After those events, and before the end of term, at last I scored a point in my long struggle of attrition with Getliffe. I kept reminding him of his promise to unload some of his briefs; I kept telling him, firmly, affectionately, reproachfully, in all the tones I could command, that I still had not made a pound through his help. As a rule, I disliked being pertinacious, but with Getliffe it was fun. The struggle swayed to and fro. He promised again; then he was too busy to consider any of his briefs; then he thought, almost tearfully, of his clients; then he offered to pay me a very small fee to devil a very large case. At last, on a December afternoon, his face suddenly became beatific. ‘Old H-J (a solicitor named Hutton-Jones) is coming in soon! That means work for Herbert. Well, L S, I’m going to do something for you. I’m going to say to H-J that there’s a man in these Chambers who’ll do that job as well as I should. L S, I can’t tell you how glad I am to do something for you. You deserve it, L S, you deserve it.’
He looked me firmly in the eyes and warmly clasped my hand.
It happened. A ten-guinea brief in the West London County Court came to me from Hurton-Jones: and it had, unquestionably, been offered to Getliffe. Later on, I became friendly with Hutton-Jones, and his recollection was that the conversation with Getliffe went something like this: ‘H-J, do you really want me to do this? Don’t get me wrong. Don’t think I’m too high-hat to take the county court stuff. It’s all grist that comes to the mill, and you know as well as I do, H-J, that I’m a poor man. But I have got a young chap here — well, I don’t say he could do this job, but he might scrape through. Mind you, I like Eliot. Of course, he hasn’t proved himself. I don’t say that he’s ripe for this job—’
Hutton-Jones knew something of Getliffe, and diverted the brief to me. I argued for a day in court, and then we reached a settlement. I had saved our clients a fair sum of money. Getliffe congratulated me, as man to man.
It was a long time before another of his cases found its way to me, but now, by the spring of 1930, I was well under way. Percy judged that he could back me a little farther; Henriques and the Harts were speaking approvingly of me in March circles; Hurton-Jones was trying me on some criminal work, legally dull but shot through with human interest. I was becoming busy. I even knew what it was, as summer approached, to have to refuse invitations to dinner because I was occupied with my briefs.
Just about that time a letter came from Marion, out of the blue. I had written to congratulate her on her engagement, and I had heard that she was married. Now she said that she would much like to visit me. I had a fleeting notion, flattering to my vanity, that she might be in distress and had turned to me for help. But the first sight of her, as she entered my sitting-room, was enough to sweep that daydream right away. She looked sleek, her eyes were shining, she had become much prettier, and she was expensively dressed: though, just as I remembered, she had managed to leave a patch of white powder or scurf on the shoulder of her jacket.
‘Not that you can talk,’ she grumbled, as I dusted it off.
‘I needn’t ask whether you’re happy,’ I said.
‘I don’t think you really need,’ she said.
She was all set to tell me her story. Before we went out to dinner she had to describe exactly how it all happened. She had met Eric at a drama festival and had fallen romantically in love with him, body and soul, she said. And he with her. They fell passionately in love, and decided to get married. According to her account, he was modest, shy, very active physically. It was only after they were engaged that she discovered that he was also extremely rich.
‘That’s the best example of feminine realism I’ve ever heard,’ I said.
Marion threw a book at me.
They were living in a country house in Suffolk. It was all perfect, she said. She was already with child.
‘What’s the use of waiting?’ said Marion briskly.
‘I must say, I envy you.’
She smiled. ‘You ought to get married yourself, my boy.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said.
She asked suddenly: ‘Are you going to marry that woman?’
I was slow to answer. At last I said ‘I hope so.’
Marion sighed.
‘It will be a tragedy,’ she said. ‘You must realize that. You’re much too sensible not to see what it would be like. She’ll ruin you. Believe me; Lewis, this isn’t sour grapes now.’
I shook my head.
‘I hate her,’ Marion burst out. ‘If I could poison her and get away with it, I’d do it like a shot.’
‘You don’t know all of her,’ I said.
‘I know the effect she’s had on you. No, I don’t want you for myself, my dear. I shall love Eric for ever. But there’s a corner in my heart for you.’ She looked at me, half-maternally. ‘Eric’s a much better husband than you’d ever have been,’ she said. ‘Still, I suppose I shan’t meet another man like you.’
As we parted she gave me an affectionate kiss.
She had come to show off her happiness, I thought. It was no more than her right. I did not begrudge it. I felt somewhat desolate. It made me think of my own marriage.
For, as I told Marion, I had never stopped hoping to marry Sheila. Since my first proposal I had not asked her again. But she knew, of course, that, whether I was too proud to pester her or not, she had only to show the slightest wish. In fact, we had lately played sometimes with the future. For months past she had seemed to think more of me; her letters were sometimes intimate and content. She had told me, in one of the phrases that broke out from her locked heart: ‘With you I don’t find joy. But you give me so much hope that I don’t want to go away.’
That exalted me more than the most explicit word of love from another woman. I hoped, I believed as well as hoped, that the bond between us was too strong for her to escape, and that she would marry me.
And marriage was at last a practical possibility. I did my usual accounting at the beginning of July 1930. In the last year I had made nearly four hundred and fifty pounds. The briefs were coming in. Without touching wood, I reckoned that a comfortable income was secure. More likely than not, I should earn a large one.
Just a week after I went through my accounts I woke in the morning with an attack of giddiness. It was like those I used to have, at the time of the Bar Finals. I was a little worried, but did not think much of it. It took me a day or two to accept the fact that I was unwell. I was forced to remember that I had often felt exhausted in the last months. I had gone home from court, stretched myself on the sofa, been too worn out to do anything but watch the window darken. I tried to pretend it was nothing but fatigue. But the morning giddiness lasted, my limbs were heavy; as I walked, the pavement seemed to sink.
By instinct, I concealed my state from everyone round me. I asked Charles March if he could recommend a doctor; I explained that I had not needed one since I came to London, but that now I had a trivial skin complaint.
I went to Charles’ doctor, half anxious, half expecting to be reassured as Tom Devitt had reassured me. I got no decision on the first visit. The doctor was waiting for a blood count. Then the result came; it was not clear-cut. I explained to the doctor, whose name was Morris, that I had just established my practice, and could not leave it. I explained that I was hoping to get married. He was kindly and worried. He tried to steady me, ‘It’s shocking bad luck,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to tell you. You may be rather ill.’