of them knew.

'I can't think,' I said to Reggie, 'why we can't be married. Why didn't you tell me sooner, then we would have had time to make preparations.'

'Yes, of course, you've got to have bridesmaids and a slap-up wedding and all the rest of it. But anyway, I shouldn't dream of letting you get married to me now. You must have your chance.'

I used to get angry over this, and we would almost quarrel. I said I didn't think it was flattering for him to be so ready to turn down my offer to marry him at once. But Reggie had fixed ideas as to what was due to the person he loved, and he had got it into his long, narrow head that the right thing for me to do was to marry a man with a place, money, and all the rest of it. In spite of our disputes, though, we were very happy. The Lucys all seemed pleased, saying, 'We've thought Reggie had his eye on you, Aggie, for some time. He doesn't usually look at any of our girl friends. Still, there's no hurry. Better give yourself plenty of time.'

There were one or two moments when what I had enjoyed so much with the Lucystheir insistence on there being plenty of time for anythingroused a certain antagonism in me. Romantically, I would have liked Reggie to say that he couldn't possibly wait two years, that we must get married now. Unfortunately, it was the last thing Reggie would have dreamed of saying. He was a very unselfish man, and diffident about himself and his prospects.

My mother was, I think, happy about our engagement. She said, 'I have always been fond of him. I think he is one of the nicest people I have ever met. He will make you happy. He is gentle and kind, and he will never hurry you, or bother you. You won't be very well off, but you will have enough now that he has reached the rank of majoryou'll manage all right. You're not the sort of person who cares very much about money, and who wants parties and a gay life. No, I think this will be a happy marriage.'

Then she said, after a slight pause, 'I wish he'd told you a little earlier, so that you could have married straight away.'

So she, too, felt as I did. Ten days later, Reggie left to go back to his Regiment and I settled down to wait for him.

Let me add here a kind of postscript to my account of my courtship days.

I have described my suitorsbut, rather unfairly, have not commented on the fact that I, too, lost my heart. First to a very tall young soldier, whom I met when staying in Yorkshire. If he had asked me to marry him, I should probably have said yes before the words were out of his mouth! Very wisely from his point of view, he didn't. He was a penniless subaltern, and about to go to India with his regiment. I think he was more or less in love with me, though. He had that sheep-like look. I had to make do with that. He went off to India, and I yearned after him for at least six months.

Then, a year or so later, I lost my heart again, when acting in a musical play got up by friends in Torquaya version of Bluebeard, Bluebeard, with topical words, written by themselves. I was Sister Anne, and the object of my affections later became an Air Vice-Marshal. He was young thenat the beginning of his career. I had the revolting habit of singing to a teddy bear in a coy fashion the song of the moment: with topical words, written by themselves. I was Sister Anne, and the object of my affections later became an Air Vice-Marshal. He was young thenat the beginning of his career. I had the revolting habit of singing to a teddy bear in a coy fashion the song of the moment: I wish I had a Teddy BearTo sit upon my kneeI'd take it with me everywhereTo cuddle up to me.

All I can offer in excuse is that all the girls did that sort of thingand it went down very well.

Several times in later life I came near meeting him againsince he was a cousin of friendsbut I always managed to avoid it. I have my vanity.

I have always believed that he has a memory of me as a lovely girl at a moonlight picnic on Anstey's Cove on the last day of his leave. We sat apart from the rest on a rock sticking out to sea. We didn't speakjust sat there holding hands.

After he left he sent me a little gold Teddy Bear brooch.

I cared enough to want him still to remember me like thatand not to sustain the shock of meeting thirteen stone of solid flesh and what could only be described as 'a kind face'.

'Amyas always asks after you,' my friends would say. 'He would so like to meet you again.'

Meet me at a ripe sixty? No fear. I would like to be an illusion still to somebody.

VII

Happy people have no history, isn't that the saying? Well, I was a happy person during this period. I did mostly the same things as usual: met my friends, went to stay away occasionallybut there was anxiety about my mother's eyesight, which was getting progressively worse. She had great difficulty in reading now, and trouble seeing things in a bright light. Spectacles did not help. My grandmother at Ealing was also rather blind, and had to peer about for things. She was also getting, as elderly people do, progressively more suspicious of everybody: of her servants, of men who came to mend the pipes, of the piano tuner, and so on. I always remember Grannie leaning across the dining-table and saying, either to me or to my sister, 'Ssh!'a deep hissing sound'Speak low, where is your bag?' where is your bag?'

'In my room, Grannie.'

'You've left left it there? You mustn't leave it there. I heard it there? You mustn't leave it there. I heard her, her, upstairs, just now.' upstairs, just now.'

'Well, but that's all right, isn't it?'

'You never know, dear, you never know. Go up and fetch it.'

It must have been about this time that my mother's mother, Granny B., fell off a bus. She was addicted to riding on the top of buses, and I suppose by now must have been eighty. Anyway, the bus went on suddenly as she was coming downstairs, and she fell off; broke, I think, a rib, and possibly an arm as well. She sued the bus company with vigour, was awarded handsome compensationand sternly forbidden by her doctor ever to ride on the top of a bus again. Naturally, being Granny B., she disobeyed him constantly. Up to the last Granny B. was always the old soldier. She had an operation, too, somewhere about this time. I imagine it was cancer of the uterus, but the operation was entirely successful, and she never had any recurrence. The only deep disappointment was her own. She had looked forward to having this 'tumour', or whatever it was, removed from her inside, because, she thought, she would be quite nice and slim after it. She was by this time an immense size, bigger than my other grandmother. The joke of the fat woman who was stuck in the bus door, with the bus conductor crying to her, 'Try sideways, ma'am, try sideways''Lor, young man, I ain't got got no sideways!' could have applied perfectly to her. no sideways!' could have applied perfectly to her.

Though strictly forbidden to get out of bed by the nurses after she had come out of the anaesthetic, and they had left her to sleep, she rose from her bed and tiptoed to the pier-gla.s.s. What a disillusion. She appeared to be as stout as ever.

'I shall never get over the disappointment, Clara,' she said to my mother. 'Never. I counted on it! It carried me through that anaesthetic and everything. And look at me: just the same!'

It must have been about then that my sister Madge and I had a discussion which was to bear fruit later. We had been reading some detective story or other; I thinkI can only say I think because one's remembrances are not always accurate: one is apt to rearrange them in one's mind and get things in the wrong date and sometimes in the wrong placeI think it was The Mystery of the Yellow Room, The Mystery of the Yellow Room, which had just come out, by a new author, Gaston Le Roux, with an attractive young reporter as detectivehis name was Rouletabille. It was a particularly baffling mystery, well worked out and planned, of the type some call unfair and others have to admit is almost unfair, but not quite: one which had just come out, by a new author, Gaston Le Roux, with an attractive young reporter as detectivehis name was Rouletabille. It was a particularly baffling mystery, well worked out and planned, of the type some call unfair and others have to admit is almost unfair, but not quite: one could could just have seen a neat little clue cleverly slipped in. just have seen a neat little clue cleverly slipped in.

We talked about it a lot, told each other our views, and agreed it was one of the best. We were connoisseurs of the detective story: Madge had initiated me young to Sherlock Holmes, and I had followed hot-foot on her trail, starting with The Levenworth Case, The Levenworth Case, which had fascinated me when recounted to me by Madge at the age of eight. Then there was a.r.s.ene Lupinbut I never quite considered that a proper detective story, though the stories were exciting and great fun. There were also the Paul Beck stories, highly approved, which had fascinated me when recounted to me by Madge at the age of eight. Then there was a.r.s.ene Lupinbut I never quite considered that a proper detective story, though the stories were exciting and great fun. There were also the Paul Beck stories, highly approved, The Chronicles of Mark Hewitt The Chronicles of Mark Hewittand now The Mystery of the Yellow Room. The Mystery of the Yellow Room. Fired with all this, I said I should like to try Fired with all this, I said I should like to try my my hand at a detective story. hand at a detective story.

'I don't think you could do it,' said Madge. 'They are very difficult to do. I've thought about it.'

'I should like to try.'

'Well, I bet you couldn't,' said Madge.

There the matter rested. It was never a definite bet; we never set out the termsbut the words had been said. From that moment I was fired by the determination that I would write a detective story. It didn't go further than that. I didn't start to write it then, or plan it out; the seed had been sown. At the back of my mind, where the stories of the books I am going to write take their place long before the germination of the seed occurs, the idea had been planted: some day I would write a detective story. some day I would write a detective story.

VIII

Reggie and I wrote to each other regularly. I gave him the local news, and tried to write him the best letter I couldletter writing has never been one of my strong points. My sister Madge, now, was what I can only describe as a model of the art! She could make the most splendid stories out of nothing at all. I do envy that gift.

My dear Reggie's letters were exactly like Reggie talking, which was nice and rea.s.suring. He urged me at great length, always, to go about a lot.

'Now don't stay at home moping, Aggie. Don't think that is what I want, because it isn't; you must go out and see people. You must go to dances and things and parties. I do want you to have every chance, before we get settled down.'

Looking back now, I wonder whether at the back of my mind I may not have slightly resented this point of view. I don't think I recognised it at the time; but does one really really like to be urged to go about, to see other people, 'to do better for yourself' (that extraordinary phrase)? Is it not nearer to the truth that every female would prefer her love-letters to exhibit a show of jealousy? like to be urged to go about, to see other people, 'to do better for yourself' (that extraordinary phrase)? Is it not nearer to the truth that every female would prefer her love-letters to exhibit a show of jealousy?

'Who is that fellow so-and-so you write about? You're not getting too fond of him, are you?'

Isn't that what we really want as a s.e.x? Can we take too much unselfishness? Or does one read back into one's mind things that perhaps weren't there?

The usual dances were given in the neighbourhood. I didn't go to them because, as we had no car, it would not have been practicable to accept any invitations of more than a mile or two away. Hiring a cab or car would have been too expensive except for a very special occasion. But there were times when a hunt for girls was on, and then you would be asked to stay, or fetched and returned.

The Cliffords at Chudleigh were giving a dance to which they were asking members of the Garrison from Exeter, and they asked some of their friends if they could bring a likely girl or two along. My old enemy Commander Travers, who was now retired and living with his wife in Chudleigh, suggested that they should bring me. Having been my pet abomination as a small child, he had graduated from that into old family friend. His wife rang up and asked if I would come and stay with them and go to the Cliffords' dance. I was delighted to do so, of course.

I also got a letter from a friend called Arthur Griffiths, whom I had met when staying with the Matthews at Thorpe Arch Hall in Yorkshire. He was the local vicar's son, and a soldiera gunner. He and I had become great friends. Arthur wrote to say that he was now stationed at Exeter, but that unfortunately he was not one of the officers going to the dance, and that he was very sad about it because he would have liked to dance with me again. 'However,' he said, 'there's a fellow from our Mess going, Christie by name, so look out for him, won't you? He's a good dancer.'

Christie came my way quite soon in the dance. He was a tall, fair young man, with crisp curly hair, a rather interesting nose, turned up not down, and a great air of careless confidence about him. He was introduced to me, asked for a couple of dances, and said that his friend Griffiths had told him to look out for me. We got on together very well; he danced splendidly and I danced again several more times with him. I enjoyed the evening thoroughly. The next day, having thanked the Travers, I was driven home by them as far as Newton Abbot, where I took the train back.

It must have been, I suppose, a week or ten days later; I was having tea with the Mellors at their house opposite ours. Max Mellor and I still practised our ballroom dancing, though mercifully waltzing upstairs was out of fashion. We were, I think, tango-ing, when I was summoned to the telephone. It was my mother.

'Come home at once, will you, Agatha?' she said. 'There's one of your young men hereI don't know him, never seen him before. I've given him tea, but he seems to be staying on and on hoping to see you.'

My mother was always intensely irritated if she had to look after my young men unaided; she regarded such entertainment as strictly my business.

I was cross at coming back; I was enjoying myself. Besides, I thought I knew who it wasa rather dreary young naval lieutenant, the one who used to ask me to read his poems. So I went unwillingly, with a sulky expression on my face.

I came into the drawing-room, and a young man stood up with a good deal of relief. He was rather pink in the face and clearly embarra.s.sed, having had to explain himself. He was not even much cheered by seeing meI think he was afraid I shouldn't remember him. But I did remember him, though I was intensely surprised. It had not occurred to me that I should ever see Griffiths' friend, young Christie, again. He made some rather hesitating explanationshe had had to come over to Torquay on his motor-bike, and thought he might as well look me up. He avoided mentioning the fact that he must have gone to a certain amount of trouble and embarra.s.sment to find out my address from Arthur Griffiths. However, things went better after a minute or two. My mother was intensely relieved by my arrival. Archie Christie looked more cheerful, having got his explanations over, and I felt highly flattered.

The evening wore on as we talked. In the sacred code sign, common between women, the question was raised between mother and me as to whether this unasked visitor was going to be invited to stay to supper, and if so what food there was likely to be in the house. It must have been soon after Christmas, because I know there was cold turkey in the larder. I signalled yes to mother, and she asked Archie if he would care to stay and have a scratch meal with us. He accepted promptly. So we had cold turkey and salad and something else, cheese I think, and spent a pleasant evening. Then Archie got on his motor-bike and went off in a series of explosive b.u.mps to Exeter.

For the next ten days he made frequent and unexpected appearances. That first evening he had asked me if I would like to come to a concert at ExeterI had mentioned at the dance that I was fond of musicand that he would take me to the Redcliffe Hotel to tea afterwards. I said I would like to come very much. Then there was a somewhat embarra.s.sed moment when mother made it clear that her daughter did not accept invitations to come to Exeter for concerts by herself. That damped him a bit, but he hastily extended the invitation to her. Mother relented, decided she approved of him, and said that it would be quite all right for me to go to the concert, concert, but that she was afraid that I could not go to tea with him at a but that she was afraid that I could not go to tea with him at a hotel. hotel. (I must say, looking at it nowadays, I think we had peculiar rules. One could go alone with a young man to play golf, to ride a horse, or to roller-skate, but having tea with him in a hotel had a kind of (I must say, looking at it nowadays, I think we had peculiar rules. One could go alone with a young man to play golf, to ride a horse, or to roller-skate, but having tea with him in a hotel had a kind of risque risque appearance which good mothers did not fancy for their daughters.) A compromise was made in the end, that he might give me tea in the refreshment room on Exeter station. Not a very romantic spot. Later, I asked him if he would like to come to a Wagnerian concert that was to take place at Torquay in four or five days' time. He said he would like it very much. appearance which good mothers did not fancy for their daughters.) A compromise was made in the end, that he might give me tea in the refreshment room on Exeter station. Not a very romantic spot. Later, I asked him if he would like to come to a Wagnerian concert that was to take place at Torquay in four or five days' time. He said he would like it very much.

Archie told me all about himself, how he was waiting impatiently to get into the newly-formed Royal Flying Corps. I was thrilled by this. Everyone was thrilled by flying. But Archie was entirely matter-of-fact. He said it was going to be the service of the future: if there was a war, planes would be the first thing needed. It wasn't that he was mad keen on flying, but it was a chance to get on in your career. There was no future in the Army. As a Gunner, promotion was too slow. He did his best to take the romance out of flying for me, but didn't quite succeed. All the same it was the first time that my romanticism came up against a practical, logical mind. In 1912 it was still a fairly sentimental world. People called called themselves hard-boiled, but they had no real idea what the term meant. Girls had romantic ideas about young men, and young men had idealistic views about young girls. We had, however, come a long way since my grandmother's day. themselves hard-boiled, but they had no real idea what the term meant. Girls had romantic ideas about young men, and young men had idealistic views about young girls. We had, however, come a long way since my grandmother's day.

'You know, I like Ambrose,' she said, referring to one of my sister's suitors. 'The other day, after Madge had walked along the terrace, I saw Ambrose get up and follow her, and he bent down and picked up a handful of gravel, where her feet had trodden, and put it in his pocket. Very pretty I thought it was, very pretty. I could imagine that happening to me when I was young.'

Poor darling Grannie. We had to disillusion her. Ambrose, it turned out, was deeply interested in geology, and the gravel had been of a particular type which interested him.

Archie and I were poles apart in our reactions to things. I think that from the start that fascinated us. It is the old excitement of 'the stranger'. I asked him to the New Year Ball. He was in a peculiar mood the night of the dance: he hardly spoke to me. We were a party of four or six, I think, and every time I danced with him and we sat out afterwards he was completely silent. When I spoke to him he answered almost at random, in a way that did not make sense. I was puzzled, looking at him once or twice, wondering what was the matter with him, what he was thinking of. He seemed no longer interested in me.

I was rather stupid, really. I should have known by now that when a man looks like a sick sheep, completely bemused, stupid and unable to listen to what you say to him, he has, vulgarly, got it badly.

What did I know? Did I know what was happening to me? I remember picking up one of Reggie's letters when it came, saying to myself, 'I'll read this later,' and shoving it quickly into the hall drawer. I found it there some months afterwards. I suppose, deep down, I already knew.

The Wagnerian concert was two days after the ball. We went to it, and came back to Ashfield afterwards. As we went up to the schoolroom to play the piano, as was our usual custom, Archie spoke to me almost desperately. He was leaving in two days' time, he said: he was going to Salisbury Plain, to start his Flying Corps training. Then he said fiercely, 'You've got to marry me, you've got got to marry me.' He said he had known it the first evening he danced with me. 'I had an awful time getting your address and finding you. Nothing could have been more difficult. There will never be anyone but you. You've got to marry me.' to marry me.' He said he had known it the first evening he danced with me. 'I had an awful time getting your address and finding you. Nothing could have been more difficult. There will never be anyone but you. You've got to marry me.'

I told him it was impossible, that I was already engaged to someone. He waved away engagements with a furious hand. 'What on earth does that that matter?' he said. 'You'll just have to break it off, that's all.' matter?' he said. 'You'll just have to break it off, that's all.'

'But I can't. I couldn't possibly possibly do that.' do that.'

'Of course you could. I'm not engaged to anyone else, but if I was I'd break it off in a minute without even thinking about it.'

'I couldn't do this this to him.' to him.'

'Nonsense. You have have to do things to people. If you were so fond of each other, why didn't you get married before he went abroad?' 'We thought' I hesitated'it better to wait.' to do things to people. If you were so fond of each other, why didn't you get married before he went abroad?' 'We thought' I hesitated'it better to wait.'

'I wouldn't have waited. I'm not going to wait either.'

'We couldn't be married for years,' I said. 'You're only a subaltern. And it would be the same in the Flying Corps.'

'I couldn't possibly wait years. I should like to be married next month or the month after.'

'You're mad,' I said. 'You don't know what you are talking about.'

I don't think he did. He had to come down to earth in the end. It was a terrible shock for my poor mother. I think she had been anxious, though no more than anxious, and she was deeply relieved to hear that Archie was going away to Salisbury Plainbut to be presented so suddenly with a fait accompli fait accompli shook her. shook her.

I had said to her: 'I'm sorry, mother. I've got to tell you. Archie Christie has asked me to marry him, and I want to, I want to dreadfully.'

But we had to face factsArchie unwillingly, but mother was very firm with him. 'What do you have to get married on?' she asked. 'Either of you.'

Our financial position could hardly have been worse. Archie was a young subaltern, only a year older than I was. He had no money, only his pay and a small allowance, which was all that his mother could afford. I had only the solitary hundred a year which I had inherited under my grandfather's will. It would be years at the best before Archie was in any any position to marry. position to marry.

He said to me rather bitterly before he went: 'Your mother's brought me down to earth. I thought nothing would matter! We would get married somehow or other, and things would be all right. She has made me see that we can't, not at present. We shall have to waitbut we won't wait a day longer than we can help. I shall do everything, everything I can think of. This flying business will help...only of course they don't like your being married either in the Army or or the Flying Corps while you are young.' We looked at each other, we were young, desperateand in love. the Flying Corps while you are young.' We looked at each other, we were young, desperateand in love.

We had an engagement that lasted a year and a half. It was a tempestuous time, full of ups and downs and deep unhappiness, because we had the feeling that we were reaching out for something we would never attain.

I put off writing to Reggie for nearly a month, mainly, I suppose, out of guilt, and partly because I could not bring myself to believe that what had suddenly happened to me could possibly have been real realsoon I would wake up from it and go back to where I was.

But I had to write in the endguilty, miserable, and without a single excuse. It made it worse, I think, the kindly and sympathetic way that Reggie took it. He told me not to distress myself; it wasn't my fault he was sure; I could not have helped it; these things happen.

'Of course,' he said, 'it's been a bit of a blow for me, Agatha, that you are marrying a chap who is even less able to support you than I am. If you were marrying somebody well off, a good match and everything, I should have felt that it didn't matter so much, because it would be more what you ought ought to have, but now I can't help wishing that I'd taken you at your word and that we'd got married and that I'd brought you out here with me straight away.' to have, but now I can't help wishing that I'd taken you at your word and that we'd got married and that I'd brought you out here with me straight away.'

Did I wish also that he'd done that? I suppose notnot by that timeand yet perhaps there was always the feeling of wanting to go back, wanting to have once more a safe foot on sh.o.r.e. Not to swim out into deep water. I had been so happy, so peaceful with Reggie, we had understood each other so well; we'd enjoyed and wanted the same things.

What had happened to me now was the opposite. I loved a stranger; mainly because he was was a stranger, because I never knew how he would react to a word or a phrase and everything he said was fascinating and new. He felt the same. He said once to me, 'I feel I can't get a stranger, because I never knew how he would react to a word or a phrase and everything he said was fascinating and new. He felt the same. He said once to me, 'I feel I can't get at at you. I don't know what you're you. I don't know what you're like.' like.' Every now and then we were overwhelmed by waves of despair, and one or other of us would write and break it off. We would both agree that it was the only thing to do. Then, about a week later, we would find ourselves unable to bear it, and we would be back on the old terms. Every now and then we were overwhelmed by waves of despair, and one or other of us would write and break it off. We would both agree that it was the only thing to do. Then, about a week later, we would find ourselves unable to bear it, and we would be back on the old terms.

Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. We were badly enough off anyway, but now a fresh financial blow fell upon my family. The H. B. Chaflin Company in New York, the firm of which my grandfather had been a partner, went suddenly into liquidation. It was an unlimited company too, and I gathered that the position was serious. In any case, it meant that the income which my mother had received from it, which was the only income she had, would now cease completely. My grandmother, by good fortune, was not quite in the same situation. Her money had also been left to her in H. B. Chaflin shares, but Mr Bailey, who was the member of the firm who looked after her affairs, had been worried for some time. Charged with the care of Nathaniel Miller's widow, he felt responsible for her. When Grannie wanted money she merely wrote to Mr Bailey, and Mr Bailey, I think, sent it her in cas.h.i.t was as old-fashioned as that. She was disturbed and upset when one day he suggested to her that she should allow him to reinvest her money for her.

'Do you mean take my money out of Chaflin's?'

He was evasive. He said that you had to watch investments, that it was awkward for her, being English by birth and living in England, as the widow of an American. He said several things which, of course, were not the real explanation at all, but Grannie accepted them. Like all women of that time, you accepted completely any business advice that was given you by anyone you trusted. Mr Bailey said leave it to him, he would reinvest her money in a way that would give her nearly as much income as she had now. Reluctantly Grannie agreed; and therefore, when the crash came, her income was safe. Mr Bailey was dead by that time, but he had done his duty for the partner's widow, without giving away his fears about the solvency of the company. Younger members of the firm had, I believe, launched out in a big way, and had seemed successful, but actually they had expanded too much, had opened too many branches all over the country, and spent too much money on salesmanship. Whatever its cause, the crash was a complete one.

It was like a recurrence of my childhood's experience, when I had heard mother and father talking together about money difficulties, and had pranced down happily to announce to the household below stairs that we were ruined. 'Ruin' had seemed to me then a fine and exciting thing. It did not seem nearly so exciting now; it spelt final disaster for Archie and myself. The 100 a year I had belonging to me must of course go to support mother. No doubt Madge would help also. By selling Ashfield she might just be able to exist.

Things turned out to be not quite so bad as we thought, because Mr John Chaflin wrote from America to my mother and said how deeply grieved he was. She might count on an income of 300 a year, sent to her not from the firm, which was bankrupt, but from his own private fortune, and this would last until her death. That relieved us of the first anxiety. But when she died that money would cease. 100 a year and Ashfield was all I could count upon for the future. I wrote and told Archie that I could never marry him, that we should have to forget each other. Archie refused to listen to this. Somehow or other he was going to make money. We would get married, and he might even be able to help support my mother. He made me confident and hopeful. We got engaged again.

My mother's eyesight became much worse, and she went to a specialist. He told her she had cataracts in both eyes, and that for various reasons it would be impossible to operate. They might not grow fast, but in time would certainly lead to blindness. Again I wrote to Archie, breaking off the engagement, saying that it was obviously not meant to be, and that I could never desert my mother if she were blind. Again he refused to concur. I was to wait and see how my mother's eyesight got onthere might be a cure for it, an operation might be possible, and anyway she wasn't blind now now so we might as well remain engaged. We did remain engaged. Then I had a letter from Archie, saying, 'It's no good, I can never marry you. I am too poor. I have been trying one or two small investments with what I had, and it's no good whatsoever, I've lost it. You must give me up.' I wrote and said I would never give him up. He wrote back and said I must. We then agreed we so we might as well remain engaged. We did remain engaged. Then I had a letter from Archie, saying, 'It's no good, I can never marry you. I am too poor. I have been trying one or two small investments with what I had, and it's no good whatsoever, I've lost it. You must give me up.' I wrote and said I would never give him up. He wrote back and said I must. We then agreed we would would give each other up. give each other up.

Four days later Archie managed to get leave and arrived suddenly on his motor-bicycle from Salisbury Plain. It was no good, we had got to be engaged again, we had got to be hopeful and waitsomething would happen, even if we had to wait four or five years. We went through emotional storms, and in the end, once more, our engagement was on, though every month the possibility of marriage receded further into the distance. It was hopeless, I felt in my heart, but I wouldn't recognise it. Archie thought it was hopeless too, but we still clung desperately to the belief that we could not live without each other, so we might as well remain engaged and pray for some sudden stroke of fortune.